The circus remained two days longer in Benton, but there were certain youths who kept away from it. A solemn oath of secrecy bound them as to the reason why. Only Tim Reardon and Joe Warren couldn't resist the temptation of stealing in among the wagons and watching for the appearance of Danny O'Reilly in all the glory of his paint and feathers; and, when they beheld a crowd of farmers gaze upon him admiringly as he passed in for the Wild West performance, they nearly choked to death with laughter, and couldn't have run if he had espied them.

"Guess we won't get licked, after all," whispered Little Tim. "Not if we keep dark, we won't. Danny's going on with the show up the state. He told Jimmy Nolan, his cousin, and Jimmy told me. 'You'd never guessed he wasn't an Injun,' says Jimmy to me, 'unless I'd told yer. Don't you ever let on,' he says – and I like to died – hello, who's that coming?"

Looking in the direction pointed out by Tim Reardon, Young Joe beheld an old wagon, drawn by a lean horse, the seat of the wagon nearly bent down to the axles on one side by the weight of the occupant.

"Well, if it isn't Colonel Witham!" exclaimed Young Joe. "Didn't suppose he'd pay to go to a circus."

It seemed, however, that Colonel Witham had no immediate intention of entering the main tent, for he proceeded to walk along the line of smaller pavilions, where the side-shows proclaimed their many and monstrous attractions. The canvas of one of these presently attracted the colonel's attention, for he paused in front of it and stood studying it contemplatively.

Little Tim and Young Joe, stealing around in the rear of Colonel Witham, beheld the object of his curiosity. There was a full length portrait on the canvas, painted in brilliant colours, of a woman standing before an urn from which vague vapours were arising. She held in one hand a wand, with which she seemed in the act of conjuring forth a shadowy figure from within the vapours. A little black satanic imp peered coyly over her right shoulder. The inscription beneath her portrait read:

Lorelei, the Sorceress

Your Future Foretold – All Mysteries Explained – Your

Fate Read by the Stars – Hidden Things Revealed – Lost

Property Recovered

Something about the gaudy and pretentious sign seemed to fascinate Colonel Witham. He walked past it once, reading it out of the corner of one eye; but he went only a little way beyond, then turned and stopped and surveyed it once more. He edged up to the canvas, sidled into the entrance and disappeared.

"Cracky!" cried Young Joe. "Isn't that rich? The colonel's going to have his fortune told. Wow! wow! Suppose he's fallen in love?"

"Not much," said Little Tim. "He wants to know where he's lost a dollar, probably. Hello, Allan, come over here."

Little Tim, in high glee, bawled out a greeting to a comrade, Allan Harding, and conveyed the great news. The three stood awaiting the colonel's reappearance.

If they could have seen within the tent, they might have beheld Colonel Witham, seated at a table upon which a light was thrown, its object being not so much to illuminate the occupant of the seat as to obscure his vision. It served to render more shadowy a vague figure that occupied a little booth across which a gauze curtain hung, and from which a voice now issued:

"I see a dusty road, with fields running back from it," droned the voice, with mysterious monotony, while the person behind the veil scrutinized keenly the figure and dress of her visitor. "I see a great house a little way back from the road, with – with what seems to be a porch in front."

"Yes, yes," said Colonel Witham, beginning to be impressed, ignoring the fact that his person indicated his occupation and that the description would answer almost every farmhouse along the road from Benton.

"I see a figure sitting on the porch, and it resembles – yes, it is yourself. You are thinking. There is something that you want to know. You do not seem to be in love – "

Colonel Witham snorted – and the hint to the sorceress was sufficient.

"The stars are very clear on that point," continued the voice. "Your mind is bent on more serious things. You have a business matter that troubles you."

"Wonderful!" ejaculated Colonel Witham, under his breath. "What else do you see?" he inquired, eagerly.

"Let me read the stars," continued the voice. "I see what looks like another man."

"Yes, yes," said Witham, forgetting in his eagerness that he had come in, half skeptical, and meant to reveal nothing on his own part. "Is he hiding anything?"

"Wait – not so fast," replied the voice. Then, after a pause, "No, he is not hiding anything."

Colonel Witham's jaw dropped.

"But," continued the sorceress, "there is something strange about him. Wait, until I ask the spirits. They will tell something. Yes, he has something already hidden. It is secreted. He has hidden something away. Let me see, are they papers? They look like papers, but it is vague – "

"And where are they hidden?" cried Colonel Witham, rising from his seat eagerly.

