"The river is coming up at the rate of an inch an hour!” announced Mr. Miller, reading from the evening paper. “At one o’clock it was eighteen feet, and reports from the north indicate the highest water ever known on the Upper Mississippi.”

“Hurrah!” cheered Ned, who was sitting on the porch steps, waiting for supper, and had heard through the open window.

“Why, Ned!” rebuked his mother. “Think of all the suffering this means!”

“Well, anyway, the river’s booming,” ventured Ned, abashed. “It’s even with the railroad tracks. I was down looking at it after school.”

“I’m sorry for the poor people on the flats—the lowlands must be flooded,” continued Mrs. Miller.

“But they tie their houses to trees with ropes, and move into the second stories, and go about on rafts,” explained Ned, to whom such a plight was not without fun.

“Still, I fancy that these people don’t find their fix very amusing, Ned,” commented his father. “Nor is it humorous to the merchants to have their cellars swamped and their goods damaged.”

Ned temporarily subsided—meekly convinced of the serious phase of a freshet, but nevertheless seeing sport in prospect.

“Say, father,” he blurted out, in the midst of supper, “Hal——”

“Neddie! How often have I told you not to address anybody with ‘say’?” interrupted his mother, severely.

“Oh!” admitted Ned, guilt in his tones. Rallying from the setback he resumed:

“I only wanted to ask if I couldn’t go over on Eagle Island to-morrow with Hal, in our boat. It’s all under water, and every one has moved off.”

“I have no special objection,” answered his father, “if you’ll promise to be careful.”

“Neddie, do be careful,” implored his mother. “You surely will, won’t you?”

“Of course,” assured Ned. “But, pshaw, there isn’t any danger. You couldn’t tip over the boat if you tried!”

“However, I wouldn’t try, if I were you,” remarked his father. Then he added, teasingly:

“We’ll let him have this Saturday for his fun, Helen, and next Saturday he’ll have some wood to pile! I’ve ordered eleven loads, and it will be hauled during the week.”

“Oh, father! Eleven loads!” exclaimed Ned, in dismay.

The next day, Saturday, dawned clear and soft, a typical June morning. Ned turned out early, and had most of his chores done before breakfast, despite the fact that a double supply of wood was necessary for the kitchen stove, in order to last over Sunday.

When, at eight o’clock, Hal Lucas whistled for him, in front, he was ready to start. Stuffing his lunch, wrapped in two packages, into his side coat-pockets, he rushed through the house, kissing his mother on his way, and out of the gate.

“Now, be careful, Ned!” called his mother, after him.

“I will,” he shouted. “Good-bye.”

Mrs. Miller stood on the porch, watching the two boys as they merrily trudged off. Ned had many a time asserted, with truth, that although he might go upon the river every day for fifty years, each time his mother would be worried about him until he came home again. A mother’s heart is a very anxious heart.

Ned and Hal hastened down the street. Ahead of them they could see the river sparkling under the rays of the sun. Ordinarily it was not visible from this distance; but at present, far out of its bed, it was right on a level with the railroad skirting it.

“My! She’s on a tear, isn’t she!” said Hal, enthusiastically.

“If ever she gets over the tracks she’ll come whooping, my father says,” responded Ned. “She’s higher than the street, now!”

Without question the river was, to use Hal’s expression, “on a tear.” People along the Mississippi expect, as a matter of course, high water in the spring and early summer. Moderate high water is welcomed. It enables the logging companies to float their stranded logs; it washes clean the banks and the lowlands, carrying away tons of stuff that otherwise might breed illness; it is one of nature’s thorough purifiers.

But here was a “June rise” with a vengeance. Up in the northern pineries the heavy snows of the past winter were melting all at once beneath long-continued rains. Every stream was a torrent, pouring its swollen tide into the Mississippi. As a consequence of this hearty diet, the old Father of Waters had increased his girth enormously. Never was a prize grunter fattened so rapidly.

His bulk began to take up more room than was comfortable for his neighbors. Some persons were forced to flee for their lives; others were prepared to leave their homes at a moment’s notice. Whole towns were in danger of being flooded.

At Beaufort the sewers were being filled and the water, creeping through them, flowed out far inland. Cellars were being invaded; and seeping up, the crafty flood inundated great tracts of street and yard in the lower-lying resident portions of the town.

