There were rumours of unusual doings abroad—and folk had come out to see.
"Next Sunday afternoon at four," the news had run, "a match at
Kohiseva—shooting the rapids."
And folk pricked up their ears aghast—down the rapids at Kohiseva on a stick of timber; it was more than any had ever ventured yet. True, there was the man some ten years back—a foolhardy fellow from a neighbouring district—who had tried the lower reach, which was less dangerous by far, but he was dead when he came ashore.
Anyhow, it was to be done now. There were two gangs of lumbermen in the place, and, as it chanced, men of unusual daring and skill in each. A dispute had arisen between the headmen as to the merits of their respective parties, and the only way to settle it was by a match, the headman of the losing gang to stand treat all round.
All Kohiseva was afoot, and many had come in from the villages round.
It was no light thing to try the rapids there.
The sight-seers on the bridge moved this way and that, eagerly discussing the event.
"'Tis a mad idea, for sure."
"Ay, they'll have been drunk the time, no doubt."
"There's no man in his sober senses would ever try it."
"But which of them is it?" asked one. "Who's going down?"