It was not quite so warm or sunny just now, and if Puff Evans had been within speaking distance, it is very likely he would have spoken a word of warning, but the party in the boat had not the least idea in the world that any danger to them could be lurking among the clouds and hills. Perhaps there was not, indeed, for their only real danger was in their own ignorance and sense of security. “Boys,” Zeb Fuller had remarked a few minutes before, “there’s a squall coming. We’d better pull up the lake. City folks are all fools, you know, and there’s no telling what may happen to ’em.” Good for Zeb, only he came very near being too late, in spite of his wise forethought. The _Sibyl_, with her precious freight, had danced away lively enough from the launching-place, but had scarcely made a mile before the wind seemed almost to die out, so Val Manning suggested to Bar that they had better take a turn at the oars. “No,” replied Bar, “there’s more a-coming. Don’t you see that dark-looking ripple out there?” “Where?” asked Effie Dryer. “There,” said Bar, pointing with his finger, “and--” “Here it comes!” exclaimed Brayton. Come it did, indeed! There was no time to bring the boat around to it--no time for the slightest precaution--no time for anything but a wild cry of fear from the two girls--and then all five of them were floundering in the mocking waters of Skanigo, while their beauty of a boat lay capsized and useless beside them. Half a mile from shore, and no life-preservers! It was a good thing that the male members of that party could all swim well. “Look out for Miss Dryer,” shouted Bar to George Brayton; “I’ll keep Sibyl up. Val, try to right the boat.” George Brayton had felt a great pain at his heart the moment before, but Bar’s words seemed to take it right away. “Can you keep her up?” he anxiously inquired. “Yes, George,” said Sibyl herself, “and he’s brought me an oar. You take care of Effie.” That was quite enough for one man to do, though Effie met the emergency very courageously; but she could not swim a stroke, and the water was becoming a trifle rough. Val Manning had, at first, come very near being entangled with the boat, and even now he could hardly understand how it was that his friends had come to the surface and “paired off” so very nicely. It may be because they had been sitting together and so have gone overboard in company. At all events, he saw that the most important duty of all had fallen on his own shoulders, and he set about it like a hero. “Cut the halyards,” shouted Bar, “and let the sail come down. You’ll never right her without that.” Val obeyed, for the heavy, water-soaked sail had toppled clean over upon him the first time he tipped up the boat, knocking him under the water.