"The spirits will not say," answered the voice. "They seem to be angry at something. Ah, they say they must have more money."

"But I paid at the door," protested Colonel Witham.

"Yes, but they are angry," said the voice. "They are angry at me for taking so little for all I impart. They will have two dollars more, or – yes, they are already disappearing – quick, or you will be too late."

Colonel Witham groaned in anguish; slowly produced a shabby wallet, took therefrom two greasy dollar bills and passed them across the table to an outstretched hand.

"Ah, they are coming back," said the voice. "Another moment and it would have been too late. Now the stars are coming out clearer also. What is it they tell? Ah, they say – listen – they say the man has concealed papers that are wanted by you – concealed them in his place of business."

"Yes, yes, but where?" cried Colonel Witham. "In the safe, or around the machinery – where-abouts?"

"Listen," said the voice. "The spirits seem angry again – "

"Let 'em be angry!" bellowed Colonel Witham. "They'll not get another cent, confound 'em!"

"Softly, softly," said the voice soothingly, "The spirits are greatly agitated by loud words. And the stars are growing dim once more. The spirits want no more money. They will tell you all; that is, all you need to know. Listen: They say you will find the papers. But you must be patient. They are hidden in a building where there are wheels turning rapidly. And the spirits say the noise hurts their ears. They say, though, that you must wait a little while, and then you will go into the building and find them. That is all now. You will certainly get them. The spirits are gone. They will not come back again to-day."

The voice became silent; and Colonel Witham sat sheepishly in his chair. Then he arose and walked slowly to the doorway. Had he been fooled? He did not know. It was certainly strange: how the voice had described his hotel – a big house with a porch – and he looking out – and the other man – the man that had hidden the papers. No, there was something remarkable about it all. He would surely get them. Colonel Witham emerged from the tent.

A chorus of three young voices greeted him:

"Hello, Colonel Witham, been having your fortune told? Tell us what the witch said, will you, colonel?"

The colonel, gazing at the grinning faces of Tim and Joe Warren and Allan Harding, flushed purple and raised his cane, wrathfully.

"You little ras – " he began, but bethought himself and halted. "Ho, ho," he said, looking half ashamed. "That was only a joke. Just took a notion to see how funny it was. Here boy, give these lads some peanuts." The colonel produced a dime from his trousers pocket.

"Say, Tim," said Joe Warren some moments later, "I guess the colonel is in love, after all. Ten cents' worth of peanuts! My, he's got it bad. Let's go tell Henry Burns."

A day or two following, toward the end of a pleasant afternoon, Tim Reardon and his friend, Allan Harding, sat by the shore of Mill stream watching a small fleet of canoes engaged in active manoeuvring. It was at a point on the stream opposite the scene of the execution of the great Indian chief, where the small cabin stood. Back from this a few rods was an old barn, of which the boys of Benton rented a small section for the storage of canoes and paddles.

There were four canoes now upon the stream, each containing two occupants. The eight canoeists were stripped for the work, showing a gorgeous, if somewhat worn, array of sleeveless jerseys. The boys were bronzed and healthy looking. Back and forth they darted across the stream from shore to shore; or again, tried short spurts up and down stream.

"What are they going to do, Tim?" inquired his companion.

"Don't you know?" queried Tim, by way of reply. "Say, it's going to be the dandiest race ever. Start to-morrow morning right after breakfast from in front of the cabin, and go straight up stream all day long. Only when Jack blows the horn at noon everybody's got to stop and go ashore and eat something. Then they start again when Jack blows for 'em to. And paddle like everything all the afternoon till six o'clock. Then stop again when Jack blows, and leave every canoe just where it is.

"Then they get together and pitch tents and camp all night, and race back next day. And everybody has got to come up to where the first canoe is before they turn back. Henry Burns, he got it up. I'll bet he and Jack win the race, too."

"What'll you bet?" demanded Allan Harding, who had been eying the canoeists sharply.

"Thousand dollars," replied Tim, promptly, shoving his grimy hands into pockets that contained several marbles, a broken-bladed knife and other valuables.

"Well," replied Allan Harding, cautiously, "mebbe you're right, but I guess those fellows in the green canoe stand a good chance. Look how strong they are. Say, who are they, anyway?"

