Sugar Creek Gang Set Books 13-18 by Paul Hutchens

Author:Paul Hutchens [Hutchens, Paul]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-8024-8202-0
Publisher: Moody Publishers
Published: 1998-08-25T04:00:00+00:00

10

I certainly didn’t dream that things were going to turn out the way they did when that boat whammed itself into our dock and up onto the shore, turning partway over on its side, and we heard a voice calling from somewhere, “Help! Help! Help!”

The first thing I thought of was that somebody—I didn’t know who—was out there drowning and had to have help right away.

Santa’s house was several hundred yards up the shore, and any yelling any of us could have done for Big Jim and Circus to come and help us couldn’t have been heard by them. And by the time any of us could have run up there and wakened them, it would have been too late to save whoever’s life needed to be saved.

Quick as anything, I said to Poetry, “We’ve got to do something, or maybe somebody will drown out there!”

But I didn’t have to tell Poetry to get going. He was the fastest-acting barrel-shaped boy you ever saw. In less time than it takes me to write it for you, Poetry had picked up two oars that were lying there and tossed them into the row-boat that was on the opposite side of the dock and in an instant was unwinding the anchor rope from around the dock post.

Then he yelled to me, “Hurry up and get in and get the oars into the oarlocks, and let’s row out quick and save him!”

Even while we were making a lot of noise, I could still hear that voice out there calling, “Help! Help! H–e–l–p!”

We got the boat’s prow headed into the waves, which is what you have to do when you row on a lake, or you’ll maybe get your boat filled with water.

Then I heard another yell coming from the direction of the tents, and it was Dragonfly racing toward us in flapping pajamas, wanting to know what was going on and why.

I yelled back to him from the boat I was already in and said, “Hey, you—Dragonfly! Beat it down to Santa’s cabin and tell Big Jim and Circus to get Santa’s motorboat and come out to help us! There’s somebody drowning out there in the moonlight!”

As quick as anything, Poetry and I were on our way. Our boat had three life-preserver cushions in it—enough for Poetry and me and whoever was out there, which of course had to be John Till, I thought, on account of the whiskey bottle in the bottom of the boat that had just roared its way up onto our shore.

If our own boat should be upset and we were tossed out into the water, we could swim to our cushions and by keeping our bodies down under the water and holding onto the cushions for dear life, we could manage to keep our faces above water, and the cushions would hold us up.

Poetry and I sat in the middle seat, side by side, with Poetry sitting nearer the center than I, so that the boat would be well balanced, on account of he was a whole lot heavier than I was.

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