They had scarcely spoken during this brief journey, and had received no other explanation from the Right Bower, who led them, than that afforded by his mute example when he reached the race.  Leaping into it without a word, he at once began to clear away the broken timbers and drift-wood.  Fired by the spectacle of what appeared to be a new and utterly frivolous game, the men gayly leaped after him, and were soon engaged in a fascinating struggle with the impeded race.  The Judge forgot his lameness in springing over a broken sluice-box; Union Mills forgot his whistle in a happy imitation of a Chinese coolie’s song.  Nevertheless, after ten minutes of this mild dissipation, the pastime flagged; Union Mills was beginning to rub his leg, when a distant rumble shook the earth.  The men looked at each other; the diversion was complete; a languid discussion of the probabilities of its being an earthquake or a blast followed, in the midst of which the Right Bower, who was working a little in advance of the others, uttered a warning cry and leaped from the race.  His companions had barely time to follow before a sudden and inexplicable rise in the waters of the creek sent a swift irruption of the flood through the race.  In an instant its choked and impeded channel was cleared, the race was free, and the scattered debris of logs and timber floated upon its easy current.  Quick to take advantage of this labor-saving phenomenon, the Lone Star partners sprang into the water, and by disentangling and directing the eddying fragments completed their work.

“The Old Man oughter been here to see this,” said the Left Bower; “it’s just one o’ them climaxes of poetic justice he’s always huntin’ up.  It’s easy to see what’s happened.  One o’ them high-toned shrimps over in the Excelsior claim has put a blast in too near the creek.  He’s tumbled the bank into the creek and sent the back water down here just to wash out our race.  That’s what I call poetical retribution.”

“And who was it advised us to dam the creek below the race and make it do the thing?” asked the Right Bower, moodily.

“That was one of the Old Man’s ideas, I reckon,” said the Left Bower, dubiously.

“And you remember,” broke in the Judge with animation, “I allus said, ‘Go slow, go slow.  You just hold on and suthin’ will happen.’  And,” he added, triumphantly, “you see suthin’ has happened.  I don’t want to take credit to myself, but I reckoned on them Excelsior boys bein’ fools, and took the chances.”

“And what if I happen to know that the Excelsior boys ain’t blastin’ to-day?” said the Right Bower, sarcastically.

As the Judge had evidently based his hypothesis on the alleged fact of a blast, he deftly evaded the point.  “I ain’t sayin’ the Old Man’s head ain’t level on some things; he wants a little more sabe of the world.  He’s improved a good deal in euchre lately, and in poker—­well! he’s got that sorter dreamy, listenin’-to-the-angels kind o’ way that you can’t exactly tell whether he’s bluffin’ or has got a full hand.  Hasn’t he?” he asked, appealing to Union Mills.