"A poor camp," observed the imperturbable Swede when at last the tent stood
upright, "no stones and precious little firewood. I'm for moving on early
tomorrow--eh? This sand won't hold anything."

But the experience of a collapsing tent at midnight had taught us many
devices, and we made the cozy gipsy house as safe as possible, and then set
about collecting a store of wood to last till bed-time. Willow bushes drop
no branches, and driftwood was our only source of supply. We hunted the
shores pretty thoroughly. Everywhere the banks were crumbling as the rising
flood tore at them and carried away great portions with a splash and a
gurgle.

"The island's much smaller than when we landed," said the accurate Swede.
"It won't last long at this rate. We'd better drag the canoe close to the
tent, and be ready to start at a moment's notice. I shall sleep in my
clothes."

He was a little distance off, climbing along the bank, and I heard his
rather jolly laugh as he spoke.

"By Jove!" I heard him call, a moment later, and turned to see what had
caused his exclamation. But for the moment he was hidden by the willows,
and I could not find him.

"What in the world's this?" I heard him cry again, and this time his voice
had become serious.

I ran up quickly and joined him on the bank. He was looking over the river,
pointing at something in the water.