Here the current, thirty fathoms deep, free of all obstruction, shot through the Euclataws in a clear, straight line, pitching down in a slant perceptible to the eye, a strip of smooth jade-green bordered to right and left by eddies, whirlpools, white-tipped waves where conflicting currents met and slashed up foam. The song of running water crooned gently between wooded banks,--that song which would presently fill the air with deep-toned antiphony to the whisper of the winds. "Now," Rod commanded. "Stow your paddle till I shout." It was like a path between precipices, that strip of smooth, swift-flowing water, after the first dizzy swoop at the overfall. A boat length on either hand spun whirlpools. A sudden sheer of their craft meant almost sure destruction. The guiding thrust of Rod's paddle held the dugout true. Their breath came quickly. Their eyes glowed. Their lips parted in a set smile, as if an alteration of feature might destroy their equilibrium. "Right," young Norquay said curtly. The girl's paddle dipped with a sure, vigorous thrust. In the stern Rod held his blade at an angle, like a rudder, and the dugout shaved a whirling hollow in the vortex of which a drift log stood upended, spinning like a top, going slowly down end-on in the suction. "Steady." She held her paddle poised again. The canoe came back to midway of the green path. The Valdez shore flew by, stubs of trees, tall cedars with lancelike crests and drooping boughs. A gull swooped over them, crying. The swiftness made a cool breeze in their faces, flung the girl's hair in a loose brown cloud about her head. The high, carved bow dipped into broken water, among cross-surges. They rode over "boils,"--deflecting currents that shot up from the depths and broke into strange watery mounds with a sinister muttering. They shipped a little spray, rolled uncertainly in this agitation. Then they were through, floating in a great eddy that swept them back toward Little Dent. They had shot the rapids. Mary looked over her shoulder. They smiled at each other in perfect understanding, and young Norquay thought: "I'd like to take old Spence through. He wouldn't grin. Poor old duffer, he gets all his fun second-hand--out of books." Aloud he said, "We'd better get under the Dent shore before the eddy carries us back among the swirls." "Among the Devil's Dishpans, you mean," she laughed, keeping stroke with him. "That's what daddy calls them." "Good name," he grunted. "They're devil's something when they get to spinning good. Paddle, Brownie. We're losing ground."