The island, now that the waters had risen on all sides of it, was rather small.
The motor boat was steered along the Western shore of it, but a nearer view showed that there could, by no possibility, be any one on it. For it was long and narrow, and a view could be had entirely across it.
"I guess we won't stop—there's no one there," the manager said, as he veered the boat away.
"No—there's no sign of them," agreed Blake.
They were approaching the foot of the island—that is, the down stream end, and, as the motor boat shot past it, carried by the powerful current, and her propeller, Blake uttered a cry of alarm.
"Look out for that raft!" he yelled.
Mr. Ringold looked in time to see a big lumber raft, unmanned and uncontrolled, coming down on the other side of the island. It turned the lower end just as the motor did, and before those on board the craft could do anything to avoid the danger, the raft had collided with them, striking the Clytie on the starboard bow with a resounding crash.
The boat heeled over, and seemed about to capsize.
