He covered his face with his hands and swung despairingly to and fro, crying, “We’re loss—we’re loss!”
The boat had turned around and was being swept along stern foremost by the swift current. Dawson saw this, but the peril of their position was not yet clear to him.
“Pardon me,” he said quietly, “but I don’t understand just what has happened.”
“Happened!” cried Eben. “Happened? Why, your talkin’ done it. I was listenin’ to you, an’ an oar got caught in some brushwood an’ twisted outen my hand. I jumped fer it, lettin’ go o’ the other. Now they’re both gone.”
“But as far as I can see the only difference is we’re going in another direction and a great deal faster,” said the rector calmly.
“We’re just goin’ right fer the canal dam,” groaned the old man. “It’s only four mile straight away, an’ ’hen the river’s like this here, it’s a reg’lar Niagry.”
“Hum!” Dawson glanced to his left anxiously. The mountains were now lost in the darkness. He looked to the right to see the lights of the village already far up the river.
“Eben,” he asked, “is there no way we can steer her into the shore?”
“All the rudders in the worl’, ef we had ’em, wouldn’t git us outen this current.”
“Is there no island we are likely to run into?”