"The old tub's got speed in her," grunted Jerry, between sweeps of
his oar.

"Ought to have it _in_ her," returned Dave. "I'll bet you nobody
ever got it _out_ of her. Ugh!"

"Always grunt out toward the back of the boat--keep your head
turned. It helps us along."

"I've only got one grunt left; I'm saving it. How far have we gone?"

"All of ten feet. I'll tell you when we hit the island. Lift your
oar out of water when you bring it back. The idea is to move the
boat, not merely to stir up the water."

So they joked each other, but their hearts were heavy enough, for
always in the back of their minds was the thought of their friend,
who, in spite of the wild hope that Jerry had built up, might--
_must_, Dave was sure--be lying at the bottom of treacherous Plum
Run somewhere, drowned.

At last they seemed to be nearly halfway across, and they rested a
brief spell, for every inch of their progress had to be fought for.

"All right," said Jerry, taking up his oar, "let's give her another
tussle."

But Dave did not move, although he still hunched over his oar.

"Come on, Dave," urged his friend. "We don't want to lose any time.