Redjacket's party burst out laughing at this, and all looked at Olof.
He flushes slightly, but says nothing, only bites his lip and turns away to study the river once more.
Redjacket looks at him sneeringly, and, pole in hand, steps out on to the boom, a little way above the bridge. Then, springing over to the raft, he chooses his craft for the voyage—a buoyant pine stem, short and thick, and stripped of its bark.
The young man smiles, with a curious expression, as he looks on.
"Did you see?" whispers one on the bridge to his neighbour. "Mark my words, he knows what he's about."
"Look out ahead!" Redjacket slips his tree trunk under the boom, and steps out on to it. Then with a touch of his foot he sends it round and round—spinning it, and sending up the water on either side.
"Ay, he's a smart lad," say the onlookers on the bridge.
Redjacket stops his manoeuvres now, gives a bold glance towards the bridge, then, with a shrill whistle, fixes the point of his pole in the wood; and, stepping back a little, with his hands on his hips, begins, mockingly, to "say his prayers."
"There! Ever see such a lad?" Redjacket's partisans look round proudly at the rest.
"Look at him—look!"