Dennis, in attempting this, had slipped upon the rock, and his heavy boot had been caught and held between the log and the rock. Below was a boiling rapid; above the river swirled in a heavy, oily mass. Dennis, to save his life, held tight on to the rock. He was in the position of the drunken Scot who dared not abandon his grip of the rail of the refreshment bar, because if he let go he would fall down, and if he did not let go he must miss his train. Dennis held on with both hands. If he endeavoured to unfasten his boot, he would be swept into the rapid; if he did not let go, and none came to his rescue, the log would grind his leg to powder. Tom happened to see him and plunged into the river. Dennis had crawled on to the rock from the other side, a feat easily achievable. Tom might have gone round; any other man in the camp would have done so. The odds were slightly against his reaching the rock, for the river was running like a mill-race. Five minutes later both men, dripping wet, were safely ashore, and the log was careering down stream! "Ye've saved my life," gasped Dennis. "Never seen such a blamed fool as you in all my days," replied Tom, as he stared savagely into Dennis's mild blue eyes. "You'd hurt yerself rockin' a baby's cradle, you would. 'Bout time you quit men's work, ain't it?" "Not yet," said Dennis. During these weeks upon the river Dennis had not seen anything of Mamie. Tom Barker, as supreme boss, visited all crews, and then returned to his wife, with either a leer or a frown upon his face. She had come to loathe the leer more than the frown. In the different camps the boys told the same story-- "He knocks the stuffin' out of her!" The stay-at-home Briton, warm with roast beef and indigestion, will wonder that one man amongst a hundred should be suffered to ill-treat a thin, dough-faced little woman. Why did they not arise and slaughter him? Had Tom stolen a colt in the cattle-country he would have been lynched. Let publicists resolve the problem! Finally, one Sunday morning, Dennis and Mamie met again. "Holy Mackinaw!" exclaimed Dennis. "Anything wrong?" "Everything." "I don't understand." But, of course, she did. "It's God's truth, then, what the boys say?" She hung her head. "I thought he'd quit when I went up the river," said Dennis. "Say, let's you an' me skin out o' this. I'll get my dough to-night." "Oh, Dennis!" she murmured, in piteous protestation, "we'd burn in eternal torment." "We'd burn together," said Dennis. "Anyways, if this ain't torment, and if Barker ain't Beelzebub himself, I'm a liar." She shook her head, with the tears streaming down her thin, white cheeks. "Gee!" said Dennis, reduced to silence. "I tuk him for better and worse," sobbed Mamie. "You might ha' guessed that it would be worse," growled Dennis. Then, desperately, he blurted out, "Because you're dead-set on keepin' the seventh commandment, you're jest naterally drivin' me to break the sixth." "What?"