The figure had apparently but room on which to stand.
George stood up and surveyed the prospect.
"Well," he said, in his slow drawl, "if that's lunch, I don't think we
can hit it."
The river was racing at mad speed. Great rocks caught the current,
formed whirlpools and eddies, turned us round again and again, and sent
us spinning on, drenched with spray. That part of the river the boatmen
knew--at least by reputation. It had been the scene, a few years before,
of the tragic drowning of a man they knew. For now we were getting down
into the better known portions.
[Illustration: _The beginning of the canon, Middle Fork of the Flathead
River_]
To check a boat in such a current seemed impossible. But we needed food.
We were tired and cold, and we had a long afternoon's work still before
us.
At last, by tremendous effort and great skill, the boatmen made the
landing. It was the college boy who had clambered down the cliff and
brought the lunch, and it was he who caught the boats as they were
whirling by. We had to cling like limpets--whatever a limpet is--to the
edge, and work our way over to where there was room to sit down.
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