When, after school on the previous afternoon, Ned had gone down to look at the river, there had been hardly any water inside the tracks at the foot of Maple Street. But this morning the boys found quite a pond had gathered during the night. In places the board walks on either hand were afloat, and children were running back and forth over them, shouting with delight as the water spurted up between the cracks.

“She’s soaking through,” commented Hal.

Ned nodded, and saying, “Come on,” deliberately continued on the route, over the wavy, unsteady walk. Hal followed. Both boys disdained to hurry their pace one bit, even to avoid wet feet. They deemed that a show of dignity was necessary, to impress the scampering, screaming youngsters who were spectators.

With a spring they leaped the open space between the end of the walk and the railroad embankment. Their feet sank deep into the mushy cinders as they scrambled to the top.

This was four tracks wide, and usually was a good stone’s throw from the river’s edge. To-day the water was lapping at the rails. North and south were scattered gangs of men with shovels, watching to patch the slightest break. Seemingly the embankment was all that kept the water from rushing into the principal streets.

Ned and Hal stood and gazed in silent wonder at the scene before them. The river was not that friendly river to which they were accustomed. It was a sullen, menacing monster, without a single familiar aspect. The water was an opaque, ugly yellow, and was thickly charged with sediment. Extending as far as eye could reach it swept past, bearing on its mighty breast trunks of trees, pieces of lumber, fragments of buildings, and not infrequently an entire shed or small house.

There was no levee, no shore, no anything—save water. The big Diamond Jo warehouse, with its basement story completely submerged, was secured by a hawser encircling it.

Commodore Jones’ little fish-market and boats-to-hire establishment, a few rods below, also was anchored by a rope. The water was within a couple of inches of its platform; but nevertheless, river threatening each moment to carry him away, here sat the commodore, smoking his pipe.

The boys strolled to a point on the embankment opposite him.

“Good-morning, commodore,” they called.

“Mornin’, young fellers,” responded the commodore. “Better not come crost them planks,” he admonished, indicating the narrow bridge which connected his quarters with the land.

“We don’t want to,” replied Ned. “How’s the water? Still rising?”

“No,” answered the commodore. “She ain’t raised any since midnight. I look for her to begin to go down pretty soon, now. She’s fallin’ up north.”

“Do you think the embankment will hold?” asked Hal, anxiously.

“Certain, ’less we have an east wind,” assured the commodore, between his puffs. “East wind would pile up the waves an’ no knowin’ what would happen.”

“I guess we’ll go out in our boat,” announced Ned.

“Well, it’s there with them others under the lee of the warehouse,” said the commodore, with a jerk of his pipe toward the cluster of skiffs tied along the embankment, in the angle formed by the end of the steamboat building, and thus shielded from the current. “Reckon I wouldn’t take no chances though, if I was you. River’s full of drift-wood.”

The commodore was a stoical, gruff old veteran of the Mississippi—whereby his title—and this advice was no small concession.

“We’ll be careful,” cried Hal.

“Oh, it’s safe enough,” grunted the commodore, lapsing into the apparent surliness which covered a really kind heart.

The boys proceeded to their boat, and unlocked its painter from the larger chain to which all the boats were fastened.

The craft of which they were joint owners was of that type known on the Mississippi as scull-boat or sink-boat. It was low and flat, with a smooth, dish-shaped keel, sharp prow, and overhanging stern. Its bows were decked, and a combing ran along the gunwale.

It was a very convenient, reliable boat. Under the decked bows could be stowed a surprising amount of stuff. Being made from thin strips of cedar, it was exceedingly buoyant and light; and in consequence of its width and “flatness,” sitting as it did so low in the water, capsizing was almost impossible. As an extra precaution, however, Mr. Miller and Mr. Lucas had caused air-cylinders of copper to be inserted, inside the bows.

There were no seats or thwarts. The boys sprawled about on the straw in the bottom. The one who rowed sat on a soap-box; the one who sculled—for in the stern was a hole for a sculling-oar—perched on the gunwale.

You see, the boat was so steady that it did not much matter how the persons in it acted.

Sometimes the boys rowed, sometimes they sculled, and sometimes, if in a hurry or fought by a strong current, they both rowed and sculled. When not in use the boat was quartered with Commodore Jones.

Hal jumped in, shipped the single pair of oars, and then plumped into the stern; Ned shoved off, and squatting on the soap-box applied himself to navigating, for it happened to be his turn.

“Watch out for the lath!” cautioned Hal.

“Say—I bet you it’s from the Beaufort Lumber Company’s yards!” exclaimed Ned, twisting his head to look over the bows.

