the two boys were safe. Above the slippery bow poor Shag clasped his
arms, allowing his body to drift.

With but this frail anchorage, he well knew that the canoe would never
float them all. There was but little of her above the water. The waves
were beating hard now; any moment weak little Freddy and unconscious Hal
might be swept off. Once, as the fear of losing life gripped him, he
began to struggle on to the canoe; then he remembered, and slipped back
to float, to cling, to slowly--slowly--await the horrors of the unknown.

For five terrible minutes they drifted, minutes that were an eternity
to those on shore, and to those fighting for life in mid-stream. Then
around the bend of the island came the thin, shrill whistle of a steam
launch as it headed directly for the upturned canoe, the skipper
signalling to those on the island that he was hot on the way to the
rescue.

Old Professor Warwick wept like a woman when he saw it fly past, and the
boys gulped back their breath. They dared not even try to cheer; their
voices were strangled in their throats.

"Just in time, and that's all, captain," said the engineer as he brought
the launch about. "Better reach for the chap in the water first."

"No," Shag managed to say, "take the kiddie; he's slipping off. I'm
good for a minute longer." So they lifted Freddy into the launch, then
poor unconscious Hal, and lastly Shag, exhausted but gritty and game
to the last.

Hal had been in his own bed for two hours before he spoke, and the first