As we made the change we again observed
the boat, bounding through the next rapid, whirling on the tops of the
waves as though in the hands of a superhuman juggler. I managed to
overtake her in a whirlpool below the rapid, and came to shore for her
captain. He was nearly exhausted with his efforts; still he insisted
on continuing. A few miles below we saw some ducks, and shot at them
with a revolver. But the ducks flew disdainfully away, and landed in
the pool below.
By 4.30 P.M. we were twelve miles below the junction, a very good
day's run considering the kind of water we were travelling on, and the
amount of time we spent on the shore. We had just run our twelfth
rapid, and were turning the boats around, when we saw a man back from
the shore working over a pile of boxes which he had covered with a
piece of canvas. A boat was tied to the water's edge. We called to
him, and he answered, but did not seem nearly as much interested in
seeing companion travellers as we were, and proceeded with his work.
We landed, and, to save time, introduced ourselves, as there seemed to
be a certain aloofness in his manner. He gave the name of Smith--with
some hesitation, we thought.
Smith was about medium size, but looked tough and wiry; he had a sandy
complexion, with light hair and mustache. He had lost one eye, the
other was that light gray colour that is usually associated with
indomitable nerve. He had a shrewd, rather humorous expression, and
gave one the impression of being very capable.
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