“Capsized?” cried Dallas.
“Drowned?” cried Abel.
“I could not see,” continued the stranger. “I watched them till they went into a sort of fog with a rainbow over it, and then I felt ready to jump in and try to swim, or get drowned, for without my knife I felt that all was over.”
“Not drowned, then?” said Dallas.
“No, my son; them as is born to be hanged’ll never be drowned,” said the big Cornishman grimly. “Look ye here, old chap, you’d better take this toothpick; it’s the one that the boss of that party who stole our raft lost.”
“Ah!” cried the stranger; “they stole your raft?”
“They did, my son, and it seems to me things aren’t at all square, for these here fellows are ready to do anything—from committing murder down to stealing a knife. Why, they’ve even cheated death, or else they’d be lying comfortably buried in the snow.”
“Ha!” ejaculated Dallas, as he stood grasping his pole, and the raft began to glide along.
“Yes, it is ‘Hah!’ my son,” said the Cornishman; “but I shouldn’t wonder if we came across a tree some day bearing fruit at the end of a hempen stalk. I say, though, my son, is the river below there so dangerous as you say?”
“Yes; it is a horrible fall, as far as I could see.”