"Ay—and the worst of all!"
Two—three short paces back—the log brings up full against the block.
A leap and a crash, a run almost to the fore end of the log before he can check his pace. The log is flung out again into the current, and shivers as if paralysed by the blow. Then the water carries it down again.
The men at their posts stare helplessly—one of them gives a cry, and the onlookers shudder. "Heavens—he's missed it now!"
More shouting, and men running up and down the banks; others standing as if rooted to the spot.
Olof glances at the mass of timber by the rock. A swing of the pole, a sudden deft turn, and hurrying to the other end of the log, he begins poling hard across the stream.
"He's making for the other bank!"
"He'll never do it—and there's no one there to help!"
"Oh—look! He'll be carried over the edge!"
Hard fighting now. Olof is striving to reach the farther bank, the current is drawing the end of the log nearer and nearer the falls—already the water is seething over it.