Countless bunches of lath, extending up the river as far as the boys could see, were passing down in a long, straight string. A few vigorous strokes with the oars shot the boat out of the eddy formed by the warehouse, and into the current, and carried them through the line of lath. Now the craft was clear of obstructions.

Eagle Island was a large tract of heavily wooded land, reaching down river from off the lower end of town. It was four miles in length, and half a mile or more in breadth. Paper-mill Slough separated it from the mainland. Quite a settlement of wood-choppers, small farmers, and mill employees lived upon it; and with its nuts, its fishing, and its other attractions, it was a favorite resort for the Beaufort youth.

The powerful current of the freshet swept the voyagers rapidly onward. In a moment they had passed under the bridge, against the piers of which the water boiled and swirled. On the nearer shore they caught a glimpse, here and there, of shanties held in place by ropes, and of their tenants paddling about the thresholds in skiffs. The river appeared to be among the lumber piles of the Mosher Lumber Company, even!

Of the farther shore nothing was to be seen. The water stretched in this direction for miles and miles, only a fringe of willows marking its ordinary bounds.

And now they were beyond the lumber yards, and had entered Paper-mill Slough.

The head of Eagle Island was still high and dry, above the reach of the flood. The current, split by the promontory, was not so swift in the slough as in the river proper.

The boys kept close to the island, and presently the ground had so descended that the water was rushing in among the trees.

“Where will we go in?” asked Ned.

“Oh, anywhere,” replied Hal; adding: “Let’s go in here.”

“Well, then, you scull,” said Ned, dealing the boat a sudden twist with the left-hand oar, and sending it obliquely into the woods.

With a quick motion he unshipped the oars from their locks and himself from the soap-box, and sitting comfortably on the straw, his back against the half-deck of the bows, he took it easy.

Between the hickories and the oaks glided the nimble craft, the screw-like movement of the sculling oar, deftly managed by Hal, giving it an agreeable wriggling, rocking motion.

The water varied in depth. In some places the oar-blade touched bottom; again no bottom was to be found. Above the surface in the shallows the tops of weeds and bushes swayed with the current. Not a sound of human life was heard. The only noises to break the silence were the twitterings of uneasy birds amidst the branches of the trees, and once in a while a slight scrape from the boat’s prow as Hal steered through a narrow channel.

It was an enchanted island, spellbound by the freshet.

“Doesn’t it seem queer, though!” commented Ned, after they had gone a short distance, upon a zigzag course.

“I should say!” agreed Hal, letting the boat drift, and with eyes and ears drinking in the novelty of it all. “Where will we make for?”

“I don’t care,” responded Ned. “See! there’s a barn.”

Sure enough, directly ahead was a small, unpainted, weather-beaten barn just visible between the tree-trunks. Hal began to scull gently, and as they drew nearer they saw a house, also, not far from it.

The scene was rather pathetic—this home, lonely and deserted, standing waist-deep in the midst of the waters, its only companions the silent forest trees.

“The folks who lived here must have skipped in a big hurry,” observed Ned. “They didn’t even stop to close their up-stairs windows.”

“Perhaps that’s the way they got out,” suggested Hal.

“I hear a dog!” suddenly Ned exclaimed.

“He’s shut in the house,” said Hal, poising his oar and listening.

“Poor fellow! He’s around somewhere, that’s sure,” agreed Ned. “Let’s go nearer and see about him.”

With the howling of the dog to urge them, they sculled forward. First in their path was the barn; and with a change in their angle of view Ned cried:

“There he is! He’s in the loft!”

True enough. In the square doorway of the barn-loft was a medium size brown dog, peering out to catch their coming. Evidently he had heard their voices, and had howled for help.

“Now, I call that a shame!” declared Ned.

The dog howled back that indeed it was.

“Let’s rescue him,” proposed Hal, laying hold of a sapling, to keep the boat where the dog might see them, while they discussed him. “Why, he must be half starved!”

“Unless the family left him on purpose, and put some stuff in there for him to eat,” hazarded Ned.

“Then he ate it all up at once—dogs never save, like a cat,” rejoined Hal, sagely. “Besides, I don’t believe his folks did that—they simply deserted him, because they were scared.”

“But how can we get at him?” queried Ned.

Hal released his hold on the sapling, and sculled across to the barn. The dog, seeing them move toward him, whined frantically, and craned his neck to watch them.

