Then he swung out past the Tiger's Tail into the open
river just above the rapids. Fortunately he was going along headforemost
this time, and Uncle Ed, who had just arrived, panting and breathless,
from running, shouted to him to keep his head and steer for a narrow
opening between two jutting boulders. I don't know whether Dutchy did any
steering or not, but the raft shot straight through the opening, and was
lost in a cloud of spray. In a moment he reappeared below the rapids,
paddling like mad for a neck of land on the Pennsylvania side of the
river.
Dutchy would never own up that he was afraid. He never told a lie under
other circumstances, but when it came to a question of courage he had the
habit of stretching facts to the very limit. Even in this case, he said
that he started out with the idea of shooting the rapids, and if we hadn't
flustered him so, he would not have bumped into the bank and turned about
so many times. Dutchy was a very glib talker. He nearly persuaded us that
it was all done intentionally, and his thrilling account of the wild dash
between the rocks and through the shower of spray stirred us up so that we
all had to try the trick too.
Shooting the Rapids.
The next day, while Uncle Ed was taking a nap, we stole off to the upper
end of Lake Placid, each one towing a plank.
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