“She’ll be a fine quality o’ kindlin’ wood in another 64 hour, the rate she’s travelling” commented the other with mild interest. But the young giant in the stern was more concerned. He was sorry that old Joe should lose his boat.
“Darned old fool, not to tie her!” he growled. “Ef ’twarn’t fer this wind ag’in’ us, we could ketch it an’ tow it ashore fer him. But we can’t.”
“Wouldn’t stop fer it ef ’t had a bag o’ gold into it!” grunted the other, slogging on his paddle with renewed vigour as he looked forward to the camp-ground still so far ahead. He was hungry and tired, and couldn’t even take time to fill his pipe in that hurly-burly.
Meanwhile the bateau had swept down swiftly, and passed them at a distance of not more than a hundred yards. It was with a qualm of regret that Chris saw it go by, to be ground to splinters in the yelling madness of the Devil’s Trough. After it had passed, riding the waves bravely like the good old craft that it was, he glanced back after it in half-humorous regret. As he did so, his eye caught something that made him look again. A little furry brown creature was peering over the gunwale at the canoe. The gunwale tipped toward him at that instant and he saw it distinctly. Yes, it was a woodchuck, and no mistake. And it seemed to be making mute appeal to him to come and save it from a dreadful doom. Chris hesitated, looking doubtfully at his companion’s heaving back. It 65 looked an unresponsive back. Moreover, Chris felt half ashamed of his own compassionate impulse. He knew that he was considered foolishly softhearted about animals and children and women, though few men cared to express such an opinion to him too frankly. He suspected that, in the present case, his companion would have a right to complain of him. But he could not stand the idea of letting the little beast––which had so evidently appealed to him for succour––go down into the horrors of the Devil’s Trough. His mind was made up.
“Mart,” he exclaimed, “I’m goin’ to turn. There’s somethin’ aboard that there old bateau that I want.” And he put the head of the canoe straight up into a big wave.
“The devil there is!” cried the other, taking in his paddle and looking around in angry protest. “What is it?”
“Paddle, ye loon! Paddle hard!” ordered Chris. “I’ll tell ye when we git her ’round.”
Thus commanded, and the man at the stern paddle being supreme in a canoe, the backwoodsman obeyed with a curse. It was no time to argue, while getting the canoe around in that sea. But as soon as the canoe was turned, and scudding with frightened swoops down the waves in pursuit of the fleeing bateau, he saw, and understood.
“Confound you, Chris McKeen, if ’tain’t nothin’ 66 but a blankety blank woodchuck!” he shouted, making as if to back water and try to turn the canoe again.
Chris’s grey eyes hardened. “Look a’ here, Mart Babcock,” he shouted, “don’t you be up to no foolishness. Ye kin cuss all ye like––but either paddle as I tell ye or take in yer paddle an’ set quiet. I’m runnin’ this ’ere canoe.”