There was nothing in sight; not even the dark mass of timber on the
island. Winn might have been in the middle of the ocean for all that
he could see or hear. Never in his life had the boy felt so utterly
forsaken and alone. He decided to pull diagonally across the current
towards shore, the mere sight of which would be reassuring. But where
were the oars? Until this moment he had not noticed that there were
none in the boat. For some unknown reason they had been taken from it
when the party landed on the island; and now the lonely navigator was
utterly without the means of propelling or even guiding his craft. He
tried to tear up one of the floor boards, with the idea of using it as
a paddle; but it was nailed in place so firmly as to resist his utmost
efforts. Finally, faint for want of food, exhausted, and disheartened,
the poor boy threw himself in the bottom of the skiff and yielded to
his despair. At length he fell asleep.
So the dawn of Winn's second day on the river caught him napping, as
the first had done. In its gray light the skiff drifted past the
little city of Dubuque, perched high on the bluffs of the western bank,
but no one saw it. There were several steamboats and trading scows
tied to the narrow levee, but their crews were still buried in slumber.
Even had they been awake they would hardly have noticed the little
craft far out in the stream, drifting with the hurrying waters.
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