“Sans-culottes,” suggested the colonel, who knew a little French.
“Kit-kats,” added George, who knows something of art, as the water rose steadily above our knees.
The treacherous bowlders tripped us up at every step, so that one or the other was constantly floundering, like a stranded porpoise in a frog-pond. But, thanks to our device, we reached the middle of the river without anything worse than a few bruises. Here we were fairly stopped. The water was waist-deep, and the current every moment threatened to lift us from our feet. How foolish we looked!
Advance or retreat? That was the question. One pointed up stream, another down; while, to aggravate the situation, rain began to patter around us. In two minutes the river was steaming. George, who is a great infant, suggested putting our hands in our pockets, to keep them warm, and our clothes in the river, to keep them dry.
“By Jove!” ejaculated the colonel, “the river is smoking.”
“Let us join the river,” said George, producing his cigar-case.
Putting our heads together over the colonel’s last match, thus forming an antique tripod of our bodies, we succeeded in getting a light; and for the first time, I venture to affirm, since its waters gushed from the mountains, incense ascended from the bosom of the Saco.
“I’m freezing!” stuttered George.
I was pushing forward, to cut the dilemma short, when the colonel interposed with,
“Stop; I want to tell you a story.”