"Dry skins!" laughed Holden. His voice was laughing, but his eyes were fixed steadily a few yards in front of the canoe with that firm gaze of a brave man looking peril straight in the face. "Dry skins! It'll be a greater marvel if we get through it with any skins at all!"
"We'll have a good try, anyway," responded Arnold. Then he remarked quaintly: "This is like old times, isn't it—you and I out in a scrape together? I hope the Head won't blow us up for it when we get back to school!"
The river had now entered the narrow course, and was rushing on a foaming way with an awesome roar.
Now and then the canoe would leap to one side as a wave hungrily licked her prow; sometimes she would push her nose into a crest that splashed the travellers with spray. Fortunately the spring torrents were over, and danger from drifting logs was not to be reckoned with, but the possibility that rocks might be hidden among the white waves was a reasonable cause for concern—all the more so, considering that they were unknown.
Onwards they dashed at breakneck speed, while both the men sat grimly silent, prepared to take bravely whatever fate might be in store for them. Probably their thoughts were more of the two boys at the camp than of their present strait—more engaged with commending their sons to the care of God than speculating as to the result of this adventure.
Then, with a suddenness that gave no time for thought, there was a crash like crackling match-wood—a rush of water that seemed to crush all within its embrace. Next moment the two men were struggling in the stream.
At that crisis, Arnold's first thought was for his friend—just as it had always been since he fought his chum's first battles at school.
He grabbed wildly, and held on to something that he afterwards found to be his friend's jacket.
"Are you all right?" he yelled above the din of the waters, as both men reached the surface.
"A1 at Lloyd's!" came the cheerful reply—undaunted even in extremity.