waft him effortless into a newer country where he should have a
white man's chance. At last the rains came, and he cast off from
the bank at that unsalubrious spot where his father had elected
to build his cabin on a strip of level bottom subject to periodic
inundation. Wishing fully to profit by the floods and reach the
big water without delay, Cavendish ran the raft twenty-four hours
at a stretch, sleeping by day while Polly managed the great
sweep, only calling him when some dangerous bit of the river was
to be navigated. Thus it happened that as Murrell and Slosson
were dragging Yancy down the lane, Cavendish was just rounding a
bend in the Elk, a quarter of a mile distant. Leaning loosely
against the long handle of his sweep, he was watching the lane of
bright water that ran between the black shadows cast by the trees
on either bank. He was in shirt and trousers, barefoot and
bareheaded, and his face, mild and contemplative, wore an
expression of dreamy contentment.

Suddenly its expression changed. He became alert and watchful.
He had heard a dull splash. Thinking that some tree had been
swept into the flood, he sought to pierce the darkness that lay
along the shore. Five or six minutes passed as the raft glided
along without sound. He was about to relapse into his former
attitude of listless ease when he caught sight of some object in
the eddy that swept alongside. Mr. Cavendish promptly detached
himself from the handle of the sweep and ran to the edge of the
raft.

"Good Lord--what's that!" he gasped, but he already knew it was a
face, livid and blood-streaked. Dropping on his knees he reached
out a pair of long arms and made a dexterous grab, and his