e first white chip leapt up. More chips
followed in quick succession until they whirled in one continuous
shower, and the razor-edged steel losing definite form became a
confused circling brightness, in the center of which two supple figures
swayed and heaved. The red light smiting the faces of the two showed
great drops of sweat, the swell of toil-hardened muscles on the corded
arms, and the rise of each straining chest. There was not a clash nor
a falter, but, flash after flash, the blades came down chunking into
the ever-widening notch. Summers had seen sword play in Montreal
armories, and had heard the ax clang often on the side of Western firs,
but--for Thurston was fighting to stave off ruin--this grim struggle in
the face of a desperate risk surpassed any remembered exhibition of
fencers' skill with the steel. The trunk was bending visibly beneath
the hewers, the river frothed more at their feet, and the giant logs
were rolling, creeping, shocking close behind, ready to plunge forward
when the partly severed trunk should yield.

Thurston felt as if his lungs were bursting, his heart throbbed
painfully, and something drummed deafeningly inside his head. His
vision grew hazy, and he could scarcely see the widening gap in the
rough bark into which the trenchant steel cut. It was evident that the
steadily increasing jam would rub the bridge piers out of existence
long before any two men could hew half way through the great trunk,
but, fortunately, the log was now bending like a fully-drawn bow, and
the pressure would burst it asunder when a little more of its
circumference had been chopped into. So, choking and blinded with
perspiration, Geoffrey smote on mechanically, until the man from
Mattawa said, "She's about busted."

Just then there was a clamor from the watchers on the piers. Men
shouted, "Come back." "Whole jam's starting!" "King log's yielding
now!" "Jump for your lives before the wreckage breaks away with you!"

Mattawa Tom leapt shorewards from moving log to log, but for a few
moments Thurston, who scarcely noticed his absence, chopped on alone.
Filled with the lust of conflict, he remembered only that it was
necessary to make sure of victory before he relaxed an effort. Thrice
more in succession he whirled the heavy ax above his head, while, with
a sharp snapping of fibers, the fir trunk yielded beneath his feet.
Flinging his ax into the river he stood erect, breathless, a moment too
late.