A BATTLE WITH A TORRENT 147 



face, for the cut bank here offered no chance for 

 a grip or a footing. 



Each time that I sank into the trough of the 

 billows all view was hidden; then, as I rose upon 

 a crest, I saw my gun bearer running along the 

 bank. Finally I passed out of the billows into 

 the choppy waves, which splashed into my face 

 and choked me. 



The heavy shoes and belt of cartridges seemed 

 to be doing their best to drag me down to a 

 watery grave. Trees and bushes shot past like 

 a moving panorama. 



By this time the distance to the drift pile 

 had been reduced to a hundred yards, and as I 

 gazed toward it I saw, hanging over the water, 

 the top of a small tree from the roots of which 

 the water had washed the earth, causing it to 

 lean. This seemed my only hope. 



By great exertion I swam to a point where 

 the rapid current would carry me within its 

 reach. Down, down, down, nearer and nearer 

 to death or salvation I drifted. 



As I drew near the limb I tried to swim with 

 the stream, but once more the coat flopped 

 about my arms and I was able to work my 

 hands just enough to keep afloat. Finally, 



