To lessen this scour MacFarlane had looted a carload of plank switched on to a siding, and a gang of men in charge of Jack,—­who had now reached his Chief’s side,—­were dragging them along the downstream slope to form sluices with which to break the force of the scour.

The top of the flood now poured into the mouth of the newly dug trench, biting huge mouthfuls of earth from its sides in its rush; spreading the reddish water fan-like over the down-stream slope:  first into gullies; then a broad sluiceway that sunk out of sight in the soft earth; then crumblings, slidings of tons of sand and gravel, with here and there a bowlder washed clean; the men working like beavers,—­here to free a rock, there to drive home a plank, the trench all the while deepening, widening—­now a gulch ten feet across and as deep, now a canon through which surged a solid mass of frenzied water.

With the completion of the first row of planking MacFarlane took up a position where he could overlook all parts of the work.  Every now and then his eyes would rest on a water-gauge which he had improvised from the handle of a pick; the rise and fall of the wet mark showing him both the danger and the safety lines.  He seemed the least interested man in the group.  Once in a while he would consult his watch, counting the seconds, only to return to the gauge.

That thousands of dollars’ damage had so far been done did not seem to affect him in the least.  Only when Jack would call out that everything so far was solid on the main “fill” did his calm face light up.

Tightening his wide slouch hat farther down on his head, he drew up the tops of his high-water boots and strode through the slush to the pick-handle.  His wooden record showed that half an hour before the water had been rising at the rate of an inch every three minutes; that it had then taken six, and now required eight!  He glanced at the sky; it had stopped raining and a light was breaking in the West.

Pocketing his watch he beckoned to Jack: 

“The worst is over, Breen,” he said in a voice of perfect calmness—­the tone of a doctor after feeling a patient’s pulse.  “Our culvert is doing its work and relieving the pressure.  This water will be out of here by morning.  Tell the foreman to keep those planks moving wherever they do any good, but they won’t count much longer.  You can see the difference already in the overflow.  And now go up to the house and tell Ruth.  She may not know we are all right and will be worrying.”

Jack’s heart gave a bound.  No more delightful duty could devolve on him.

“What shall I tell her about the damage if she asks me, sir?” he demanded, hiding his pleasure in a perfunctory, businesslike tone, “and she will.”

“Tell her it means all summer here for me and no new bonnets for her until next winter,” replied MacFarlane with a grim smile.

“Yes, I suppose, but I referred to the money loss,” Jack laughed in reply.  “There is no use worrying her if we are not to blame for this.”  He didn’t intend to worry her.  He was only feeling about for some topic which would prolong his visit and encourage conversation.