Orde and his men now returned to the jam where, on the pile-driver,
the tugs, and the booms, they set methodically to strengthening the
defences as well as they were able.
"She's holding strong and dandy," said Orde to Tom North, examining
critically the clumps of piles. "That channel helps a lot in more
ways than one. It takes an awful lot of water out of the river. As
long as those fellows keep the logs moving, I really believe we're
all right."
But shortly the water began to rise again, this time fairly by
leaps. In immediate response the jam increased its pressure. For
the hundredth time the frail wooden defences opposed to millions of
pounds were tested to the very extreme of their endurance. The
clumps of piles sagged outward; the network of chains and cables
tightened and tightened again, drawing ever nearer the snapping
point. Suddenly, almost without warning, the situation had become
desperate.
And for the first time Orde completely lost his poise and became
fluently profane. He shook his fist against the menacing logs; he
apostrophised the river, the high water, the jam, the deserters,
Newmark and his illness, ending finally in a general anathema
against any and all streams, logs, and floods.
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