"You are right, Harry," rejoined Frank, as he looked up at the steep
banks on either side of them, "we have drifted a considerable
distance. Come on, out with the paddles and we'll be getting back."
But it was one thing to talk of getting back and quite another thing
to do it. The boys, after an hour of paddling, were dismayed to
find that although their arms ached with the exertion and they were
dripping with perspiration, they had made hardly any progress
against the current.
"It's too much for us," gasped Frank.
"What on earth are we going to do?" asked Harry with blanched
cheeks.
Frank glanced at the shore on either side. For a minute he had
entertained a thought of landing and walking back along the beach.
But there was no beach.
The river boiled along between narrow walls which shot sheer up from
the water. There was not even a niche in their smooth surface to
afford a foothold to a mountain goat. They were caught in a trap.
The only thing to do was to drift down the river and trust to luck
to find a landing-place. In their extremity they shouted at the top
of their voices to let their comrades know of their plight, but
their cries were unanswered and they began to wish that they had
saved their breath to use in the task of keeping the canoe steady in
the current.
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