The paddlers toiled harder than ever, but Sam paused a moment in his bailing. The light had strengthened; he had no trouble in making out the house and the big barns near by. As well as he could determine, the flood had not invaded the homestead, though it seemed to have reached the road in front of the place.
Lon and his crew tried to arrest the drift down-stream; observing which, the Shark spoke oracularly:
“Don’t try too hard to hold her on the mark! Keep her going, and see if we don’t strike an eddy pretty soon. My guess is we will.”
Step had little breath to spare, but he used some of it in speech.
“What’s that?” he gasped. “You ‘guess’? Thought math-mathematicians never guessed, but always were sure!”
Round whipped the Shark, bristling. “Mathematics nothing! This is just common sense. I’m counting on the chances of being right about an ice jam down below. If it’s damming up the water, you’ll find some of the surplus that can’t get through or over the obstruction forced back along the edges, while the freshet keeps on pouring more water down the middle. Seen how the water whirligigs in a bowl, haven’t you, when you turn on the faucet? Well, then?”
Step might have made answer, but Poke thumped him on the back.
“Cut it out!” the plump youth advised. “This is no debate; it’s a job!”
Step grunted, and fell to paddling again. The Shark shrugged his shoulders, and resumed his observation; thought it was his privilege, very speedily, to utter the words the most self-restrained of mortals can’t deny themselves sometimes:
“There! What did I tell you? We’ve hit an eddy!”