"Haw—haw. Haw-w-w!"
The paddling ceased.
"Jee-Gawd!" a voice gasped, and then the paddle slapped into the water and Murdong could hear the water hissing under the bow of the canoe.
"Ha-a-a!" Murdong laughed.
Counting the paddle strokes, Murdong found that the man was making about fifty-four a minute—a rate that rapidly took the canoe out of hearing.
"The gentleman seemed to be alarmed," Murdong remarked, with surprise. "I wonder why?"
Murdong accepted his predicament with philosophical alertness. The sensation of being carried into the jaws of doom was novel, entertaining, but of questionable pleasure. Murdong could not be certain that he was really being rushed along by the mid-river current, except for the wifts of fog dragging past his countenance. The pressure of the fog was the only physical fact of motion apparent, and it was a slight one, which he could see with his eyes when he shot the light of his electric flash into the night.
"So this is the lower river," Murdong mused. "Pirates and silences, gloom of fogs, and the rush to doom—ugh!"
Murdong was afraid the boat might be sucked into a caving bank somewhere, or strike a snag in a crossing shoals, or be run down by a steamer. He did not
