But building a raft was not an easy matter. True, the trees could be cut down, but our friends were not skillful woodsmen, and there was nothing with which to bind the logs together. There were some tent ropes, but they were needed to keep up the canvas shelters as long as possible.

“We’ll do the best we can, though,” decided Mr. Ringold, as he and the men and boys labored at the raft.

They hastened with the work, for the water crept higher and higher. By using tough withes, and wild grapevines, they managed to bind the logs fairly well, but, at best, the raft was a very frail affair.

“I’ll never trust myself on that!” declared Miss Shay, shuddering.

“I don’t much fancy it myself,” admitted Mr. Piper.

“But it will be better than staying here and getting—well, getting your feet wet,” spoke Blake. He was going to say “drowned,” but changed his mind.

Higher and higher came the water. There was now only a space of not more than a hundred feet square, to which the refugees had retreated as an area of safety. The raft floated in the water, moored by a long rope of twisted grapevine, and ready for our friends to embark on it.

Packages of food were made ready to be taken along, and also a keg of fresh water. The water supply troubled them, as the spring was now covered by the flood, and all they had was some which they had stored for just that emergency.

“We’ll take along the tents,” said Mr. Ringold. “They’ll come in useful, as shelter on the raft.”

“And we’ll have to take to the raft in the morning, I think,” Mr. Piper said. “At the rate the river is rising, we won’t have ground under our feet much longer than that.”

Gloomy, uncertain and miserable was that night. The campfire, which had hitherto been kept up, not without a great deal of work, went out in the rain, and, save for a few lanterns, there was no light. Naturally there was no heat, and cold victuals were the portion of the refugees.

Still no one complained, even C. C. maintaining a brave front in the face of danger and privation. Everything possible was made ready for embarking on the raft in the morning. After that——

No one knew what would happen.

“I suppose we’ll have to abandon everything,” said Birdie Lee, talking to Joe and Blake, after “supper,” if so the meal could be designated.

“Well, I’m going to stick to the films and the camera to the last!” exclaimed Blake.

“That’s what!” cried Joe. “We may get to some place where we’ll be able to get a few more pictures.”

The night passed slowly and miserably. At the first streak of dawn Blake was astir, ready to help take down the tents and load the raft.

But, as he looked toward the place where it had been tied, he saw only the twisted end of the grapevine cable.

“The raft is gone!” he cried. “It’s been carried away in the flood!”

“What’s that?” called Joe, hardly believing.

“The raft is gone! And our last chance is gone with it!”

Hurriedly they all came out of the tents. It was but too true. The rising waters had pulled and tugged at the raft, until they had carried it down stream.

There was no time to make another. Already the space on which the refugees had taken shelter was growing smaller. Inch by inch the waters rose. The pegs of one of the tents, in which supplies were kept, were now being lapped by the muddy waves.

“Oh, for a boat!” cried Blake.

“We’ve got to do something!” yelled Joe. “We can’t stay here much longer.”

That was evident to all. Yet what could be done?

“Cut down some trees!” cried Mr. Ringold. “We can use them for life preservers, and perhaps float to safety. Cut down trees!”

“This means good-bye to our films!” sighed Blake.

“If not good-bye to ourselves,” echoed his chum.

There was little time left. With the one axe, and the camp hatchet, the men began chopping away at the trees on the summit of the hill, where the refugees had made their last stand against the rising waters. They could remain there but an hour longer, at most.

Blake and Joe carried their camera and waterproof packages of exposed film, to the dryest place they could find, in one of the tents.

“We can’t take any food with us, when we float down on the logs,” said Mr. Piper, sadly.

No one had the heart to answer him.

They were now gathered together in a space about fifty feet across, on the very summit of the hill. Several trees grew there, and, by climbing into them, it might be possible to remain above the rising water a little longer. But would even this respite save them? It did not seem possible.

The tree trunks had been felled, and were in readiness. They would make but poor life preservers at best, but better than nothing.

Inch by inch the water rose. Birdie Lee, Miss Shay and some of the other actresses were in a group, looking at each other with tear-stained faces. It seemed the end of everything.

