But they were helpless. A moment more, and they saw the girl caught by the swift rush of the water. Waving an arm just as she went over the edge of the incline, she straightened out and lay at full length, so as to keep as nearly as she could at the surface. She disappeared, and they waited what seemed an age, but was scarcely more than two minutes. Then, all at once, there came up to their ears, from far below, the clear, yodelling cry of Bess Thornton. She had gone safely through. It was a serious moment for Tim Reardon. There wasn't a better swimmer of his size in all Benton. Only a few of the larger lads dared to dive with him from the very top of Pulpit Rock, a high point on the bank of the stream, some miles below. Now he was stumped by a girl no bigger than himself, and he felt his knees wabbling in uncertain fashion at the thought of attempting the flume. And there was his big friend, Harvey, and Henry Burns, waiting out on the water, uncertain as to what they should do. He might aid them to win the race. Or he might hang back, be beaten, himself, by a girl, and Harvey and Henry Burns would lose. Little Tim gazed for one moment out into midstream, to where the water, black and gleaming, rushed smoothly and swiftly into the opening of the sluice-way. Then he got his voice under control as best he could, waved toward the canoe and shouted: "Come on, Jack. I'll show yer. It's e-e-asy." Little Tim shut his eyes, swallowed a lump in his throat, dived from the boom and made a long swim under water. When he reappeared, he was near the swift current, a little way below where the canoe lay. "Come on, fellers," he cried again--and the next moment Henry Burns and Harvey saw him disappear over the edge of the dam. It seemed as though there had been hardly time for him to be borne down to the foot of the descent before they heard his voice, calling triumphantly back to them. Henry Burns turned and gave one quick, inquiring glance at his companion. In return, Harvey gave a whistle that denoted his surprise at the odd turn of affairs, and said shortly, "Got to do it now. We can go through if they can. Hang that girl! Get a good brace now. Gimminy, look at that water run!" They were on the very brink, as he spoke; and, even as he muttered the last exclamation, the canoe dipped to the incline of the chute and went darting down its smooth surface. They hardly saw the sides of the flume as they shot by. Almost instantly, it seemed, they were in the tumbling, boiling waters at the foot of it, Henry Burns crouching low in the bow, so as not to be pitched overboard; Harvey bracing for one moment with his paddle and striking the water furiously the next, to keep it on its course. The canoe shipped water, and they feared it would be swamped; but they kept on. Then, as they swept past a jutting of ledge that bordered the lower shore, two figures standing together waved to them and cried out joyously: