The water was almost clear of timber already, the boom was being dragged slowly down the dead water by a few of the men. Some went ahead, getting odd logs out of the way, others strolled idly about on the shore, exchanging greetings with the villagers.
A little way down the bank a log is stranded with one end thrust far inshore. Close by it lies a pole.
"That's Olof's," says one of the men. "He's not come down yet—busy up at the village, it seems."
A girl in the group of lookers-on felt her heart beat suddenly.
"H'm—left it to ride down on, I suppose. Wants to take another turn down the rapids before he goes."
"Ay, that's it. Likes that way better than going on a raft like ordinary folk. That's him coming down, isn't it?"
Olof came racing down like the wind.
A girl in the group turned pale. She could see from his manner what had passed. Something terrible it must have been to bring him down in a fury like that.
He came nearer. His face was deadly pale, his lips compressed, and his eyes flashed, though he looked out over the water all the time.
He raised his hat as he passed the group, but without a glance at anyone.