ning a motor, or sinking," added Joe. "We can't sink. I really like this better than the Clytie, after all."
"You might—if you say it quick!" spoke Blake, half-sarcastically. "Still we're a good deal better off here than out there," and he nodded toward the river.
"But the question is: What's going to become of us?" asked C. C. "We can't stay here for ever."
"Nobody wants to," said Blake. "But we've got to—for a while; until we're taken off, anyhow. We certainly can't swim to shore. We're about in the middle of the river now, and this is several miles wide. We've got to make the best of it."
"We can't do anything but let her drift," said Mr. Ringold. "The sweep, or steering oar, is gone, though we might manage to rig up another. We'll try in the morning."
The meal, rude as it was, revived them all, and cheered their drooping spirits. They discussed the matter, and decided there was little use in keeping a watch during the night. They had just to float on.
"Well, it's good and dry in here, anyhow," observed Blake, as he crawled into one of the bunks.
