"Shooting rapids is great sport," proclaimed George.
They drifted through several little rifts, and then stopped at the head of the narrow chute that had been such a stumbling-block on the way up. Looked at from above, this long, narrow channel, with several S curves, was a fascinating bit of water for a canoeist. It tempted Ken to shoot it even with the boat. But he remembered the four-foot waves at the bottom, and besides he resented the importunity of the spirit of daring so early in the game. Risk, and perhaps peril, would come soon enough. So he decided to walk along the shore and float the boat through with a rope.
The thing looked a good deal easier than it turned out to be. Half-way through, at the narrowest point and most abrupt curve, Pepe misunderstood directions and pulled hard on the bow-rope, when he should have let it slack.
The boat swung in, nearly smashing Ken against the bank, and the sweeping current began to swell dangerously near the gunwale.
"Let go! Let go!" yelled Ken. "George, make him let go!"
But George, who was trying to get the rope out of Pepe's muscular hands, suddenly made a dive for his rifle.
"Deer! deer!" he cried, hurriedly throwing a shell into the chamber. He shot downstream, and Ken, looking that way, saw several deer under the firs on a rocky flat. George shot three more times, and the bullets went "spinging" into the trees. The deer bounded out of sight.
When Ken turned again, water was roaring into the boat. He was being pressed harder into the bank, and he saw disaster ahead.
"Loosen the rope--tell him, George," yelled Ken.
Pepe only pulled the harder.