"But, listen.
Suppose the upper jam breaks and the lower jam holds?"
He looked at her steadily till he grasped the full import. His face
flushed, and with a quick intake of the breath he straightened up and
threw back his head. He made a sweeping gesture as though to include
the island. "Then you, and I, the tent, the boats, cabins, trees,
everything, and La Bijou! Pouf! and all are gone, to the devil!"
Frona shook her head. "It is too bad."
"Bad? Pardon. Magnificent!"
"No, no, baron; not that. But that you are not an Anglo-Saxon. The
race could well be proud of you."
"And you, Frona, would you not glorify the French!"
"At it again, eh? Throwing bouquets at yourselves." Del Bishop
grinned at them, and made to depart as quickly as he had come. "But
twist yourselves. Some sick men in a cabin down here. Got to get 'em
out. You're needed. And don't be all day about it," he shouted over
his shoulder as he disappeared among the trees.
The river was still rising, though more slowly, and as soon as they
left the high ground they were splashing along ankle-deep in the water.
Winding in and out among the trees, they came upon a boat which had
been hauled out the previous fall. And three _chechaquos_, who had
managed to get into the country thus far over the ice, had piled
themselves into it, also their tent, sleds, and dogs.
Pages:
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269