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Redjacket stops his manoeuvres now, gives a bold glance towards the bridge, then, with a shrill whistle, fixes the point of his pole in the wood; and, stepping back a little, with his hands on his hips, begins, mockingly, to "say his prayers." "There! Ever see such a lad?" Redjacket's partisans look round proudly at the rest. "Look at him look!"
"Tra la la la!" sings Redjacket, undismayed. And he takes a couple of dance-steps on his log. "He's no greenhorn, anyhow," the crowd agree. And some of them glance at Olof to see how he takes their praise of his rival. But Olof does not seem to heed; he is watching the water with a certain impatience no more. Just then Redjacket's log strikes a sunken rock, and is thrust backward.
He plies his pole to the right, and the log swerves a little to the opposite side the first obstacle is safely passed, though it almost cost him his footing again. "Aha! He's on his guard this time! Maybe he'll do it, after all!" "Well, he said you'd know him again!" Redjacket's party are recovering confidence. The log hurries on, the man balancing carefully with his pole.
"Wouldn't it be as well to send a couple of baulks down first, for whirlpools and hidden rocks?" suggests Olof. "Ho, yes!" cries his rival. "And get a surveyor to mark it all out neatly on a chart a fine idea!" Redjacket's party burst out laughing at this, and all looked at Olof. He flushes slightly, but says nothing, only bites his lip and turns away to study the river once more.
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