Part 5 (1/2)

As they shoved out M. Desplaines shouted something that they did not catch and pointed down the stream. How near the fact that they could not hear his words was to come to costing them their lives neither of the boys guessed.

CHAPTER V

THE POOL OF DEATH

”Say, Frank, have you noticed that we are going to have a hard paddle back against this current?”

The boys had been fis.h.i.+ng about an hour when Harry spoke. So engrossed had they both been pulling in fish of a dozen strange varieties and brilliant hues that neither of the lads had noticed that the canoe had drifted down stream far from the starting point and that in fact when they looked up they were in an entirely strange part of the river.

”You are right, Harry,” rejoined Frank, as he looked up at the steep banks on either side of them, ”we have drifted a considerable distance. Come on, out with the paddles and we'll be getting back.”

But it was one thing to talk of getting back and quite another thing to do it. The boys, after an hour of paddling, were dismayed to find that although their arms ached with the exertion and they were dripping with perspiration, they had made hardly any progress against the current.

”It's too much for us,” gasped Frank.

”What on earth are we going to do?” asked Harry with blanched cheeks.

Frank glanced at the sh.o.r.e on either side. For a minute he had entertained a thought of landing and walking back along the beach.

But there was no beach.

The river boiled along between narrow walls which shot sheer up from the water. There was not even a niche in their smooth surface to afford a foothold to a mountain goat. They were caught in a trap.

The only thing to do was to drift down the river and trust to luck to find a landing-place. In their extremity they shouted at the top of their voices to let their comrades know of their plight, but their cries were unanswered and they began to wish that they had saved their breath to use in the task of keeping the canoe steady in the current.

While they had been pondering their situation, moreover, they had been swept with almost incredible rapidity down the river. The walls here grew narrower and narrower and the water fairly boiled in its narrow confines. Its dark surface was flecked with white foam, and to make matters worse, as the walls closed in the light became fainter, till the boys were being carried downward through almost subterranean darkness.

In the intense gloom their white strained faces shone out like pallid beacon-lights.

”Hold her steady,” said Frank in a tense voice as the canoe wobbled crazily in the swollen current.

”I'm doing the best I can,” gasped out poor Harry desperately plying his paddle.

It the canoe was to get broadside onto the current, even for the fraction of a second, Frank well knew that nothing could save them.

It was a terrible situation.

Helplessly they were being borne at dizzy speed to what seemed almost certain death--for certain it was that they could not hold out much longer. Already their overstrained muscles were only mechanically doing their duty, but before long Frank realized that even his-well-trained young body must collapse--and then, what?

Suddenly there was borne to their ears a sound that made both boys chill with terror.

It was a mighty roaring like the furious boiling of some giant kettle. A thousand shouting voices seemed blended into one to form the music, of this ominous orchestra. Louder the noise grew and louder, as the pa.s.s through which the river now tore like a runaway race-horse grew narrower and blacker.

What could the awful uproar mean?

They had not long to wait before the truth burst upon them. They were nearing, at what seemed express speed, a whirling, roaring ma.s.s of waters that shouted at them like some animal calling for its prey. The boys' cheeks blanched as they realized that nothing but a miracle could save them from being sucked into this watery abyss.

Desperately they plied their paddles but if they had been useless further up the stream they were doubly inefficient now. If they had stroked against the rus.h.i.+ng current with feathers they could not have had less effect in checking the death rush of the canoe, which was tossed along on the racing tide like a chip of wood.