Once in the outboard, it
retreated to the bow where it crouched beside the chest and kept a wary
eye on Val's every movement.
[Illustration: _Then came a tree burdened with a small 'coon which
stared at the boy piteously, its eyes green in the light._]
But he could not rescue the wildcat which swept by spitting at the water
from a log, nor the shivering doe which awaited the coming of death,
marooned on an islet which was fast being cut away by the hungry waters.
And all the time the stinging rain fed the flood.
Val gripped the rudder until the bar was printed deep across his palm.
Soon it would be too late. He must cross now, heading diagonally
downstream to escape the full fury of the current. With a deep breath he
turned out into the bayou.
It was like fighting some vast animated feather-bed. His greatest
efforts were as nothing against the overpowering sweep seaward. And
there was constant danger from the floating booty of the storm. The
muddy spray lashed his body, filling the bottom of his craft as if it
were a tea-cup. And once the boat was whirled almost around.
Val was beginning to wonder just how long a swimmer might last in that
black fog of rain, wind, and water when his bow eased into comparatively
quiet water. He had crossed the main current; now was the time to head
upstream. Grimly he did, to begin a struggle which was to take on all
the more horrible properties of a nightmare.
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