He could never remember much about the next few minutes.  Sometimes he shouted to Scott, and thought Scott called to him, as a wedge of stone suddenly split the rushing foam, and sometimes when the current boiled in fierce rebound from a hidden obstacle.  The canoe plunged until the water stood up above her bows, and now and then leaped out half her length.  When they dared, they checked her with a back-stroke as some danger loomed ahead, but oftener drove her faster than the current to steer her round a reef or dark, revolving pool.  Yet, for the most part, she must be kept straight down stream, for if she swerved across a breaking wave its crest would curl on board and bear her down.

Thirlwell was vaguely conscious that his hand had galled and bled, but this did not matter.  The trouble was, that the sweat ran into his eyes and he could not see distinctly.  He felt his heart thump and his breath come hard, but braced himself against the lurching and tried not to miss a stroke.  If he did so, Scott, paddling in the bow, would swing her round and next moment they would be in the water.

In the meantime, he was conscious of a curious, fierce excitement, but had braved danger too often to indulge the feeling.  It led to hot rashness, and judgment and quick but calm decision were needed now.  He must concentrate all the power of his mind as well as the strength of his body on taking the canoe down to the tail-pool.

She shipped some water on the way and they could not bail.  It washed about their knees as the frail craft plunged, and Thirlwell wondered anxiously how much she would carry without capsizing.  The rocks and pines ashore now streamed past, blurred and indistinct, but he had seldom an opportunity for glancing at the bank.  He must look ahead, and every now and then his view was shortened by a ridge of tumbling foam.

Somehow she came through, half-swamped, and swung down the savage fan-shaped rush that spread in white turmoil across the tail-pool.  Paddling hard, they drove her out of the eddies that circled along the bank, and finding a slack, ran her on to a shingle beach.  Then they sat down, wet and exhausted, to recover breath.  Driscoll helped to pull the canoe up, but when Thirlwell presently looked about he could not see him.

“He’s gone,” Scott remarked dryly.  “Lit out while you were taking off your boots.”

Thirlwell imagined that the roar of the river had drowned the fellow’s steps, but he did not want to talk, about Driscoll yet, and when he put on his boots, which had been full of water, they started for the shack.  After they had changed their clothes Scott sat down and lighted his pipe.

“What do you think was the matter with Black Steve?” he asked.

“It looked as if he’d taken some liquor, but I don’t know,” Thirlwell answered.  “He was obviously scared.”

“Sure,” said Scott.  “But he wasn’t scared of getting drowned.  Steve’s a better canoe hand than either of us and has physical pluck.”