"Ay, 'tis there, sure enough, and fast as nails," said the men coming in to the shore, after a vain attempt at breaking loose the block.
The Whirlstone was a point of rock, rising barely a yard above the surface of the water, at the lower end of the rapids, where the river began to widen out and clear. It lay rather to the right of the fairway, and the timber floated clear, for the most part, to the left of it. But a long stem bringing up against it broadside on would be checked, and others packing against it form a fan-shaped mass reaching from bank to bank. And it was a dangerous business to try and break it, for the point of contact was at the rock itself out in the river, and there was no time to reach the bank once the timber started to spread. The usual way was to get out a boat from below, and even then, it was a race for life to get clear before the loosened mass came roaring down.
The foreman swore aloud. "I'll have that cursed rock out of the fairway next summer, if I have to splinter it. Well, there's nothing for it now; get your coffee, lads, and wait till it's light."
"Let's have a look at it first," cried a young, brisk voice in the crowd. "Maybe we could get it clear."
"There's no clearing that in the dark," said the foreman. "Try, if you like."
The young man sprang out on to the nearest point of the block, and leaped across actively, with lifted pole, to the middle. Reaching there, he bent down to see how the jam was fixed.
"Hallo!" came a hail from the rock. "It's easy enough. There's just one stick here holding it up—a cut of the axe'll clear it."
"Ho!" cried the men ashore. "And who's to cut it loose, out there in the dark and all?"
"Get a rope and haul it clear!" shouted the foreman.
"No use—can't be done that way."