"I forbid you," Sprague said harshly. "Smoke, if you go another
step I'll discharge you."

"And you, too, Shorty," Stine added.

"And a hell of a pickle you'll be in with us fired," Shorty replied.
"How'll you get your blamed boat to Dawson? Who'll serve you coffee
in your blankets and manicure your finger-nails? Come on, Smoke.
They don't dast fire us. Besides, we've got agreements. It they
fire us they've got to divvy up grub to last us through the winter."

Barely had they shoved Breck's boat out from the bank and caught the
first rough water, when the waves began to lap aboard. They were
small waves, but it was an earnest of what was to come. Shorty cast
back a quizzical glance as he gnawed at his inevitable plug, and Kit
felt a strange rush of warmth at his heart for this man who couldn't
swim and who couldn't back out.

The rapids grew stiffer, and the spray began to fly. In the
gathering darkness, Kit glimpsed the Mane and the crooked fling of
the current into it. He worked into this crooked current, and felt
a glow of satisfaction as the boat hit the head of the Mane squarely
in the middle. After that, in the smother, leaping and burying and
swamping, he had no clear impression of anything save that he swung
his weight on the steering oar and wished his uncle were there to
see. They emerged, breathless, wet through, and filled with water
almost to the gunwale. Lighter pieces of baggage and outfit were
floating inside the boat. A few careful strokes on Shorty's part
worked the boat into the draw of the eddy, and the eddy did the rest