Within a fortnight, by an admittedly amazing coincidence, Dennis, the man, was caught in a precisely similar fashion.  As a “river-driver” Dennis was beginning to “catch on.”  But he had not yet learned what he could or could not do.  River-drivers wear immense boots, heavily spiked.  Dennis upon this occasion had been sent with a crew to what is technically called “sweep the river” after a regular drive.  Such logs as have wandered ashore, or been hung up in back eddies, are collected and sent on to join the others.  This is hard work, but exciting, and not without its humours.  Certain obstinate logs have to be coaxed down the river.  It would almost seem as if they knew the fate that awaited them in the saw-pits, and in every fibre of their being exercised an instinct for self-preservation.  For instance, a log may refuse to pass a certain rock in the river which has offered no obstruction whatever to other logs.  Then the lumberman, armed with his long pole, with its spike to push and its sharp hook to pull, must reach that rock and pull and prod the recalcitrant traveller on his appointed way.

Dennis, in attempting this, had slipped upon the rock, and his heavy boot had been caught and held between the log and the rock.  Below was a boiling rapid; above the river swirled in a heavy, oily mass.  Dennis, to save his life, held tight on to the rock.  He was in the position of the drunken Scot who dared not abandon his grip of the rail of the refreshment bar, because if he let go he would fall down, and if he did not let go he must miss his train.  Dennis held on with both hands.  If he endeavoured to unfasten his boot, he would be swept into the rapid; if he did not let go, and none came to his rescue, the log would grind his leg to powder.

Tom happened to see him and plunged into the river.  Dennis had crawled on to the rock from the other side, a feat easily achievable.  Tom might have gone round; any other man in the camp would have done so.  The odds were slightly against his reaching the rock, for the river was running like a mill-race.

Five minutes later both men, dripping wet, were safely ashore, and the log was careering down stream!

“Ye’ve saved my life,” gasped Dennis.

“Never seen such a blamed fool as you in all my days,” replied Tom, as he stared savagely into Dennis’s mild blue eyes.  “You’d hurt yerself rockin’ a baby’s cradle, you would.  ’Bout time you quit men’s work, ain’t it?”

“Not yet,” said Dennis.

During these weeks upon the river Dennis had not seen anything of Mamie.  Tom Barker, as supreme boss, visited all crews, and then returned to his wife, with either a leer or a frown upon his face.  She had come to loathe the leer more than the frown.  In the different camps the boys told the same story—­

“He knocks the stuffin’ out of her!”

The stay-at-home Briton, warm with roast beef and indigestion, will wonder that one man amongst a hundred should be suffered to ill-treat a thin, dough-faced little woman.  Why did they not arise and slaughter him?  Had Tom stolen a colt in the cattle-country he would have been lynched.  Let publicists resolve the problem!