Armed
with sharp axes two men prepared to cut the mooring lines on a sign
from the Rough Red. They watched his upraised hand. When it should
descend, their axes must fall.
"Look out," the Rough Red warned Orde, who was methodically tying
the last cumbersome knot, "she's getting ready!"
Orde folded the knot over without reply. Up stream the jam creaked,
groaned, settled deliberately forward, cutting a clump of piles like
straw.
"She's coming!" cried the Rough Red.
"Give me every second you can," said Orde, without looking up. He
was just making the last turns.
The mass toppled slowly, fell into the swift current, and leaped
with a roar. The Rough Red watched with cat-like attention.
"Jump!" he cried at last, and his right arm descended.
With the shout and the motion several things happened
simultaneously. Orde leaped blindly for the rail, where he was
seized and dragged aboard by the Rough Red; the axes fell, Marsh
whirled over the wheel, Harvey threw open his throttle. The tug
sprang from its leash like a hound. And behind the barrier the
logs, tossing and tumbling, the white spray flying before their
onslaught, beat in vain against the barrier, like raging wild beasts
whose prey has escaped.
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