The boat was gradually
filling with the splashing water. Ernest was lying on the deck,
hanging on like grim death, slipping off, first on one side, then on
the other, and wondering what was going to happen. So was I. To be
held up in the middle of a swift stream was a new experience, and I
was not proud of it. The others passed as soon as they saw what had
happened, and were waiting in an eddy below. Perhaps we were there
only one minute, but it seemed like five. I helped Ernest into the
cockpit. About that time the boat filled with splashing water and sunk
low, the stream poured over the rock and into the boat, and she upset
instantly.
Ernest had on two life-preservers, and came up about thirty feet
below, swimming very well considering that he was weighted with heavy
clothes and high-topped shoes. The boys pulled him in before he was
carried against a threatening wall. Meanwhile, I held to the boat,
which was forced out as soon as she was overturned, and climbed on
top, or rather on the bottom. I was trying to make the best of things
and was giving a cheer when some one said, "There goes your hatch
cover and you've lost the motion-picture camera."
Perhaps I had. My cheering ceased. The camera had been hurriedly
shoved down in the hatch a few minutes before.
On being towed to shore, however, we found the camera had not fallen
out. It had been shoved to the side less than one inch, but that
little bit had saved it.
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