slow current of the stream. The sunlight flashed on their wet
sides. The gleam of dripping paddles was like the flutter of
silvery birds' wings, and across the water came an unintelligible
shout in response to the rifle shot. It occurred to David that he
might make a trumpet of his hands and shout back, but the distance
was too great for his voice to carry its message for help.
Besides, now that he had the added protection of the pack, he felt
a certain sense of humiliation at the thought of showing the white
feather. A few minutes more, if all went well, and he would settle
for the man behind the log.

He continued again the slow operation of worming his rifle barrel
between the pack and the rock. The near-sighted little sandpiper
had discovered him and seemed interested in the operation. It had
come a dozen feet nearer, and was perking its head and seesawing
on its long legs as it watched with inquisitive inspection the
unusual manifestation of life behind the rock. Its twittering note
had changed to an occasional sharp and querulous cry. Carrigan
wanted to wring its neck. That cry told the other fellow that he
was still alive and moving.

It seemed an age before his rifle was through, and every moment he
expected another shot. He flattened himself out, Indian fashion,
and sighted along the barrel. He was positive that his enemy was
watching, yet he could make out nothing that looked like a head
anywhere along the log. At one end was a clump of deeper foliage.
He was sure he saw a sudden slight movement there, and in the
thrill of the moment was tempted to send a bullet into the heart
of it. But he saved his cartridge. He felt the mighty importance
of certainty. If he fired once--and missed--the advantage of his