information worth having, except a repetition of the fisherman's word: "Keep to the right of the big rock, two-thirds of the way down,—if you can."
"Nobody has gone down the rift for five weeks," said the man who had first spoken.
Guiteras was going ashore for the necessaries; and as he stood in his canoe, about to step on a log that edged the bank, he slipped, and pitched head-first into the deep water. We were so used to going into the water anyway, that the other two sat quite still in the canoes, as if not heeding, while Guiteras climbed out and shook himself, in a matter-of-course kind of way. This nonchalance created an impression on the crowd; and shortly after, when we started, the general prediction was audibly in our favor.
"Keep to the right of the big white rock, and you will strike the channel," shouted a man as we started.
Half a mile or so below Belvidere, we felt the water quicken and sweep to the right—the Pennsylvania bank. We knew we were in the first reach of the rapid that had been roaring for us since we started.
There are two distinct rapids,—the Little Foul and the Great Foul,—divided by a reach of safe but swift water of half a mile.