Suddenly, through the moisture-laden air, came a shrill whistle.

“What’s that?” cried Blake.

“Sounded like a steamboat!” answered Joe.

“It is a steamboat!” called Birdie Lee, as she looked down the flooded river. “See! There she comes! Oh, we are saved!”

“Thank the dear Lord,” echoed Miss Shay.

Pushing her way up against the powerful current, was a big boat—a steamer—from the funnels of which belched black smoke.

“Wave something!”

“Call to them!”

“Make them hear us!”

“Show a signal!”

Thus cried the refugees, as they saw help approaching. In another instant the boys and men raised their voices in a united shout, and coats and caps were frantically waved to attract the attention of the pilot of the vessel.

“He sees us! He’s coming!” cried Blake, joyfully.

“And just about in time, too,” added Joe, for the water was creeping higher and higher.

With loud blasts of the whistle the pilot indicated that he had seen the signals of distress, and was coming to the rescue. In quick time a small boat was lowered, and a few minutes later the refugees were safe on board the steamer, which proved to be a government boat, sent out to aid in the rescue work.

“And we’ve saved our films and cameras, too!” cried Joe, for the moving picture apparatus, as well as some of the personal effects of the stranded ones, had been brought away from the summit of the island, which alone was out of water, now.

“Yes, and if we get a chance we’ll use up the rest of the undeveloped film, and get more flood pictures,” added Blake.

“We’ll leave you at the first large town,” said the captain. “I guess the flood is at its height now. It won’t get much higher, and there isn’t much use in me going farther up the river until I take care of the passengers I’ve already picked up.”

Accordingly he turned back, and that afternoon our friends and several others were taken ashore. The place where they were landed was within a few miles of a good-sized town, and they found quarters there, being well looked after by the hospitable inhabitants.

“Well, we’re safe, anyhow,” murmured Blake.

“Yes, and no more Mississippi life for me—especially in a flood,” added Joe. “I’ve had all I want.”

But the boys were not quite done with the flood. There were two or three more days of high water, and in that time they managed to get some wonderful pictures, going out in a hired boat. Then, having no more undeveloped film, they packed up their cameras, and waited for the waters to subside.

The rains ceased, the sun came out, and the Mississippi River began to assume its normal level. Gradually the distressing scenes of the flood disappeared.

“Well, we certainly got some great pictures,” said Blake, when the last of the reels had been packed up for shipment to New York.

“That’s so!” agreed his chum, “and we’ve got a great story to tell.”

“It’s been about the most exciting time we ever had, since we got into this business,” went on Blake.

“Not even excepting earthquake land,” laughed Joe. “I wonder if we’ll ever duplicate this?”

And whether they did or not may be learned by reading the next book in this series, to be called: “The Moving Picture Boys at Panama; Or, Stirring Adventures Along the Great Canal.”

And now, I believe, I have told you all there is to tell concerning the adventures of Blake and Joe in the big Mississippi River flood. With the going down of the waters all danger was passed, though the peril had been great, and the toll of lives and property heavy. But, aside from the loss of some personal belongings, and the films which the theatrical company had taken, matters were not so bad. And the loss of the dramatic films was more than balanced by the ones taken by Joe and Blake of the big inundation.

By a lucky chance a clew was obtained to the stolen films of the relief train, and others, taken at that time. As had been suspected, Munson, or, rather, the Pullman car porter, whom he had bribed to do so, had stolen the films. But when an attempt was made to exhibit them our friends heard about it and secured the valuable celluloid strips. This was as far as Munson’s plot went.

“Well, what are you going to do now?” asked Birdie Lee, of Blake and Joe, when they were once more on their way home, away from the flooded district, that was rapidly drying up.

“I know what I’m going to do,” said Blake.

“What?” asked Joe.

“I’m going back to that farm, and finish out my vacation,” answered his chum.

“And I think I’ll send the rest of the theatrical company along with you,” said Mr. Ringold. “They are certainly entitled to a rest after what they’ve suffered.”

And so, for a time, we will take leave of our moving picture boys and their associates, and say good-bye.