"Hm! Jack Harvey's stronger'n any of them," asserted Jim loyally, eying his stalwart friend, as a canoe passed containing Harvey and Henry Burns. "Those other chaps are Jim and John Ellison. They live up on the farm above here. That's what makes 'em strong. But you know Jack. Didn't he make us stand around, aboard the Surprise?"

"Well, who's going to win, Tim?" called Tom Harris, as he skilfully turned the canoe paddled by himself and Bob White, to avoid collision with one which held George and Arthur Warren.

"'Spose you think you are," answered Tim, "because you and Bob know how to paddle best. Look out for Jack, though."

Tom Harris laughed. "You'd bet on Jack if he had a broken arm," he said.

"Count us last, I guess," said George Warren, good-naturedly. "We're pretty new at it. Going in for the fun of it. Hello, who's this coming?"

"Look out, Jim, it's Benny," exclaimed the elder of the Ellison brothers.

"I don't care. I won't stand any nonsense from him," replied his brother, a handsome young fellow, athletic, but slightly smaller than the other.

Just what he meant by this remark was best explained when Benjamin Ellison, strolling lazily down to the shore, paused in the process of devouring a huge piece of molasses cake and said, in a sneering tone:

"My, Johnnie, don't you and Jim look fine though, with city chaps? What'll Uncle Jim say when I tell him – "

He didn't get much further, for a canoe shot in to shore, and from the bow of it sprang John Ellison. He seized his cousin by the shoulder.

"You will tell tales, will you?" he cried.

"Let me alone," replied the other, striving to shake off John Ellison's grasp, but failing. Then he added, as the other canoes came in to shore and the boys stepped out of them. "Can't you take a joke?"

"No, not when you've done the same kind of a thing before," exclaimed John Ellison. "Come on, fellows, in with him."

Ready for any kind of a rough joke, several of the canoeists laid hands on the unfortunate Benjamin.

"Most too many against one," remarked Henry Burns, quietly. "Better let him go."

"No, he's got to be ducked," insisted John Ellison, whose anger was aroused.

"Well, only a little one," assented Harvey, grinning good-naturedly. So they held the luckless youth heels over head and plunged his head beneath the surface up to his coat-collar. He was sputtering wrathfully as they lifted him out again.

"Going to tell on us?" cried John Ellison.

Benjamin Ellison glared at his cousin, doubtfully.

"Once more," said John Ellison; and they put the victim's head under again.

He wasn't hurt and his clothes were still dry; but he was whining, and he begged for mercy after the second ducking.

"I won't tell," he said.

"Honest?"

"Honest Injun!"

They let him go, and he departed hastily up through the field.

"Tell, will he?" queried Harvey, as Benjamin departed.

"Guess not," replied John Ellison. "He's got enough. He'd like to, though. He don't like you city fellows any better than father does. He hasn't got anything against you, either. He's too lazy to paddle. Come on, Jim, let's follow him up. Well be on hand to-morrow, if there's no trouble."

The brothers took up their canoe and left the party.

"They're all right, those Ellison chaps," said Harvey; "all except Benny. He's no good. Come on, fellows, let's lock up, and no walking in to town, remember. Running's good for the wind. Coming along, Tim?"

"No, I'm going to sleep in the cabin," replied Tim Reardon, "and see the start in the morning."

"Guess I will, too," said Allan Harding. So the two remained, while the troop of canoeists set off soon after, on the run back to Benton.

The following morning, the first of a double holiday, came in bright and clear. Little Tim and his companion were early astir, and cooking a mess of oatmeal from the cabin's scanty stores over a cracked sheet iron stove.

"There they come," cried Tim presently, as the sounds of fresh, boyish voices came from outside. "Hooray! I wish 'twas a yacht race, though. Wouldn't I go along?"

By nine o'clock the four canoes were fully equipped, drawn up in line off the cabin, and the canoeists, paddles in hand, arms bared, and sweaters tied around the thwarts, were ready to start. Jim and John Ellison were there, a sturdy pair of farm lads; Jack Harvey, apparently much over-matching his mate in physique, but with something in the slighter figure of Henry Burns that indicated resource and staying powers; Tom and Bob, old and hardened canoeists; and George and Arthur Warren, clean-cut and athletic.

"Ready for the horn!" called Harvey, holding his paddle in his right hand and a long, tin horn in the other.

"All ready!" sang out the canoeists.

Harvey put the horn to his lips and blew a loud, full blast. The paddles struck the water with a vigour, and the race was begun.

