Lucky Jim no longer ran. Nor, despite his long fast and his almost continuous effort, could it be said that he staggered. It was a queer, humped-up lope. The joints of his knees were so stiff, and ached so that, in order to avoid bending them, when taking a step he flung his leg out from his body. On the stage or in a motion picture, his manner of locomotion would have been considered a scream. The lariat was still about his waist, and the gun still hung at his belt. He came upon the river suddenly on rounding a bend. To stave off reaction, the desire to fling himself down and forget everything, he walked into the river and headed for an island against which the current nibbled. At the deepest point, which was a mere dozen feet from the island, the water just reached his armpits. He breasted this on an upstream slant and finally effected a landing. He turned and looked back. He at length decided that any raft, or tree or floating thing that came down the river must of necessity come within twenty feet of the island. And before he was aware of it, he had, so to speak, seized his problem by the throat. He went to the lower end of the island and tied three drift logs together with the lariat; left it on the shingle ready to launch. He returned to the head of the island and gathered a pile of stones. A couple of shots over their heads from his gun and a swat on the head with a rock would, he reasoned, create no little confusion, out of which he expected to come with a drop on them. Miracles will never cease is a true saying. They never cease to happen for the benefit of those who help them with all their might to come to pass. Lucky Jim was still piling rocks when he happened to look upstream and spy the nose of the raft coming around a bend about a third of a mile away. He flattened himself in the brush and waited; drew his gun. As the raft drew nearer he sighted the dogs, and started. The fools! Weren't there a hundred men in Totatla City who knew his dogs? What damned fools they were! But how his heart did sing within him. He repressed the desire to let loose a great big laugh. Towser, his lead dog lay in the front end, his massive head on his paws. He looked--or so thought Lucky Jim--peeved. Chenoa Pete had a hand on the sweep; his companion was lying down. The raft came on without a ripple. The current was driving it toward the upper end of the island. Chenoa Pete began to work the sweep, leisurely. When thirty feet distant Lucky Jim fired a shot over his head then sprang to his feet. "Sick 'em, Towser!" he shouted. "Sick 'em, Rum! Sick 'em, Rye! Sick 'em, Brandy!"