Tom North, at the winch that operated the arm of the swing, however,
retained his presence of mind. At the first sag outward of the boom
piles he set in operation the machinery that closed the gate.
Clumsy and slow as was his mechanism, he nevertheless succeeded in
getting the long arm started. The logs, rushing in back of it,
hurried it shut. Immediately they jammed again, and heaped up in a
formidable tangle behind the barrier. Tom North, his little black
pipe between his teeth, stood calm, the lever of his winch in his
hand. A short three feet from the spot on which he stood, the first
saw log of the many that might have overwhelmed him thrust forward
its ugly head. The wash of the water lifted the huge pile-driver
bodily and deposited it with a crash half on the bank and half in
the water.
Instantly after the first break Orde had commenced running out over
the booms from the shore.
"Good boy, Tom!" he shot at North as he passed.
Across the breast of the jam he hurried, and to the other bank where
the pile-driver lay. The crew had recovered from their panic, and
were ashore gazing curiously underneath the scow. Captain Aspinwall
examined the supports of the derrick on deck.
"That was lucky," said Orde briefly to Aspinwall.
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