Bob strode to the gate, and after some heaving and hauling succeeded in throwing water into the flume.
"I wanted to see her go," he explained.
"Now if you want some real fun," said Welton, gazing after the foaming advance wave as it ripped its way down the chute. "You make you a sort of three-cornered boat just to fit the angle of the flume; and then you lie down in it and go to Sycamore Flats, in about six minutes more or less."
"You mean to say that's done?" cried Bob.
"Often. It only means knocking together a plank or so."
"Doesn't the lumber ever jump the flume?"
"Once in a great while."
"Suppose the boat should do it?"
"Then," said Welton drily, "it's probable you'd have to begin learning to tune a harp."
"Not for mine," said Bob with fervour. "Any time I yearn for Sycamore Flats real hard, I'll go by hand."