CHAPTER XVIII.
FACING GRIM DEATH.
Of what occurred then, neither boy had in the retrospect any clear idea. Over and over they were rolled in a vortex of white water, each clinging for dear life to his log. Then came a plunge into a breathless abyss and, after what appeared to be an eternity of submergence, they rose to the surface, half-choked and blinded by their immersion. There followed a fierce fight with the boiling, foaming water at the base of the fall, and then both boys found themselves almost side by side in the quieter outer eddies of the maelstrom.
“Are—you—hurt?” gasped out Harry.
“N-n-n-n-no. Are—you?”
“Not a bit. But—what—sort—of—a—place is—this—anyhow?”
“Don’t know. It’s—awful—wet—though.”
In spite of his peril, Harry could not help smiling at Persimmons’ whimsical rejoinder.
Dashing the water from his eyes he resumed swimming, pushing the log before him, for in some mysterious way throughout the awful buffeting they had received in their tumble through the water, both boys had retained their hold on their logs.