When at last they were floating down the river on the great raft, the boys set about taking life easy and enjoying themselves as they might.
There were many strange sights to see. Along the shore men were fending off loose logs with pick poles. Occasionally a driver mounted a log, standing upon it as if his feet were planted on the solid earth, keeping his balance when it rolled by walking against the motion, and sailed away down the river as unconcerned as if he were on the deck of a four-masted schooner.
It was this sort of a spectacle that excited Hans Dunnerwust. The drivers did the trick so easily and gracefully that the Dutch boy began to feel certain it was not much of a job.
“Uf I don’t peen a rifer trifer pefore this trip is done mit me you vos a liar!” he cried. “I pet any vun uf dose logs can ride me!”
“I shouldn’t wonder,” grunted Bruce Browning, who was stretched on some hemlock boughs, making himself comfortable beneath the shade of a canvas awning. “That’s what I’d imagine would happen.”
“Hey?” squawked the Dutch boy. “Vot do I mean ven you said dot? You vill show me if I can’t ride britty queek.”
No one paid much attention to him then, but about an hour later, there was a sudden cry of astonishment, and Hodge jumped up, pointing and shouting.
“Look there! The chump will be drowned!”
All looked in the direction indicated, and they were amazed to see Hans, with a pick pole in his hands, pushing off from the raft on a log that had floated up against it.
The fat Dutch lad was balancing himself on the log with some difficulty, but it was plain he had resolved to ride a log, for he did not hesitate about leaving the raft.