"Have done with that!" cries a stern voice from the crowd. "'Tis no time for mockery."
"What's it to you whether I choose to sing or pray?" cries Redjacket, with an oath. But he stops his show of praying, all the same, and picks up his pole again. He is nearing the bridge now.
Already the angry water swirls over the stem and laps his boots, but he stands fast.
The speed increases, the log itself disappears in a flurry of foam—those on the bridge hold their breath.
Then it comes up again. The current thrusts against its hinder end, and the buoyant wood answers to it like the tail of a fish, slipping sideways round; the steersman sways, but with a swing of his pole recovers his balance, and stands steady as before.
A sigh of relief from the watchers.
"Tra la la la!" sings Redjacket, undismayed. And he takes a couple of dance-steps on his log.
"He's no greenhorn, anyhow," the crowd agree. And some of them glance at Olof—to see how he takes their praise of his rival.
But Olof does not seem to heed; he is watching the water with a certain impatience—no more.
Just then Redjacket's log strikes a sunken rock, and is thrust backward. A swift movement—the log comes down with a splash into the foam; the man bends over, straightens his body, and stands upright as before, then strikes an attitude, and sails on past the obstacle.