They rasped along the gray boards of the barn until they came to a door, the upper half of which was out of water.

“See if you can open it,” said Hal. “Perhaps we can go in with the boat, to the stairs.”

“Padlocked,” informed Ned, briefly, and in disgust. “That proves it! They left him here on purpose.”

“No, sir-ee!” Hal insisted. “They never thought of the barn—they skipped after it had been locked for the night.”

They made a circuit of the barn, but there was no other door; and although within easy reach there was a window, of dirty panes, it was quite too narrow for entrance. Besides, the water hereabouts was five feet deep, as Ned found by sounding with an oar, and there was no knowing what disagreeable surprise the inside of the barn might offer to a person dropping through the window.

He peered through the dingy glass, and as well as he could scanned the dim, shadowy interior, faintly shown by the light which penetrated between the boards.

“Anyway, I’m glad a horse or cow isn’t in there,” he said.

They had passed out of the dog’s sight, and he was howling piteously, thinking that he had lost them.

“We’re coming,” shouted Ned; and they hastened to station themselves again at the sapling where the dog could see them.

This comforted him, and his howling changed to whines of greeting.

“Poor doggie,” spoke Hal to him. “I wish we could help you out of your fix.”

“Jump,” called Ned.

The two boys tried in vain by coaxing and commanding to make the dog jump from the window. It was only about eight feet to the surface of the water, and although he seemed to know just what they wanted, he could not muster spunk for the leap. He barked and whined, and crouched and stretched, one end willing but the other end afraid; and on the very brink he always balked.

“Well,” remarked Hal, finally, “I don’t see what we can do—we can’t get up there, and you won’t come down here. So we’ll have to leave you. I hope somebody will come after you pretty soon.”

“It’s a great big shame, that’s what it is!” declared Ned. “We’ll bring you over some meat, won’t we, Hal!”

“Yes, indeed,” answered Hal, seizing upon the idea.

“One thing is sure—he won’t die from thirst!” said Ned, looking back regretfully, as they slowly sculled off.

The dog, seeing them go, lifted his nose and howled as if his heart was breaking.

“Pshaw!” exclaimed Hal. “He thinks we’re leaving him for good.”

“He’s going to jump! He’s going to jump!” cried Ned, suddenly. “Whistle!”

Yes, the dog was nerving himself to the feat. In desperation he fidgeted from side to side of the doorway, craning, running back and forth, and acting like a dog possessed.

The combined whistle of the boys was too much!

“Look!” shouted both at once.

With a last howl he was in mid-air, his legs outspread; and in a twinkling he had disappeared, amid a mighty splash, beneath the water.

“My—that must have hurt his stomach like sixty!” laughed Hal.

But the dog seemed not hurt a particle. In a moment, above the surface popped his head, and shaking it vigorously to clear his eyes and ears of water, yapping with eagerness and excitement he lined a course straight for the boat.

“Come on, come on, old fellow!” urged the boys.

“Yap, yap, yap, yap, yap!” said the dog.

And come he did, as fast as his legs and paws could send him, his chest cleaving the ripples, and a bubbly wake extending far behind him.

Speedily he had gained the boat, and Ned had pulled him in. Convinced that now he was saved, the dog went into perfect transports of happiness. He barked, he yelped, he whined, he snickered, he twisted his body into knots; he talked to one boy, and then to the other, and then to the two at once, telling them all about it; he flicked water over them with his whipping tail, and shaking himself doused them again until they were well-nigh as wet as he. And how he grinned!

“He’s laughing!” cried Hal.

Indeed, this was true. The pendant upper lip of the dog was wrinkled back, so that he was showing his white teeth in a ridiculous grin!

“Well!” remarked Ned, staring at him. “It doesn’t make him look very pretty, anyway.”

Which, also, was true, for the grin was like a snarl.

The dog, having paid his respects, cuddled himself on the straw of the bows, in the sun, and there blinked, now and then expressing his ecstasy by a contented little sigh.

“He knows we’ve got to keep him,” declared Hal. “We can’t throw him up into the loft again, and there’s no other place for him, except the boat.”

“I’m glad of it, too,” asserted Ned. “Those people don’t deserve a dog, after the way they’ve treated him! Do they, pup?”

The dog, hearing himself addressed, whimpered as if in memory of a dark past, and at the same time thumped his tail in celebration of a bright present.

