Piles
quivered, bent slowly outward--immediately, before the logs behind
them could stir, the pile-driver must do its work. Back and forth
darted the SPRITE and her sister-tug the SPRAY towing the pile-
drivers or the strings of piles. Under the frowning destruction
that a breath might loosen, the crews had to do their work. And if
ever that breath should come, there would be no chance for escape.
Crushed and buried, the men and their craft alike would be borne
with the breaking jam to an unknown grave in the Lake. Every man
knew it.
Darkness came. No one stopped for food. By the light of lanterns
the struggle went on, doubly terrifying in the mystery of night. By
day the men, practised in such matters, could at least judge of the
probabilities of a break. At night they had to work blindly,
uncertain at what moment the forces they could not see would cut
loose to overwhelm them.
Morning found no change in the situation. The water rose steadily;
the logs grew more and more restive; the defences weaker and more
inadequate. Orde brought out steaming pails of coffee which the men
gulped down between moments. No one thought of quitting. They were
afire with the flame of combat, and were set obstinately on winning
even in the face of odds.
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