Redjacket’s party burst out laughing at this, and all looked at Olof.

He flushes slightly, but says nothing, only bites his lip and turns away to study the river once more.

Redjacket looks at him sneeringly, and, pole in hand, steps out on to the boom, a little way above the bridge.  Then, springing over to the raft, he chooses his craft for the voyage—­a buoyant pine stem, short and thick, and stripped of its bark.

The young man smiles, with a curious expression, as he looks on.

“Did you see?” whispers one on the bridge to his neighbour.  “Mark my words, he knows what he’s about.”

“Look out ahead!” Redjacket slips his tree trunk under the boom, and steps out on to it.  Then with a touch of his foot he sends it round and round—­spinning it, and sending up the water on either side.

“Ay, he’s a smart lad,” say the onlookers on the bridge.

Redjacket stops his manoeuvres now, gives a bold glance towards the bridge, then, with a shrill whistle, fixes the point of his pole in the wood; and, stepping back a little, with his hands on his hips, begins, mockingly, to “say his prayers.”

“There!  Ever see such a lad?” Redjacket’s partisans look round proudly at the rest.

“Look at him—­look!”

“Have done with that!” cries a stern voice from the crowd. “’Tis no time for mockery.”

“What’s it to you whether I choose to sing or pray?” cries Redjacket, with an oath.  But he stops his show of praying, all the same, and picks up his pole again.  He is nearing the bridge now.

Already the angry water swirls over the stem and laps his boots, but he stands fast.

The speed increases, the log itself disappears in a flurry of foam—­those on the bridge hold their breath.

Then it comes up again.  The current thrusts against its hinder end, and the buoyant wood answers to it like the tail of a fish, slipping sideways round; the steersman sways, but with a swing of his pole recovers his balance, and stands steady as before.

A sigh of relief from the watchers.

“Tra la la la!” sings Redjacket, undismayed.  And he takes a couple of dance-steps on his log.

“He’s no greenhorn, anyhow,” the crowd agree.  And some of them glance at Olof—­to see how he takes their praise of his rival.

But Olof does not seem to heed; he is watching the water with a certain impatience—­no more.

Just then Redjacket’s log strikes a sunken rock, and is thrust backward.  A swift movement—­the log comes down with a splash into the foam; the man bends over, straightens his body, and stands upright as before, then strikes an attitude, and sails on past the obstacle.

“Well done—­well done!”

“’Twas a marvel he cleared it.”

The log goes on its way, the man standing easily as ever.

Then once more it collides.  The fore end lifts—­an oath is heard—­next second the red jacket shows in a whirl of water.  Then it disappears.