“But maybe we’ll have to return him,” prophesied Hal, mechanically working the sculling oar. “He’s a pointer, and perhaps he’s valuable.”

“Do you suppose we can find the house again?” mused Ned.

“Our folks might make us try,” replied Hal. “Let’s scull away as hard as we can, without looking where we’re going. Then we’ll lose it.”

Acting upon his own suggestion Hall sculled stoutly, skimming aimlessly between the trees, and soon the house and barn were nowhere to be seen.

“There!” he panted, ceasing his exertions, and letting the boat drift. “Now where are we?”

“I give it up,” candidly confessed Ned. “The water changes everything so. But what’s the matter with eating? Aren’t you hungry?”

“Hungry!” exclaimed Hal. “You watch me.”

As the boys untied their packages of lunch the dog sat up in expectation. He was all eyes and mouth.

“He’s hungry, too,” declared Hal. “He heard us say ‘eat.’ Here—catch!”

He tossed a slice of bread at their canine charge, and down it went, apparently swallowed whole.

The lunch which had been intended for two did for three; the boys munched and the dog gobbled, and presently scarcely a crumb remained.

During this time the boat had been carried by the current, bumping into tree-trunks, and swinging to right and to left, with weeds and bushes scraping along its bottom and against its sides.

The boys lolled on the warm straw, and the dog, no doubt exhausted by his vigils in the barn-loft, went to sleep.

It was very pleasant, thus to float through the green woods, over ground which they so often had traversed afoot. Occasionally they saw other houses and barns, flooded and lifeless, and in all respects appearing much the same as the place at which the pointer had been discovered.

“Well, if the dog can go there again, all right,” murmured Hal. “I can’t.”

“I either,” declared Ned, drowsily.

At length the boat emerged into an open area, with only pond-lily pads and buds breaking the ripples.

“Hello!” spoke Hal. “This must be Beaver Lake, Ned.”

“So it is,” agreed Ned. “I believe we ought to turn back and strike for home, if we want to take things easy. If we go any farther we’ll have an awful job getting back.”

He seized the sculling oar, and swinging the craft around headed into the trees again.

“I’ll scull,” he said, “and when we reach the slough you can row.”

The return progress was slower, for the current was against them. Whenever Hal could help with the oars, he did, but at many points there was not room to use them. However, the current, while hindering, also served as a guide.

“The river’s falling!” suddenly cried Hal, pointing to a tree-trunk close at hand. “See there!”

A narrow margin of wet, marking where the water must have been, was visible on the bark, above the smooth tide.

“And there’s some mud!” he triumphantly added, at a strip of ooze from which the water had receded.

“Humph!” commented Ned; whether from pleasure or disappointment, was not clear.

Yes, the crest of the freshet had passed. Upon every tree within sight was the unmistakable sign.

But the dog in the bows of the boat slept on. He was not interested; for all he cared the flood might last forever. He was beyond its clutches.

The trip home was achieved by dint of incessant tugging and pulling. The boys crossed the slough, and then worked their way along the shore, where the current was not so fierce. Finally, with blistered hands and numb wrists they glided in behind the warehouse, whence they had started.

The dog, overjoyed, jumped out first; with a grunt of relief, they followed.

“Back, are you?” greeted Commodore Jones (who sat just as they had left him) when they approached with the oars.

“See what we found,” bade Ned, nodding toward the dog.

“Pointer pup, eh?” said the commodore. “Where’d you get him?”

“Somebody had left him in a barn half under water,” informed Hal; “on Eagle.”

“You don’t say!” responded the commodore, pityingly. “Sech a man ain’t fit to have a dog. You’d better keep him.”

“We’re going to,” answered the boys, in unison.

“What will we do about him?” asked Ned, as they were walking homeward. “Shall we draw lots to see which’ll take him?”

“N-n-no,” responded Hal, reluctantly. “You can have him. My mother says she won’t allow a dog about, or else I’d have had one long ago.”

“That’s too bad,” sympathized Ned. “At our house we all like dogs—at least, mother does if they don’t dig up her flowers.”

“You ought to call him Robinson Crusoe—Crusoe was wrecked on an island, you know,” suggested Hal.

“Or ‘Bob’ for short,” cried Ned, the idea appealing to him. “All right—you name him and I’ll have him.”

“I suppose so,” admitted Hal, ruefully.

When they parted at the street corner, the dog hesitated, uncertain which to accompany.

“Come on, Bob,” called Ned.

And Bob, quickly deciding, followed him.