even at their worst they possess great flotage, thought their very lightness causes them to wallow knee-deep as they whirl headlong down a fall at a pace that is exhilarating, with the angry waters roaring around and over them. The more shrunken the stream, the more desperate the pace at which a bamboo raft spins down the rapids, for the height of the fall suffers no change, while in the dry season the volume of water is insufficient to break the drop and soften the descent.
Thus it befalls that, when the river is low, a raft sent charging down this big rapid of the Telom, between the sheer walls of granite, comes to eternal grief when it strikes the leaning rock which obstructs the channel near its foot. A sound like a scream—the agonized pain cry of the bamboos—is heard above the tumult of the waters as the raft strikes the boulder; another second, and the bow is fast wedged beneath the projecting ledge of rock; again the bamboos give a despairing shriek, and the tail of the raft rises swiftly to a perpendicular position. For a moment it waggles irresolutely, and then, like the sail of a windmill, it whirls round in the air, the bow held firmly in position by the rock, serving as its axle, and smites the waters beyond with a resounding flap. Every one of the bamboos is smashed in an instant into starting, shrieking slivers, which have edges that can cut as sharply as the keenest knife. If there be men on board, they are cast high into the air, are broken pitilessly upon the rocks, are wounded horribly by the matchwood that was
