But the boat was
perilously near the ice-gorge, which growled and wrestled and
over-topped it a bare dozen feet away.
"Come! Get out of this, you fools!" Jacob Welse shouted as he went
past.
Del Bishop had told them to "get the hell out of there" when he ran by,
and they could not understand. One of them turned up an unheeding,
terrified face. Another lay prone and listless across the thwarts as
though bereft of strength; while the third, with the face of a clerk,
rocked back and forth and moaned monotonously, "My God! My God!"
The baron stopped long enough to shake him. "Damn!" he cried. "Your
legs, man!--not God, but your legs! Ah! ah!--hump yourself! Yes,
hump! Get a move on! Twist! Get back from the bank! The woods, the
trees, anywhere!"
He tried to drag him out, but the man struck at him savagely and held
back.
"How one collects the vernacular," he confided proudly to Frona as they
hurried on. "Twist! It is a strong word, and suitable."
"You should travel with Del," she laughed. "He'd increase your stock
in no time."
"You don't say so."
"Yes, but I do."
"Ah! Your idioms. I shall never learn." And he shook his head
despairingly with both his hands.
They came out in a clearing, where a cabin stood close to the river.
On its flat earth-roof two sick men, swathed in blankets, were lying,
while Bishop, Corliss, and Jacob Welse were splashing about inside the
cabin after the clothes-bags and general outfit.
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