For a few brief, precious seconds he sat upon the limb with a sense of unutterable relief, and mopped his beaded forehead.

And the sun's full, round face smiled approvingly upon him.
Meanwhile the minutes flew.
Hurrying now, he scrambled down the tree trunk where he had a better and less discouraging view of the situation.

He saw that _Uncle Sam_ hung about five feet from the brink and just clear of the water.

If the bank on this side was less precipitous than on the other there would be some prospect of rescuing his machine without serious damage.

He could afford to let it get wet provided the carburetor and magneto were not submerged and the gas tank---- _The gas tank._ That thought stabbed him.