nd and round in constantly narrowing
circles until it ended in a funnel shaped aperture that went beneath the
surface, and was itself whirling in dizzy revolutions.

Even as he looked his canoe drifted into the second circle, and mounted
toward a great rock fifty or sixty feet high that rose straight from the
water on the left shore.

Clay realized his situation instantly. He was caught in the whirlpool
which some of the farmers had spoken about in a vague manner, as though
they doubted its existence. There was no doubt about it now. The
whirlpool was a stern reality, and he was fast in its embrace.

Without calling his companions, Clay tried to paddle away from the
circling current. But to his horror and consternation the canoe was
unmanageable. The violent paddle strokes simply made it swing around on
its keel.

Then Clay became terribly frightened, and shouted for help. It was
indeed high time. He had already drifted to the base of the rock where
the whirlpool terminated, and was now swinging back toward the center of
the creek.

The appeal for help--though its meaning was not comprehended at
first--brought the other boys to Clay's assistance. That is to say they
paddled toward the dangerous spot and were within an ace of getting in
the same fix, when Clay frantically warned them back.

"Keep away! keep!" he shouted. "You must find some other way to help
me."

Ned was the first to grasp the situation. During the last few days he
had heard more than one tale about this dreaded whirlpool with its
merciless undertow, and now it made him sick and faint to see Clay's
peril, and yet be unable to devise a way of helping him.

For so it seemed then. It would be simple folly and madness for the
others to trust themselves near the rapacious current; yet how else
could help reach the imperiled lad?

The whirlpool was thirty feet in diameter, and while Randy and Nugget
were looking on with white, scared faces, and Ned was vainly trying to
plan a means of rescue, Clay was slowly drifting around the circle,
coming nearer each time to the gurgling funnel in the center--and this
in spite of the most strenuous paddling. Each stroke, in fact, only
deflected the canoe sideways, as though it had no keel, and increased
the risk of upsetting.

None realized the danger more than Clay himself and the horror of those
few short minutes--they seemed more like hours--he never forgot.

It was not likely of course that the heavy can