“Hit’ll begin in about an hour, boys,” he said, and in an hour it did begin.  There was to be no doubt about this flood.  At dusk, the river had risen two feet and the raft was pulling at its cable like an awakening sea-monster.  Meanwhile, the mother had cooked a great pone of corn-bread, three feet in diameter, and had ground coffee and got sides of bacon ready.  All night it poured and the dawn came clear, only to darken into gray again.  But the river—­the river!  The roar of it filled the woods.  The frothing hem of it swished through the tops of the trees and through the underbrush, high on the mountain-side.  Arched slightly in the middle, for the river was still rising, it leaped and surged, tossing tawny mane and fleck and foam as it thundered along—­a mad, molten mass of yellow struck into gold by the light of the sun.  And there the raft, no longer the awkward monster it was the day before, floated like a lily-pad, straining at the cable as lightly as a greyhound leaping against its leash.

The neighbors were gathered to watch the departure—­old Jerry Budd, blacksmith and “yarb doctor,” and his folks; the Cultons and Middletons, and even the Dillons—­little Tad and Whizzer—­and all.  And a bright picture of Arcadia the simple folk made, the men in homespun and the women with their brilliant shawls, as they stood on the bank laughing, calling to one another, and jesting like children.  All were aboard now and there was no kissing nor shaking hands in the farewell.  The good old mother stood on the bank, with Melissa holding to her apron and looking at Chad gravely.

“Take good keer o’ yo’self, Chad,” she said kindly, and then she looked down at the little girl.  “He’s a-comin’ back, honey—­Chad’s a-comin’ back.”  And Chad nodded brightly, but Melissa drew her apron across her mouth, dropped her eyes to the old rifle in the boy’s lap, and did not smile.

All were aboard now—­Dolph and Rube, old Squire Middleton, and the school-master, all except Tall Tom, who stood by the tree to unwind the cable.

“Hold on!” shouted the Squire.

A raft shot suddenly around the bend above them and swept past with the Dillon brothers Jake and Jerry, nephews of old Tad Dillon, at bow and stern—­passed with a sullen wave from Jerry and a good-natured smile from stupid Jake.

“All right,” Tom shouted, and he unwound the great brown pliant vine from the sycamore and leaped aboard.  Just then there was a mad howl behind the house and a gray streak of light flashed over the bank and Jack, with a wisp of rope around his neck, sprang through the air from a rock ten feet high and landed lightly on the last log as the raft shot forward.  Chad gulped once and his heart leaped with joy, for he had agreed to leave Jack with old Joel, and old Joel had tied the dog in the barn.

“Hi!” shouted the old hunter.  “Throw that dawg off, Chad—­throw him off.”

But Chad shook his head and smiled.