Dennis, in attempting this, had slipped upon the rock, and his heavy
boot had been caught and held between the log and the rock. Below was
a boiling rapid; above the river swirled in a heavy, oily mass.
Dennis, to save his life, held tight on to the rock. He was in the
position of the drunken Scot who dared not abandon his grip of the
rail of the refreshment bar, because if he let go he would fall down,
and if he did not let go he must miss his train. Dennis held on with
both hands. If he endeavoured to unfasten his boot, he would be swept
into the rapid; if he did not let go, and none came to his rescue, the
log would grind his leg to powder.
Tom happened to see him and plunged into the river. Dennis had crawled
on to the rock from the other side, a feat easily achievable. Tom
might have gone round; any other man in the camp would have done so.
The odds were slightly against his reaching the rock, for the river
was running like a mill-race.
Five minutes later both men, dripping wet, were safely ashore, and the
log was careering down stream!
"Ye've saved my life," gasped Dennis.
"Never seen such a blamed fool as you in all my days," replied Tom, as
he stared savagely into Dennis's mild blue eyes.
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