The river, fallen to its winter level, was pounding its ice-glut steadily along.  But in falling it had rimmed the shore with a twenty-foot wall of stranded floes.  The great blocks were spilled inland among the thrown and standing trees and the slime-coated flowers and grasses like the titanic vomit of some Northland monster.  The sun was not idle, and the steaming thaw washed the mud and foulness from the bergs till they blazed like heaped diamonds in the brightness, or shimmered opalescent-blue.  Yet they were reared hazardously one on another, and ever and anon flashing towers and rainbow minarets crumbled thunderously into the flood.  By one of the gaps so made lay La Bijou, and about it, saving chechaquos and sick men, were grouped the denizens of Split-up.

“Na, na, lad; twa men’ll be a plenty.”  Tommy McPherson sought about him with his eyes for corroboration.  “Gin ye gat three i’ the canoe ’twill be ower comfortable.”

“It must be a dash or nothing,” Corliss spoke up.  “We need three men, Tommy, and you know it.”

“Na, na; twa’s a plenty, I’m tellin’ ye.”

“But I’m afraid we’ll have to do with two.”

The Scotch-Canadian evinced his satisfaction openly.  “Mair’d be a bother; an’ I doot not ye’ll mak’ it all richt, lad.”

“And you’ll make one of those two, Tommy,” Corliss went on, inexorably.

“Na; there’s ithers a plenty wi’oot coontin’ me.”

“No, there’s not.  Courbertin doesn’t know the first thing.  St. Vincent evidently cannot cross the slough.  Mr. Welse’s arm puts him out of it.  So it’s only you and I, Tommy.”

“I’ll not be inqueesitive, but yon son of Anak’s a likely mon.  He maun pit oop a guid stroke.”  While the Scot did not lose much love for the truculent pocket-miner, he was well aware of his grit, and seized the chance to save himself by shoving the other into the breach.

Del Bishop stepped into the centre of the little circle, paused, and looked every man in the eyes before he spoke.

“Is there a man here’ll say I’m a coward?” he demanded without preface.  Again he looked each one in the eyes.  “Or is there a man who’ll even hint that I ever did a curlike act?” And yet again he searched the circle.  “Well and good.  I hate the water, but I’ve never been afraid of it.  I don’t know how to swim, yet I’ve been over the side more times than it’s good to remember.  I can’t pull an oar without batting my back on the bottom of the boat.  As for steering—­well, authorities say there’s thirty-two points to the compass, but there’s at least thirty more when I get started.  And as sure as God made little apples, I don’t know my elbow from my knee about a paddle.  I’ve capsized damn near every canoe I ever set foot in.  I’ve gone right through the bottom of two.  I’ve turned turtle in the Canyon and been pulled out below the White Horse.  I can only keep stroke with one man, and that man’s yours truly.  But, gentlemen, if the call comes, I’ll take my place in La Bijou and take her to hell if she don’t turn over on the way.”