The three canoes shot ahead of Harvey's at the start, owing to the slight delay caused him in dropping the horn.

"Let them lead, Jack," said Henry Burns, quietly. "It's a two days' race. Take it easy."

"That's so," said Harvey, half pausing in a stroke in which he had started to exert his strength to the utmost. "Lucky I've got you. You always keep cool. How do you manage to do it?"

Henry Burns smiled, but made no reply. Instead, he pointed ahead to where the Ellison brothers, putting their strength into their work, were showing several rods of clear water between them and the two nearest canoes, which were going along side by side.

"They've got the race won in the first five minutes," said Henry Burns. "See Tom and Bob take it easy till they get limbered up."

The two thus indicated were, indeed, setting an example worthy to be followed. They had started off at an easy, regular stroke, one which they could keep up for hours and increase when they should see fit. They were paying no attention to the leading canoe, but were exchanging a word or two with the Warrens, who were striving to imitate their course and pace.

The first mile and a half that intervened between the starting point and the Ellison dam was quickly covered. The Ellison boys, still leading, were out on shore and carrying their canoe up the bank when the others were still some rods away. It was a steep pitch of the shore, and Tom and Bob, when they came to it, took it leisurely, saving their wind. The others followed, in like fashion. Harvey and Henry Burns were the last to make the portage.

Once around the dam, on higher level, the canoes were launched again, and the race continued.

A little way up the shore from the dam, Tom and Bob and the Warren boys, some distance ahead of the rear canoe, saw an odd little figure swinging and swaying in the top of a birch tree overhanging the water. The Ellison boys had passed her unnoticed. Her bit of skirt fluttering, and her hair waving, showed that the occupant of this novel swing was a girl.

All at once, to their horror, she seemed to slip and fall. Down she came from her perch, struck the water with a splash and sank beneath the surface.

Tom and Bob, driving their paddles into the water with desperate energy, darted on ahead of the Warren boys, who bent to the paddles and shot after them. The two canoes fairly flew through the water, while the four occupants gazed anxiously ahead over the surface for signs of the girl's reappearance.

To their amazement, a laughing voice hailed them most unexpectedly, from shore. They looked toward the bank, where, just emerging, dripping wet, the girl was waving a hand to them.

"How was that for a dive?" she called, pushing her wet hair back from her eyes, and looking at them roguishly.

"Bully!" exclaimed George Warren, wiping the drops of perspiration from his forehead. "We thought you had fallen. My, but it gave me a scare."

The girl's eyes danced with merriment. Then espying the other canoe coming up, she called, "Hello, you back again? Look out Ellison don't catch you."

"It's Bess Thornton," said Henry Burns, and the two boys called out a greeting to her.

"Say, do you know Tim Reardon?" she asked abruptly.

"Why, yes," answered Henry Burns. "Should say we did."

"Well," said Bess Thornton, "tell him you saw me dive from the tree, will you? He didn't think I dared, when I told him." Then she added, laughing, "Don't get rained on again. But if you do, remember the mill." And she danced away, wringing the water from the hem of her short skirt.

"Confound her!" exclaimed Harvey. "Look at the start Jim and John have got. Come on, Henry."

They pushed on again, Tom and Bob soon taking the lead of the three rear canoes, with a strong steady stroke that meant business. The first canoe was by this time a quarter of a mile ahead.

CHAPTER VIII
CONQUERING THE RAPIDS

This part of the stream, for some two miles above the Ellison dam, was deep, still water, lying between quite steep banks, and there was little perceptible current. So that now, the water being unruffled by any wind, the four canoes shot ahead at good speed, retaining generally their relative positions.

Tom and Bob gradually quickened their stroke, hoping to make some slight but sure gain on the leaders; but the Ellison brothers were evidently of a mind to hold their lead as long as possible, and continued to do so. This, however, was at the cost of some extra exertion, which might tell in the long run.

In the course of half an hour, after leaving the dam, the current began to flow faster against them; now and then it came down over shoals of quite an incline, so that they made better headway by getting out their setting-poles and using them, instead of the paddles.

Then, at a point a mile farther up stream, they came to rapids of some considerable extent, flowing quite swiftly and boiling here and there around sunken rocks. The Ellison brothers had avoided this place, and were to be seen now, on the right bank of the shore, carrying their canoe with difficulty.

