The other logs were smaller and easier launched, but they did not gain the momentum of the first, which plunged furiously down hill and flung up its thin end as it leaped over the edge of the dip.
"She's surely hitting up the pace," one of the men remarked.
"The mud is greasing the skids," said Festing, who began to run down the incline when the man below shouted.
Two of the others followed, but stopped at the top of the last pitch, which ended in the bank of gravel close above the track.

The logs, spread out at intervals, rushed down, rising and falling on the uneven skids.

Showers of mud and water marked their progress; there was a crash as a smashed skid was flung into the air, and a roar when the leading mass plowed through fallen gravel.

Stones shot out and Festing saw smoke and sparks, but the logs rushed on, and he wondered anxiously whether the bank would stop them.

So far, it had served its purpose, but he was doubtful about it now, and hoped there was nobody on the track beneath.
The big log reached the bank and ran half way up the short incline before its speed slackened much.