ity.
The yellow demons rose in fury. Boo--oom! Boo--oom! The old river god
voiced his remorseless roar. The shrill screaming shriek of splitting
water on sharp stones cut into the boom. On! On! Into the yellow mist
that might have been smoke from hell streaked the boat, out upon a
curving billow, then down! down! upon an upheaving curl of frothy
water. The river, like a huge yellow mound, hurled its mass at Lane.
All was fog and steam and whistling spray and rumble.

At length the boat swept out into the open with a long plunge over the
last bit of roughened water. Here the current set in a curve to the
left, running off the rocky embankment into the natural channel of the
river. The dam was now only a couple of hundred yards distant. The
water was smooth and the drift had settled to a slow, ponderous,
sliding movement.

Lane pulled powerfully against the current and toward the right-hand
shore. That was closest. Besides, he remembered a long sluice at the
end of the dam where the water ran down as on a mill-race. If he could
row into that!

In front of Lane, extending some distance, was a broad unbroken
expanse of water leading to the dam. A tremendous roar issued from
that fall. The muddy spray and mist rose high. To drift over there
would be fatal. Logs and pieces of debris were kept rolling there for
hours before some vagary of current caught them and released them.

Lane calculated the distance with cunning eye. He had been an expert
boatman all his boyhood days. By the expenditure of his last bit of
reserve strength he could make the sluice. And he redoubled his
efforts to such an extent that the boat scarcely went down stream at
all, yet edged closer to the right hand shore. Lane saw a crowd of
people on the bridge below the dam. They were waving encouragement. He
saw men run down the steep river bank below the mill; and he knew they
were going to be ready to assist him if he were fortunate enough to
ride down the sluice into the shallow backwater on that side.

Rowing now with the most powerful of strokes, Lane kept the bow of the
boat upstream and a little to the right. Thus he gained more toward
the shore. But he must time the moment when it would be necessary to
turn sharply.

"I can--make--it," muttered Lane. He felt no excitement. The thing had
been given him to do. His strokes were swift, but there was no hurry.

Suddenly he felt a strange catching of breath in his lungs. He
coughed. Blood, warm a