"I've got to go back to New York—it's a matter of business. It's all up with my vacation and the yachting cruise now,"—he looked at his watch,—"seven; I can get the eight-thirty accommodation to Hallsport, and that will give me time to catch the Eastern express."
"Hold on a minute and I'll get your trap from the stable—it's all ready for you."
"No, I'll get it myself—good-bye, Tave, I'm off."
"Good-bye, Champney."
"Champ's worried about something," he said to himself; he was making fast the boat. "I never see him look like that—I hope he hasn't got hooked in with any of those Wall Street sharks."
In a few minutes he heard the carriage wheels on the gravel in the driveway. He stopped on his way to the stable to listen.
"He's driving like Jehu," he muttered. He was still listening; he heard the frequent snorting of the horse, the rapid click of hoofs on the highroad—but he did not hear what was filling the driver's ears at that moment: the roar of an unseen cataract.
Champney Googe was realizing for the first time that he was in mid-stream; that he might not be able to breast the current; that the eddying water about him was in fact the whirlpool; that the rush of what he had deemed mere harmless rapids was the prelude to the thunderous fall of a cataract ahead.