“Yaw,” spluttered Hans, wildly, “you thought I vos gone dot time, didn’t id?”
“Merriwell,” said Forest, his voice also showing deep emotion, “that was a wonderful trick, but I wouldn’t let you try it again for ten thousand dollars right in hand! My God! I thought you could not escape!”
The refined Harvard man was not in the habit of using such vehement language, but it was pardonable under the circumstances.
Following Merriwell’s friends, the river drivers came up to shake hands with the lad who had cracked the jam. They praised him and declared it was a great feat. One veteran of the river told Frank he was a natural river driver.
Of the entire crew, Sullivan and Pombere were the only men to hold aloof. They stood at one side, seeming busy talking together in low tones.
Sullivan was gray with anger and chagrin, but he dared not show it, and was urging the Canadian to keep quiet.
“Wait,” said the villainous foreman, “he beat me on the bet, but he’ll never live to collect his winnin’s!”
“What you do?” hissed Pombere. “You put ze knife een heem?”
“No, you fool! I’m not going to take such a chance of spending the rest of my days in Thomaston prison. But I’ll find er way ter fix ther critter!”