An' a-swearin' somethin' rank. "You rust-chawed fragments o' junk," sez he, "Now what do you think you've found? A-standin' 'round on this old bilge tank Like a bunch o' frogs on a floatin' plank; Be ye lookin' fer gold in yon cut-bank?" An' then he heerd that sound. As quick as the jump of a piston-rod He was over the wheel-box guard, An' before we could Agger on stoppin' him He had slashed the falls from the long-boat's rim An' was out past the slush o' the channel's brim, A-pullin' quick an' hard. He sidled his tub through that rippin' flume While we stood on the "George" an' swore. The boy was loony with raw-corn gin, But he reckoned his course to the width of a pin, Ran straight to the eddy an' clawed her in, An' staggered himself ashore. Now, stranger, I want to ask you, flat, If a man with his head-piece right, Would 'a' piled eight folks in that skiff's inside Fer a half-mile pull through that mill-race tide An' think to land safe at the end o' the ride? Well, Jake Dale did, that night. When he shoved her off from the gumbo p'int She reeled like a sawyer snag, Then the current caught her along the beam An' she whirled around an' shot down stream With the foam from her bow like a cloud o' steam, As fast as a red-tail stag. Good Lord, the fright in them children's cries! It curdled a feller's blood, Them river men ain't a prayerful race, But that night more'n one sort o' hid his face An' sent up a plea to the Throne o' Grace To guide them through the flood. An' then that gorge sent up a roar That shook the solid ground; The sort that splits yer ears in two When a side-wheel packet drops a flue An' blows six b'ilers amongst her crew, An' cooks them that ain't drowned. She was breakin' loose like an avalanche, Slipped free on a mountain side. Jake Dale turned 'round an' give one look An' read the truth like a printed book, Then bent to his oars till the keel-post shook, An' pulled fer the "George's" side. He jammed her bow through the buckin' tide Till the painter floated free; With blinded eyes an' drippin' skin He fought fer the race he had set to win Like a soldier fights, till the ice rolled in An' ground against her lee. But he'd got her up to ropin' range An' we hauled her to the rail. When he'd landed the last one, safe an' sound, Jake follered, an' says, as he looked around, "You fellers fetch out that jug you found, I'm as dry as the Mormon Trail!" Well, stranger, that there is the yarn o' Jake, Jake Dale, o' the "Lucky George." He wasn't no saint with a gilt-edged crown; His language would shatter a church-steeple down; He'd a thirst in his throat that nothin' could drown, An' a fist like a blacksmith's forge. But, all the same, he'd a Christian soul If he hadn't the Christian creed,