Once a great tree whirled in the air and seemed to strike straight at Merriwell with its huge butt end such a blow as must have blotted him out of existence in a moment had he been hit.
But Frank leaped just in time, and he was not touched.
Two or three of the drivers started to cheer, but the shout died on their lips, for the peril of the daring lad was so great that it took away their breath.
For a moment the water seemed to break a channel through the logs between Frank and the shore.
“He’s cut off!” gasped Forest, in horror.
Then the great mass closed in again, and where the channel had been a second before Frank Merriwell was seen running over the timbers.
This sight brought a genuine cheer from the river men, who admired courage and nerve.
Mike Sullivan and Levi Pombere did not cheer. The Canadian muttered something in French, and the foreman swore under his breath.
“He be keeled yet!” hissed Pombere, getting close to Sullivan.
“He will unless the devil helps him!” grated Sullivan. “It’s ther derndest luck that he’s kept up so fur!”