"What happened, anyhow? What does it all mean? Is it a dream or reality?"
"It's real, all right," spoke Joe, mournfully enough. "We were rammed by this raft—that's what happened. And it's lucky for us that these logs stood by long enough for us to get aboard, or we'd be swimming out there in the big muddy," and he nodded toward the river, from which they were kept by none too stout a craft.
"It's my fault," said Mr. Ringold. "I should have seen this raft racing along."
"Well, let's see what sort of a boat the raft's going to make for us," interrupted Joe. "We've got to stay aboard to-night, at all events."
"Yes, and maybe longer," added Blake. "Well, there's a cabin to take shelter in, anyhow. Let's take a look at that."
He nodded toward the stern of the raft, and, looming up in the darkness, could be seen a sort of shack, or shanty. It was where the raftmen did their cooking, eating and sleeping, while navigating the big collection of logs down the river.
"Let's see what sort of place it is," Blake went on. "Maybe there are bunks in it, and a stove where we can cook what stuff we've got left," and he looked at the little pile of food they had been able to save from the sinking boat.
