We were on a big slant and I could do nothing with my oar. We plunged down into the river and a swift current was bearing us straight to the precipitous wall as fast, it seemed to me, as an arrow from the bow.
I had not time to use my oar, so drew it in and picked up a long pole that we had for just such an emergency. Tom sprang back to help Jim at the steering oar, and their combined strength made the boat swerve. How they pulled! Double their ordinary strength. It told though.
I braced my feet against the sideboards, near the bow, and as we came slanting to the cliff I shoved against the rock with all my weight and might.
The water piled up against the side bow and I swerved it clear by a couple of feet, and with a mighty wrench at the steering oar, we swept by the precipice and out into the river again.
"A pretty close call," shouted Jim and Tom in chorus, and I agreed.
There was no time for rest and congratulation. The rapids humped themselves all around us, and we held a straight course amongst them. In a few minutes a greater peril than the one we had just passed through faced us.
We could see a line of foam that seemed to extend across the river. An anxious look came into Jim's face. It was the first time that I had seen him look worried.
It was a quarter of a mile away. There was no place for us to stop, nothing but the precipitous cliffs on either side. We had to decide on a course and quickly.
"Through the center," yelled Jim. "It's our only chance."
Then I saw a split boulder in mid-stream and the water passing through it. It did not look more than eight feet wide though it may have been ten.