“Back! back! Don't follow me, on your lives! Keep 'em back, Tim!”
The swift water boiled from under the booms. BANG! SMASH! BANG! crashed the logs, a mile upstream, but plainly audible above the waters and the wind. Thorpe knelt, dropped the cold-shut through on either side of the weakened link, and prepared to close it with his hammer. He intended further to strengthen the connection with the other chain.
“Lem' me hold her for you. You can't close her alone,” said an unexpected voice next his elbow.
Thorpe looked up in surprise and anger. Over him leaned Big Junko. The men had been unable to prevent his following. Animated by the blind devotion of the animal for its master, and further stung to action by that master's doubt of his fidelity, the giant had followed to assist as he might.
“You damned fool,” cried Thorpe exasperated, then held the hammer to him, “strike while I keep the chain underneath,” he commanded.
Big Junko leaned forward to obey, kicking strongly his caulks into the barked surface of the boom log. The spikes, worn blunt by the river work already accomplished, failed to grip. Big Junko slipped, caught himself by an effort, overbalanced in the other direction, and fell into the stream. The current at once swept him away, but fortunately in such a direction that he was enabled to catch the slanting end of a “dead head” log whose lower end was jammed in the crib. The dead head was slippery, the current strong; Big Junko had no crevice by which to assure his hold. In another moment he would be torn away.
“Let go and swim!” shouted Thorpe.
“I can't swim,” replied Junko in so low a voice as to be scarcely audible.
For a moment Thorpe stared at him.
“Tell Carrie,” said Big Junko.