“Just as soon as they find out that the river is booming, and that we are going to have a hard time to hold our jam, they'll let loose those twelve million on us. They'll break the jam, or dynamite it, or something. And let me tell you, that a very few logs hitting the tail of our jam will start the whole shooting match so that no power on earth can stop it.” “I don't imagine they'd think of doing that--” began Wallace by way of assurance. “Think of it! You don't know them. They've thought of everything. You don't know that man Daly. Ask Tim, he'll tell you.” “Well, the--” “I've got to send a man up there right away. Perhaps we can get there in time to head them off. They have to send their man over--By the way,” he queried, struck with a new idea, “how long have you been driving piles?” “Since about three o'clock.” “Six hours,” computed Thorpe. “I wish you'd come for me sooner.” He cast his eye rapidly over the men. “I don't know just who to send. There isn't a good enough woodsman in the lot to make Siscoe Falls through the woods a night like this. The river trail is too long; and a cut through the woods is blind. Andrews is the only man I know of who could do it, but I think Billy Mason said Andrews had gone up on the Gunther track to run lines. Come on; we'll see.” With infinite difficulty and caution, they reached the shore. Across the gleaming logs shone dimly the lanterns at the scene of work, ghostly through the rain. Beyond, on either side, lay impenetrable drenched darkness, racked by the wind. “I wouldn't want to tackle it,” panted Thorpe. “If it wasn't for that cursed tote road between Sadler's and Daly's, I wouldn't worry. It's just too EASY for them.” Behind them the jam cracked and shrieked and groaned. Occasionally was heard, beneath the sharper noises, a dull BOOM, as one of the heavy timbers forced by the pressure from its resting place, shot into the air, and fell back on the bristling surface. Andrews had left that morning. “Tim Shearer might do it,” suggested Thorpe, “but I hate to spare him.” He picked his rifle from its rack and thrust the magazine full of cartridges. “Come on, Wallace,” said he, “we'll hunt him up.” They stepped again into the shriek and roar of the storm, bending their heads to its power, but indifferent in the already drenched condition of their clothing, to the rain. The saw-dust street was saturated like a sponge. They could feel the quick water rise about the pressure at their feet. From the invisible houses they heard a steady monotone of flowing from the roofs. Far ahead, dim in the mist, sprayed the light of lanterns. Suddenly Thorpe felt a touch on his arm. Faintly he perceived at his elbow the high lights of a face from which the water streamed. “Injin Charley!” he cried, “the very man!” Chapter LIV