CHAPTER XXVII.
THE FALLS OF DEATH.
The last dangerous rapids of the river had been reached some days later. Frank and his friends had enjoyed the drift hugely, but they were not really sorry the strange voyage was almost at an end, for they were anxious to get back to the blue waters of Penobscot Bay and the White Wings.
The raft must be broken up to go through the rapids and over a fall. No man had ever “ridden timber” over the falls and come out to tell the tale. Several had been drowned there.
It was nightfall when the quickening water above the rapids was reached, and again the raft tied up. In the morning it was to be broken up and sent down.
Merriwell’s party, Forest, the cook and the cookee slept in the little brush huts on the raft.
On shore a brush camp was made, and the men made merry, for the end of the drive was near, and they were expecting to have “high old times” in Bangor after they were paid off.
Sullivan and Pombere had sulked all the way from Mattawamkeag, and they drew aside by themselves and took no part in the merry making this night.
Of course there was singing; of course the old fiddle was tuned up.
But Sullivan and Pombere talked in low tones, with their heads close together.
“Dat ees ze treek!” whispered the Canadian. “They nevare know eet till eet be too late to save themselves.”