"Well," said he at last, "we better make camp. We'll be down in the
jam pretty soon."
The cookees abandoned the sweeps in favour of more pike-poles. By
pushing and pulling on the logs floating about them, they managed to
work the wanigan in close to the bank.
Charlie, a coil of rope in his hand, surveyed the prospects.
"We'll stop right down there by that little knoll," he announced.
He leaped ashore, made a turn around a tree, and braced himself to
snub the boat, but unfortunately he had not taken into consideration
the "two ton" of water soaked up by the cargo. The weight of the
craft relentlessly dragged him forward. In vain he braced and
struggled. The end of the rope came to the tree; he clung for a
moment, then let go, and ran around the tree to catch it before it
should slip into the water.
By this time the wanigan had caught the stronger current at the bend
and was gathering momentum. Charlie tried to snub at a sapling, and
broke the sapling; on a stub, and uprooted the stub. Down the banks
and through the brush he tore at the end of his rope, clinging
desperately, trying at every solid tree to stop the career of his
runaway, but in every instance being forced by the danger of jamming
his hands to let go.
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