"If a man would win, he must run fast as the hour-glass," observed M.
Radisson, poising his steering-pole. "And now, my brave lads," he began,
counting in quick, sharp words that rang with command, "keep
time--one--two--three! One--two--three!" And to each word the paddles
dipped with the speed of a fly-wheel's spokes.
"One--two--three! In and up and on! An you keep yourselves in hand,
men, you can win against the devil's own artillery! Speed to your
strokes, Godefroy," he urged.
And the canoe answered as a fine-strung racer to the spur. Shore-lines
blurred to a green streak. The frosty air met our faces in wind.
Gurgling waters curled from the prow in corrugated runnels. And we were
running a swift race with a tumult of waves, mounting the swell, dipping,
rising buoyant, forward in bounds, with a roar of the nearing rapids, and
spray dashing athwart in drifts. M. Radisson braced back. The prow
lifted, shot into mid-air, touched water again, and went whirling through
the mill-race that boiled below a waterfall. Once the canoe aimed
straight as an arrow for rocks in mid-current. M. Radisson's steel-shod
pole flashed in the sun. There was a quick thrust, answered by
Godefroy's counter-stroke at the stern; and the canoe grazed past the
rocks not a hair's-breadth off.
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