Читать книгу With Sam Houston in Texas онлайн

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Now he knew. He was under the boat! He certainly was. The covering was the bottom, inside, his knees had hit the gunwale and his fingers had found the bow (or stern) where the gunwales came together in a point. Yes, he was underneath the up-side-down dug-out, and he was floating along with the current; at any rate, there was nothing but water under him when he extended his feet as far as he dared.

The space was not pitchy dark, for some light filtered through the water; soon he could dimly make things out. A bobbing object bumped against him; it was a canvas haversack.

For the present he had plenty of room and plenty of air; and by kicking occasionally, and hanging on with his fingers, he easily kept afloat. But, jiminy, what a fix! He shouted, and his voice rang hollowly in his ears, almost deafening him. Maybe he could dive from under. He took a long breath and sank and kicked, doubling his neck—and bumped his head again, on one gunwale, and his shins on the other. Huh! That didn’t work, so in a panicky fear he came up inside to breathe. Shucks!