I knew that immediately after the shock I found myself struggling in the
water just below the rock over which I must have been slung by the force
of the impact. Dutchy declared up and down that he had sailed fifty feet
in the air astride of a log. Bill had been almost stunned by a blow on the
head and was clinging desperately to a jagged projection of the rock. The
ropes that had held the raft together had parted, scattering the logs in
all directions, and I could see the rest of the crew hanging on to them
for dear life.
Shouting to Bill to let go his hold on the rock. I swam over and caught
him as he drifted down, then I helped him ashore. Leaving Bill to
recuperate I rushed down the bank, shouting to the others to paddle the
logs over toward shore. Then I plunged in, and pulling myself up on the
nearest log, paddled shoreward as we had done on the planks when shooting
the rapids. In this way one by one we corralled the logs, and after tying
them together again resumed our voyage down the river. We now had no swift
water to fear and were able to guide the raft successfully down to Lake
Placid. But here we moored it, not venturing to take it past the millrace
until we had gotten the oars from the scow and nailed on oar locks at each
side and the rear, so that we could properly row and steer the raft safely
to Kite Island.
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