Suddenly a great shout is heard from below. The men start up.
"Lock in, lock in! Close the boom!" comes the cry.
A murmur of relief from the men. Wakened abruptly from the spell of the hour, they had taken the hail at first for a cry of distress. They race up, lifting their poles above their heads as a sign the fairway is blocked, and the word of command, "Lock in, lock in!" is flung from man to man along the bank.
"Lock in it is!" cries the man at the head, and runs from the camp-fire down to the waterside. The rope is slipped, the end of the boom hauled close up to the shore and made fast again.
"'Twill hold a bit," says one. "But like to be a long spell for us all—for there's none'll care to get far out on the block to-night, if it lasts. Let's go down and see."
The party made their way down the path by the edge of the bank.
As the last of the timber comes down, the guards by the rapids join them, one after another. "Where'll it be?"
"Down below somewhere, must be. If only it's not the Whirlstone again."
"Ay, if it's that…. 'Tis no light work to get loose there in the daytime, let alone by night."
The Whirlstone Rock it was; the baulks had gathered about it in an inextricable mass. The shores were dark with men gathered to watch.