Walton had very black hair, and as he clung fast to his canoe his black head looked like a crow on the end of a log.

Sometimes he would be under so long that we thought he must be lost, when up he would come again still clinging manfully.
McMahon and I threw everything out of the big canoe and pushed out after him.

I told Mc.

to kneel down so I could see over him to keep the craft off the rocks, and by changing his paddle from side to side as ordered, he enabled me to make quick moves and avoid being dashed to pieces.

We fairly flew, the boys said, but I stood up in the stern and kept it clear of danger till we ran into a clear piece of river and overtook Walton clinging to the overturned boat; McMahon seized the boat and I paddled all to shore, but Walton was nearly dead and could hardly keep his grasp on the canoe.