was but too true. The rising waters had pulled and tugged at the raft, until they had carried it down stream.
There was no time to make another. Already the space on which the refugees had taken shelter was growing smaller. Inch by inch the waters rose. The pegs of one of the tents, in which supplies were kept, were now being lapped by the muddy waves.
"Oh, for a boat!" cried Blake.
"We've got to do something!" yelled Joe. "We can't stay here much longer."
That was evident to all. Yet what could be done?
"Cut down some trees!" cried Mr. Ringold. "We can use them for life preservers, and perhaps float to safety. Cut down trees!"
"This means good-bye to our films!" sighed Blake.
"If not good-bye to ourselves," echoed his chum.
There was little time left. With the one axe, and the camp hatchet, the men began chopping away at the trees on the summit of the hill, where the refugees had made their last stand against the rising waters. They could remain there but an hour longer, at most.
Blake and Joe carried their camera and water-
