pushed and heaved from the instability of the floating logs as easily as though they had possessed beneath their feet the advantages of solid land.  When they wanted to go from one place to another across the clear water they had various methods of propelling themselves—­either broad on, by rolling the log treadwise, or endways by paddling, or by jumping strongly on one end.  The logs dipped and bobbed and rolled beneath them; the water flowed over their feet; but always they seemed to maintain their balance unconsciously, and to give their whole attention to the work in hand.  They worked as far as possible from the decks of logs, but did not hesitate, when necessary, to plunge even waist-deep into the icy current.  Behind them they left a clear river.

Like most exhibitions of superlative skill, all this would have seemed to an uninitiated observer like Bob an easy task, were it not for the misfortunes of one youth.  That boy was about half the time in the water.  He could stand upright on a log very well as long as he tried to do nothing else.  This partial skill undoubtedly had lured him to the drive.  But as soon as he tried to work, he was in trouble.  The log commenced to roll; he to struggle for his balance.  It always ended with a mighty splash and a shout of joy from every one in sight, as the unfortunate youth soused in all over.  Then, after many efforts, he dragged himself out, his garments heavy and dripping, and cautiously tried to gain the perpendicular.  This ordinarily required several attempts, each of which meant another ducking as the treacherous log rolled at just the wrong instant.  The boy was game, though, and kept at it earnestly in spite of repeated failure.

Welton watched two repetitions of this performance.

“Dick!” he roared across the tumult of sound.

Roaring Dick, whose light, active figure had been seen everywhere across the logs, looked up, recognized Welton, and zigzagged skilfully ashore.  He stamped the water from his shoes.

“Why don’t you fire that kid ashore?” demanded Welton.  “Do you want to drown him?  He’s so cold now he don’t know where’s his feet?”

Roaring Dick glanced carelessly at the boy.  The latter had succeeded in gaining the shallows, where he was trying to roll over a stranded log.  His hands were purple and swollen; his face puffed and blue; violent shivers shook him from head to foot; his teeth actually chattered when, for a moment, he relaxed his evident intention to stick it through without making a sign.  All his movements were slow and awkward, and his dripping clothes clung tight to his body.

“Oh, him!” said Roaring Dick in reply.  “I didn’t pay no more attention to him than to one of these yere hell divers.  He ain’t no good, so I clean overlooked him.  Here, you!” he cried suddenly.

The boy looked up, Bob saw him start convulsively, and knew that he had met the impact of that peculiar dynamic energy in Roaring Dick’s nervous face.  He clambered laboriously from the shallows, the water draining from the bottom of his “stagged” trousers.