The labor of making things comfortable for the night did not prevent Lucky Broad from discussing at some length the exciting incidents of the afternoon.

“I hope her Highness got an eyeful of me shooting the chutes,” said he, “for that’s my farewell trip—­positively my last appearance in any water act.”

“Mighty decent of you and the Kid to volunteer,” Pierce told him.

“It sure was,” the other agreed.  “Takes a coupla daredevils like him and me to pull that kind of a bonehead play.”

Mr. Bridges, who was within hearing distance, shrugged with an assumption of careless indifference.  “It takes more ’n a little lather to scare me,” he boasted.  “I’m a divin’ Venus and I ate it up!”

“You—­liar!” Lucky cried.  “Why, every quill on your head was standing up and you look five years older ’n you did this morning!  You heard the undertaker shaking out your shroud all the way down--you know you did.  I never seen a man as scared as you was!” When Bridges accepted the accusation with a grin, the speaker ran on, in a less resentful tone:  “I don’t mind saying it hardened my arteries some.  It made me think of all my sins and follies; I remembered all the bets I’d overlooked.  Recollect that pioneer we laid for four hundred at Dyea?”

The Kid nodded.  “Sure!  I remember him easy.  He squawked so loud you gave him back half of it.”

“And all the time he had a thousand sewed in his shirt!  Wasted opportunities like that lay heavy on a man when he hears the angels tuning up and smells the calla-lilies.”

Bridges agreed in all seriousness, and went on to say:  “Lucky, if I gotta get out of this country the way I got into it I’m going to let you bury me in Dawson.  Look at them rapids ahead of us!  Why, the guy that laid out this river was off his nut!”

“You’re talking sense.  We’ll stick till they build a railroad up to us or else we’ll let ’em pin a pair of soft-pine overcoats on the two of us.  The idea of us calling ourselves wiseacres and doing circus stunts like this!  We’re suckers!  We’ll be working in the mines next.  I bet I’ll see you poulticed onto a pick-handle before we get out.”

“Not me!  I’ve raised my last blister, and if ever I get another callous it’ll be from layin’ abed.  Safe and sane, that’s me.  I—­”

Bridges’ words were cut short by an exclamation from Doret, who had approached, in company with the Countess Courteau.

“Hallo!” the French Canadian broke in.  “Dere comes dat beeg barge.”

Out from the lower end of the gorge the Kirby craft had emerged; it was plunging along with explosions of white foam from beneath its bow and with its sweeps rising and falling rhythmically.  To Doret’s companions it seemed that the scow had come through handily enough and was in little further danger, but ’Poleon, for some reason or other, had blazed into excitement.  Down the bank he leaped; then he raised his voice and sent forth a loud cry.  It was wasted effort, for it failed to carry.  Nevertheless, the warning note in his voice brought his hearers running after him.