"We hit something!" cried Joe.
"I should say we did!" yelled Blake. "We're ashore, that's what we are. We're not moving!"
The raft was not moving, save for a slight undulating motion, due to one end being afloat, and the other on land; at least so they supposed.
Taking one of the lanterns, Blake went outside. There was no rain, and a pale moon, behind some watery clouds, gave a little light.
"What is it?" Joe wanted to know.
"We've run into an island—or an island has run into us," Blake answered.
"An island!" echoed Mr. Ringold. "I was hoping it was the mainland."
"No such good luck," went on Blake.
They joined him "on deck," if one may use such a term concerning a raft. Looking forward they saw that the front, and jagged, end of the raft—the same that had rammed and sunk the Clytie—had struck on a small island, and was wedged fast in the bank.
They did not sleep much more that night. In the morning, an examination showed that it would be out of the question to remain on the island, and leave the raft. The spot of land, in the midst of the flood, was too small. Probably when the river was at its ordinary height the island was considerably larger. It proved of one
