It was this trunk that had
wrecked the canoe and thrown them overboard.
In reality, though, they were little better off now than they had
been while the canoe was being whirled down the river. It looked as
if they had been saved from one death only to face a worse. With
all their might they clung side by side. Dripping wet, half-blinded
and bruised by the battering they got as the trunk smashed from side
to side of the narrow passage, the indomitable American pluck of the
two lads yet held good in this extremity.
"Is it good-by, Frank?" Harry found strength to murmur.
"While there's life there's hope," came Frank's brave reply in his
favorite axiom. "We'll live to fly the old Golden Eagle yet, let's
hope."
There was no time for further talk, even had the boys been in any
position to consider conversation. The trunk was rapidly nearing
the whirlpool--and death.
Small wonder that brave as the boys were a despairing cry burst from
their throats as they saw what seemed the end of their ride close
upon them. It was as if they could feel the breath of the Pale
Horseman already blowing chilly in their faces.
But suddenly a strange thing happened.
Both boys had closed their eyes and only moved their lips in prayer
as they saw that inevitably in a few minutes they must be sucked
into the maelstrom.
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