Marsh was young and strong, and had not swallowed a serious amount of water. For ten minutes he lay under the leafless willows, unconsciously struggling for his breath. Then he sat up, swayed dizzily, and screamed suddenly with the pain in his arm. It was that excruciating pain, burning and stabbing from wrist to shoulder, that brought him fully to his senses. He staggered to his feet and gazed up and down the bright course of the river. He shivered with cold and weakness.
"Arm smashed!" he cried, almost sobbing. "Outfit lost! My God!"
He sank again, easing himself to the ground by the willows with his left hand. With the bandanna handkerchief from his neck, a piece of cord from his pocket, a few handfuls of dry grass, and a thin slip of driftwood he made a rough support for his arm and fastened it securely to his side. This took him fully half an hour, and caused him intense pain and severe nervous fatigue. He was shaking and gasping by the time it was done—yes, and on the verge of tears.
"The pole broke," he whimpered. "And it was a good pole—the best I could find. It never happened before."
He got to his feet again, and started painfully along the shore. The bank was steep, with only a narrow fringe of rocky beach. In some places the overhanging thicket forced him to wade knee-deep in the water. He stumbled along, groaning with the pain of his arm. His cheeks were bloodless under the tan, and there was a haunted look in his eyes. Fear still gripped him—not the violent, sickening horror that he had felt while struggling in the eddies of the rapid, but a quiet, vague fear that he could give no name to.
Marsh rested for a few minutes on a little grassy flat at the mouth of the Teakettle. By this time the sun, and his own exertions, had warmed him a little; but still the shadow of fear was in his eyes. "It was a strong pole," he kept muttering. "I cut it myself—and tested it. How did it come to break!"
He found the footing along the smaller stream even more difficult than that which he had left behind. Both banks were flanked with impenetrable snarls of underbrush that overhung the gliding current, and so he was forced to wade, knee-deep. The bottom was rocky and slippery, and the swift water dragged mercilessly at his weary legs. He advanced slowly, painfully, a pitiful figure. Sometimes he stumbled, almost fell, and jarred his shattered arm in his recovery. Sometimes he groaned. Sometimes he cursed aloud. "My luck's gone!" he cried. "The pole broke on me—and it was a good pole. Never broke a pole before! Never got spilled before! Something damn queer about that!" He was forced to rest frequently, sitting on a stranded log or flat rock, or perhaps standing and clinging to the alders and willows. His arm ached numbly now. Now showers of silver sparks streamed across his vision, and again he saw little blue and red dots dancing in the sunlight.
