Though our course was usually in shallow water near the shore,
sometimes for no reason apparent to me, we turned out into the
heavier swells of the deeper stronger tide. Then faster, and
faster, and faster we flew, Job still standing in the stern
shouting his directions louder and louder as the roar of the rapid
increased or the way became more perilous, till suddenly, I could
feel him drop into his seat behind me as the canoe shot by a group
of boulders, and George bending to his paddle with might and main
turned the bow inshore again. Quick as the little craft had won
out of the wild rush of water pouring round the outer end of this
boulder barrier, Job was an his feet again as we sped onward, still
watching the river ahead that we might not become entrapped.
Sometimes when it was possible after passing a particularly hard
and dangerous place we ran into a quiet spot to watch Joe and
Gilbert come through. This was almost more exciting than coming
through myself.
But more weird and uncanny than wildest cascade or rapid was the
dark vision which opened out before us at the head of Slanting
Lake. The picture in my memory still seems unreal and mysterious,
but the actual one was as disturbing as an evil dream.
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