The shore here was broken up by the out-cropping of ledges, amid the breaks of which a canoe must be carried with great care, as a false step would mean a bad fall and perhaps the smashing of the canoe. The only other alternative, besides the water, was to make a long detour through the off-lying fields, with loss of time.

Tom and Bob guided their craft swiftly in to land and proceeded to drag it ashore, as the Ellison boys had done. The Warren brothers followed, and Jack Harvey was turning his canoe in the same direction when a word from his companion caused him to cease paddling.

"Jack," said Henry Burns, "I think we could make the rapids. What do you say? If we win out, we may be in time to call the Ellison fellows back."

It was a rule of the race that, if a canoe succeeded in ascending any difficult place in the stream, the successful pair was entitled to call back any of the other canoes that were still carrying around the place, and make them do likewise. If, however, any of the canoeists had made the carry completely, and had launched their craft above, they could not be called back.

The Ellison brothers were about half way up the carry at this time.

"I don't think we could do it, Henry," answered Harvey, to the other's suggestion. "We could get part of the way up, all right, but the last few rods are too steep."

He pointed, as he spoke, to the upper incline of the rapids, which was, indeed, much sharper than the first of the ascent, bending over from the higher level of the stream abruptly, like a sheet of rounded, polished ebony; flowing smoothly but with great swiftness; then broken here and there below with rocks, sharp and jagged, and foaming threateningly as it whirled past them.

"I think we can do it, Jack," insisted Henry Burns, quietly. "I remember the place. The water was a little higher when we came through in the rain; but we ran these rapids, and don't you remember, half way down that steepest part, we thought we were going to hit a sunken ledge – just to the right of the middle of the slope?"

"Why, yes, seems to me I do," replied Harvey, gazing ahead. "But I didn't care much what we hit that evening, I was so wet and tired."

"Well, look now," continued Henry Burns. "You can see the water whirling at that very spot. The ledge doesn't show above water, but it's there. What's the matter with working up to that, hanging on it till we get rested, and then make one quick push up over the top?"

"Oh, well," said Harvey, "I'm game. You seem to guess things right. We'll try it, anyway."

They pushed on into the first of the rapids, while the Ellison brothers, turning and espying what they were attempting, redoubled their efforts to make the carry. Tom and Bob cast a glance back, and also continued along the carry; but George and Arthur Warren, having seen Henry Burns's schemes work successfully before, turned and came out to the rapids. There they waited, ready to make the attempt should they see it prove successful, or to be in a position to put hurriedly for shore should it prove a failure.

"Better come on. You're wasting time," called Tom Harris once, as he set his end of their canoe down on a shelf of ledge. But Henry Burns made no reply, while Harvey only waved his paddle defiantly.

For several rods, Harvey and Henry Burns made fair progress, working quick and sharp, plying their paddles with rapid thrusts. Little clumps of white froth floated fast by them, indicating the swift running of the water, and its disturbance. Then the stronger current caught them, and they barely forged ahead. By the appearance of the water, looking down upon it as they struggled, they seemed to be flying; but it was the water, and not they, that was moving rapidly. They hung close by the little points of projecting ledge for moments at a time, making no headway. They redoubled their efforts, drove their paddles through the water with desperate energy, and gained the first mark they had set.

Slowly the bow of the canoe crept up to a spot where the keen eyes of Henry Burns had noted the sunken ledge, at a point only a rod from the upper incline. This ledge did not show above water, but the boiling of the stream and an almost imperceptible sloping of the surface on either hand showed that it was there.

Henry Burns leaned over the side of the canoe and gazed anxiously. Should the water there prove deeper than he had hoped, they would not ground, and must be carried back, their strength exhausted. But he had not been mistaken.

In a moment the water suddenly shallowed. A hard thrust with the paddles, and the canoe grated gently.

"Easy, Jack," cried Henry Burns. "She's hit. Get out the pole."

Harvey seized the setting-pole from the bottom of the canoe, dropping his paddle in its place. He thrust it quick and with all his strength into the swift-running water. At a depth of about three feet it caught the rocky bottom and held. Harvey braced with the pole and shoved the bow of the canoe, which had touched on the part of the ledge that was close to the surface, a little farther ahead.

"Great!" shouted Henry Burns. "Take it easy now. She'll stay if the pole don't slip."

