Along the front of the floe appeared a ridge of ice fragments, while from the rear sounded the gurgle of rushing water. Connie glanced backward—the strip of open water was nowhere visible, there was the sound of crashing and rending of ice as cake after cake was hurled by the current against the rear of the grounded floe and dashed into a million flashing fragments. An involuntary shudder shook the small shoulders as the boy realized what would have happened had the man in the stern been unskilled in the ways of the river-trail.
“That’s the reason, kid,” laughed McKeever, who had watched the boy’s evident perplexity. “The scow would have smashed like an egg-shell—we wouldn’t have had a chance in a thousan’.” As the shadows lengthened, the scow was worked to the opposite bank, and in the long twilight they camped on a high bit of ground well back from the water, a few miles above the mouth of Indian River.
