The river pursued its incredibly circuitous course between cut banks fringed with willows. All the country above, invisible to them in the dugout, was a vast meadow. A steady, smooth current carried them on.
On the outside of each bend the bank was steep to the point of overhanging; on the inside there was invariably a mud flat made gay with water flowers. So crooked was the river that Jack-Knife Mountain, the only object they could see above the willows, was now on their right hand, now on their left.
On the turns they sometimes got a current of wind in their faces and came to a dead stop. Now that they no longer required it, the wind was momentarily strengthening.
"Wouldn't it be better to take the sail down?" Sam suggested.
"Can't tak' it down wi'out land on shore," Bela answered sullenly.
Sam comprehending what was the matter, chuckled inwardly. On the next bend, seeing her struggles with the baffling air-currents, he asked teasingly:
"Well, why don't you go ashore and take it down?"
"If I land, you promise not run away?" she said.
Sam laughed from a light heart. "Not on your life!" he said. "I'm my own master now."
Bela had no more to say.