As the scow slued into the oily pause above the rapids, into the black and bubbling smoothness, overhung by drifting vapors, through which the soul-shaking reverberation bellowed, ’Polyte clad now in overalls and mackinaw — cursed the big boat with exceeding bitterness. “If I had a canoe, me — if I had a lumber-jack’s bateau — I make it, sure! But wit dis —” The girl, in convict garb, broke his thought. “Remember, I’m goin’ with you to the end! To the very end, no matter what happens!” He deigned no answer save a growl, and turned from her to stare at the sickening downward slide of foam ahead, dim in the murk. Came a moment’s silence while the scow, drifting, turning, neared the slant where the dark waters, seeming to stretch out as though elastic, ran forward to the final plunge. “One kiss, ’Polyte, an’ then —” “Va chez l’ diab’!
