At a point near the middle of the river a great mass of drift-logs
and sand had long ago formed a barrier which split the stream so
that one current came heavily shoreward on the side next the town
and swashed with its muddy foam, making a swirl and eddy just
below where Beverley stood.
The pirogue rounded the upper angle of this obstruction, not
without difficulty to its crew of one, and swung into the rapid
shoreward rush, as was evidently planned for by the steersman, who
now paddled against the tide with all his might to keep from being
borne too far down stream for a safe landing place.
Beverley stood at ease idly and half dreamily looking on, when
suddenly something caused a catastrophe, which for a moment he did
not comprehend. In fact the man in the pirogue came to grief, as a
man in a pirogue is very apt to do, and fairly somersaulted
overboard into the water. Nothing serious would have threatened
(for the man could swim like an otter) had not a floating, half
submerged log thrust up some short, stiff stumps of boughs, upon
the points of which the man struck heavily and was not only hurt,
but had his clothes impaled securely by one of the ugly spears, so
that he hung in a helpless position, while the water's motion
alternately lifted and submerged him, his arms beating about
wildly.
When Beverley heard a strangling cry for help, he pulled himself
promptly together, flung off his coat, as if by a single motion,
and leaped down the bank into the water.
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