There was only
one point where he could get a hold on the hillside--the jutting bole of
a tree just beneath them, and beneath the dyke of rock and trees.
It was a great moment. The current swayed him out, but he plunged
forward, catching at the bole. His hand seized a small branch. It held
him an instant, as he was swung round, then it snapt. But the other hand
clenched the bole, and to a loud cheer, which Pierre prompted, Macavoy
drew himself up. After that they could not see him. He alone was
studying the situation.
He found the key-rock to the dyked slide of earth. To loosen it was to
divert the slide away, or partly away, from the little house. But it
could not be loosened from above, if at all, and he himself would be in
the path of the destroying hill.
"Aisy, aisy, Tim Macavoy," he said to himself. "It's the woman and the
darlins av her, an' the rose o' the valley down there at the Post!"
A minute afterwards, having chopped down a hickory sapling, he began to
pry at the boulder which held the mass. Presently a tree came crashing
down, and a small rush of earth followed it, and the hearts of the men
above and the woman and children below stood still for an instant. An
hour passed as Macavoy toiled with a strange careful skill and a
superhuman concentration. His body was all shining with sweat, and sweat
dripped like water from his forehead. His eyes were on the keyrock and
the pile, alert, measuring, intent.
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