There came a breath-taking plunge during which the rescuing skiff and its crew were hidden from the view of those on shore; out into sight they lunged again and, in a cloud of spray, went galloping through the stampeding waves.  At risk of capsizing they turned around and, battling furiously against the current, were swept down, stern first, upon the stranded barge.  Doret’s face was turned back over his shoulder, he was measuring distance, gauging with practised eye the whims and vagaries of the tumbling torrent; when he flung himself upon the oars Pierce Phillips felt his own strength completely dwarfed by that of the big pilot.  ’Poleon’s hands inclosed his in a viselike grasp; he wielded the sweeps as if they were reeds, and with them he wielded Phillips.

Two people only were left upon the Rouletta, that sidewise plunge having carried the crew away.  Once again Sam Kirby’s artificial hand had proved its usefulness, and without its aid it is doubtful if either he or his daughter could have withstood the deluge.  For a second time he had sunk that sharp steel hook into the solid wood and had managed, by virtue of that advantage, to save himself and his girl.  Both of them were half drowned; they were well-nigh frozen, too; now, however, finding themselves in temporary security, Kirby had broached one of the few remaining cases of bottled goods.  As the rowboat came close its occupants saw him press a drink upon his daughter, then gulp one for himself.

It was impossible either to lay the skiff alongside the wreck with any degree of care or to hold her there; as a matter of fact, the two hulls collided with a crash, Kid Bridges’ oar snapped off short and the side of the lighter boat was smashed in.  Water poured over the rescuers.  For an instant it seemed that they were doomed, but, clawing fiercely at whatever they could lay hands upon, they checked their progress long enough for the castaways to obey Doret’s shout of command.  The girl flung herself into Pierce’s arms; her father followed, landing in a heap amidships.  Even as they jumped the skiff was torn away and hurried onward by the flood.  Sam Kirby raised himself to his knees and turned his ashen face to Rouletta.

“Hurt you any, kid?” he inquired.

The girl shook her head.  She was very white, her teeth were chattering, her wet dress clung tightly to her figure.

Staring fixedly at the retreating barge the old man cried:  “All gone!  All gone!” Then, bracing himself with his good hand, he brandished his steel hook at the rapids and heaped curses upon them.

A half-mile below the wreck ’Poleon Doret brought his crippled skiff into an eddy, and there the crowd, which had kept pace with it down the river-bank, lent willing assistance in effecting a landing.

As Kirby stepped ashore he shook hands with the men who had jeopardized their lives for him and his daughter; hi a cheerless, colorless voice he said, “It looks to me like you boys had a drink coming.”  From his coat pocket he drew a bottle of whisky; with a blow of that artificial hand he struck off its neck and then proffered it to Doret.  “Drink hearty!” said he.  “It’s all that’s left of a good outfit!”