Harvey relaxed his exertions, holding the pole at an angle sufficient to keep the canoe where it was, with only slight pressure. Henry Burns, dropping his own paddle and likewise taking up his setting-pole, got a grip in the rocks and aided his companion. They could rest now, with the swift water rushing past them on either bow, and recover their wind and strength for the final struggle.

Their plan was, when they should have rested, to let the canoe drop back about a foot, enough to clear the sunken ledge; then, before the current should catch them, to shove out into it quickly, turn the bow of the canoe to meet the rush of the rapids, and push over with the poles, by main strength. They could do it, if, as Henry Burns expressed it, the canoe "did not get away from them."

The five minutes they waited seemed like hours. Away up along the carry, they could see the Ellison brothers, lifting their canoe across the broken bits of shore; Tom and Bob some way behind these, hurrying as fast as they dared over the treacherous footing. But now, as they gathered their strength, and gently shoved their canoe back, a cry from Tom, who had noted their move, arrested the progress of the Ellison boys. They paused for a moment and, with Tom and Bob, watched the outcome, eagerly.

Alas! it was sharp and bitter for Henry Burns. The canoe hung for a moment, as they arrested its drifting with strong thrusts of the poles. Then it shot ahead, as they pushed its nose diagonally out into the sharp slope of the rapids. Henry Burns thrust his pole down hard, as they cleared the sunken ledge, to swing the bow straight into the current. But the bottom proved treacherous.

It was all over so quickly that neither he nor Harvey knew hardly how it had happened. He only knew that the pole did not catch, but instead, struck the slippery face of a smooth bit of the rocky channel, slipped, gave way, and that he barely recovered his balance to avoid going overboard.

The next moment, the canoe had swung around, receiving the full force of the current broadside. A moment more, they were running with it and being borne down to where George and Arthur Warren greeted them with cries – not all sympathetic – of "hard luck."

They had hardly got their canoe under control and turned it into an eddy, and had realized the unhappy turn of affairs, when a shout of derision and triumph came down to them from the Ellisons. They had made the carry successfully and were launching their canoe in the smooth water above.

The Warren boys lost no time in paddling for shore. Tom and Bob, seeing the discomfiture of their rivals, quickly picked up their canoe and proceeded along the carry. Harvey looked inquiringly at Henry Burns, who turned, smiling and unruffled.

"Well?" said Harvey, "got enough?"

"No," replied Henry Burns, and added deliberately, with a twinkle in his eyes, "we might as well do it, now we've started. We've got two days to get up over there in, you know."

"Good for you!" exclaimed Harvey. "Come on, if you're ready. We've got time yet before Tom and Bob make the carry."

They bent to the paddles and got once more to the sunken ledge, panting and perspiring, for they had worked hard and the current seemed, therefore, even swifter now than before. There, holding their canoe in place, they waited a little longer than on the first attempt, to rest and study the current.

"Let's try the right hand from the ledge this time," said Henry Burns. "Those whirls mean shallow places. Perhaps the bottom isn't so slippery."

He pointed at some almost imperceptible breaks in the ebony surface of the slope, and Harvey agreed.

"I can shove this canoe up over there as sure as you're alive," said Harvey, gazing proudly at a pair of muscular arms that were certainly eloquent of strength; "that is, if you can keep her head straight. Don't try to do much of the poling. Just try to hold what I gain each time, till I can get a fresh hold. What do you say – rested enough?"

"Aye, aye, captain," replied Henry Burns, coolly. "Up we go."

Again the canoe dropped back a little from the ledge, and again they caught and held it and shoved out into the current – this time on the right, instead of the left side.

Their comrades ashore watched anxiously. They saw the canoe strike the swift running of the water and hang for a moment, as if irresolute, uncertain whether it would turn its bow upstream or be swerved broadside. The moment it hung there seemed minutes in duration. They saw Henry Burns, lithe and agile, but cool and self-possessed, strike his pole into the slope of the water where he had seen a shallow spot. And the pole held.

The watchers ashore saw the canoe slowly turn and face the swift current, lying upon its polished slope as though upon a sheet of glass. They saw Harvey in the stern set his pole and shove mightily, his muscles knotted and his face drawn and grim with determination. They saw the canoe slowly gain against the current.

At the edge of the slope it stood still for what seemed an age. They saw the two in bow and stern struggle desperately again and again to wrest their craft from the clutch of the current. Then, almost with a leap, freed from the fierce resistance of the rapids, the canoe slid over the brink of the incline, into the deeper part of the stream above.