There was not only the slope
down the course of the river but where the water swung past long
points of loose rocks, which reach out from either shore, a
distinct tilt from one side to the other could be seen, as when an
engine rounds a bend. There were foaming, roaring breakers where
the river flowed over its bed of boulder shallows, or again the
water was smooth and apparently motionless even where the slope
downward was clearly marked.
Standing in the stern of the canoe, guiding it with firm, unerring
hand, Job scanned the river ahead, choosing out our course, now
shouting his directions to George in the bow, or again to Joe and
Gilbert as they followed close behind. Usually we ran in the
shallow water near shore where the rocks of the river bed looked
perilously near the surface. When the sun shone, sharp points and
angles seemed to reach up into the curl of the waves, though in
reality they did not, and often it appeared as if we were going
straight to destruction as the canoe shot towards them. I used to
wish the water were not so crystal clear, so that I might not see
the rocks for I seemed unable to accustom myself to the fact that
it was not by seeing the rocks the men chose the course but by the
way the water flowed.
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