“There is a battery in the boat, and clockwork to set the whole thing off at ten o’clock tonight.  He didn’t come right out and say so, you understand, and I may be making a fool of myself.  But if I am—­God knows, it won’t be the first time ...  Anyhow we’ll soon know.”

It was a circuitous road that led to the dam.  The rain was pouring again, the streets deserted.  Once they were held up at a railroad crossing....

The clock in the car pointed at five minutes to ten when their headlights finally fell upon the bridge.  As they drew nearer they could hear nothing in the darkness but the thunder of the water.  The bridge was a low one and only twenty yards up the stream from the falls; but though they strained their eyes to the uttermost they couldn’t see as far as the dam.

“I’ll turn one of the headlights,” said Archey, “and we’ll drive over slow.”

The lamp, turned at an angle, swept over the edge of the dam like a searchlight.  Half way over the bridge the car stopped.  They had found what they were looking for.

“Why doesn’t it go over?” shouted Archey, jumping out.

“Anchored to a tree up the bend, I guess,” Paul shouted back.  “They must have played her down the stream after dark.”

Nearly over the dam was a boat painted black and covered with tarpaulin.

“The explosive is probably hanging from a chain underneath,” thought Paul.  “The current would hold it tight against the mason-work.”

“We ought to have brought some help,” shouted Archey, suddenly realizing.  “If that dam breaks, it will sweep away the factory and part of the town....  What are you going to do?”

Paul had dropped his hat in the stream below the bridge and was watching to see where it went over the crest.  It swept over the edge a few feet to the right of the boat.

He moved up a little and tried next by dropping his coat.  This caught fairly against the boat.  Then before they knew what he was doing, he had climbed over the rail of the bridge and had dropped into the swiftly moving water below.

“Done it!” gasped Hutchins.

Paul’s arms were clinging around the bow of the boat.  He twisted his body, the current helping him, and gained the top of the tarpaulin.  Under the spotlight thrown by the car, it was like a scene from some epic drama, staged by the gods for their own amusement—­man against the elements, courage against the unknown-life against death.

“He’s feeling for his knife,” thought Archey.  “He’s got it!”

Paul ran his blade around the cloth and had soon tossed the tarpaulin over the dam.  Then he made a gesture of helplessness.  From the bridge, they could see that the stern of the boat was heavily boxed in.

“It’s under there!” groaned Hutchins.  “He can’t get to it!”

Archey ran to the car for a hammer, but Paul had climbed to the bow and was looking at the ring in which was fastened the cable that held the boat in place.  The strain of the current had probably weakened this, for the next thing they saw—­Paul was tugging at the cable with all his strength, worrying it from side to side, kicking at the bow with the front of his heel, evidently trying to pull the ring from its socket.