In a choice between two evils, Bob Armstrong could always be depended on to take that which seemed the less. To go on down the flood was a dreadful outlook; and almost anything was to be preferred to facing the unknown perils of the river, especially in the pitch darkness that prevailed. The sound of the paddles drew constantly nearer. Then they heard voices, as if those in the canoe were asking each other whence it could be that they had heard that last shout for help. To the astonishment of the floating boys the words came in English, though evidently one of the speakers was an Indian who had apparently learned the tongue of the palefaces. "Oh! it's Pat O'Mara, I do believe!" exclaimed Sandy, in his amazement speaking loud enough for his voice to carry some distance away; for immediately, even before Bob could add any words of his own to the declaration, there came a hail out of the gloom. "Avast there! Be ye the Arrmstrong byes I'm afther hearin' out on this roarin', tearin' flood this night?" "Yes, yes, that's who it is, Pat; and precious glad to hear the sound of your voice, because we need help the worst way!" cried Sandy, always impulsive. "All right, we'll be wid yees in a jiffy, depind on it," came the answer from a point close at hand. "Give us another few digs at the paddle, chief, an', by the same token, we'll soon be alongside, so we will." A minute later the anxious boys began to detect some moving object, as they strained their eyes to see. Then this turned out to be a long canoe, in which two persons were sitting, the one in the stern using a paddle with that grace and dexterity which only an Indian could exhibit, just as Bob had wisely said. Sandy craned his head forward to see better through the darkness. Doubtless there must have been something familiar about the movements of this paddler, for he certainly did not have enough light to recognize his features, or even the feather that adorned his scalplock. "Surely that must be Blue Jacket!" he ejaculated, with a thrill of delight, as well as surprise noticeable in his quivering voice. "Uh! that so, Sandy," came in a voice he knew almost as well as he did that of his brother. "What luck!" cried Sandy. "To think that such good friends should happen to be on the river this night of all times, when we are in such sore need." Perhaps, had Bob Armstrong been asked his opinion, he might have declared that it was something much higher than mere luck that brought about such a happy conclusion to their adventure. Bob was a much more serious fellow than his younger brother, and imbibed some of the sentiments that influenced his gentle mother. To him there was something especially Providential in this coming of help when the two boys were in so great need, just as there had been in the falling of the dead tree just as the panthers were about to attack them.