The movement accelerated each instant, as the music of the play
hastens to the climax. Wood fibres smashed. The whole mass seemed
to sink down and forward into a boiling of waters. Then, with a
creak and a groan, the jam moved, hesitated, moved again; finally,
urged by the frantic river, went out in a majestic crashing and
battering of logs.
At the first movement Newmark expected the rivermen to make their
escape. Instead, they stood at attention, their peavies poised,
watching cat-eyed the symptoms of the break. Twice or thrice
several of the men, observing something not evident to Newmark's
unpractised eye, ran forward, used their peavies vigorously for a
moment or so, and stood back to watch the result. Only at the very
last, when it would seem that some of them must surely he caught,
did the river-jacks, using their peavy-shafts as balancing poles,
zigzag calmly to shore across the plunging logs. Newmark seemed
impressed.
"That was a close shave," said he to the last man ashore.
"What?" inquired the riverman. "Didn't see it. Somebody fall
down?"
"Why, no," explained Newmark; "getting in off those logs without
getting caught."
"Oh!" said the man indifferently, turning away.
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