To Dawson, sitting in the stern, his hands grasping the sides of the boat, his head bowed against the storm, it seemed as though they had suddenly been carried out on a great sea. Land was near, but it might as well have been a thousand miles away. A plunge over the side and a few strong strokes might take him to safety. But he could not desert the old man--not till he felt the craft sinking beneath him and the water closing over his head. The boat swung up and down in monotonous cadence, and he felt himself being carried helplessly on and on. There was a flash of lightning, a deafening crash overhead, and all was dark again. It was but for an instant, and yet he saw clearly, hardly a stone’s throw away, a small house on the river bank. A thin wreath of smoke was fighting its way out of the chimney against the rain. In one window there was a light, and in that light a man was standing, complacently smoking a pipe and peering out through the narrow panes and over the river, watching the play of the lightning along the Tuscaroras. Huckin half rose to his feet. “It’s ole Hen Andrews,” he cried. “I wonder ef he seen us.” Thereupon he shouted lustily for help. He continued his unavailing cries for some minutes, and then sank back to his seat. “Parson,” he said, as if by a sudden thought, “Parson, kin you pray?” “I’ve been praying all along, Eben,” was the quiet reply. “Mebbe it’ll do some good,” Eben rejoined, “I hain’t never ben much on it meself--not ez much ez I otter ’a’ ben, but my pap he was powerful in prayer.” He was silent a moment, and added regretfully, “Oh, don’t I wish he was here now!” “You are not afraid to die, are you?” asked Dawson. “Most any other way, I’m not,” was the answer. “But I don’t like drownin’, an’ I don’t make no bones about it. Our family hes allus gone be apoplexy, an’ I had an idee I’d go that way, too. All this here comes so sudden. Oh, Parson, it’s sech an onrastless, oncertain way o’ goin’, a-washin’ roun’ like this fer hours. Ef it ’ud stop after we was gone, I wouldn’t min’ so much, but to keep on a-washin’ an’ bobbin’ roun’ this ole river--Parson, Parson, pray agin.” The old man leaned forward and clasped his companion’s hand. “Pray agin, Parson, pray agin!” he cried. A flash of lightning lit up the river. Just ahead Dawson saw a broad rock. As they were going they would sweep by it. He sprang forward over the seats until he reached the bow. Then he leaped into the water, still keeping a fast hold with one hand on the side of the boat. A few strong strokes and the clumsy craft turned her head. The swimmer’s feet touched the shelving stone, and he reached out blindly till he felt a jagged bit of rock. The stern of the boat swung around and it tugged hard to release itself from the firm grasp that had checked its wild career. Eben Huckin tumbled into the water. Dawson seized him and dragged him from the river, while the boat, now free, went whirling away down stream.