A sharp jerk informed him that the boat, swerving slack into the painter, had been straightened out by the swifter-moving pine tree.
A piece of stray drift-ice thumped against the boat and grated along its side.

Well, the following jam hadn't caught him yet, was his thought, as he closed his eyes and slept again.
It was bright day when next he opened his eyes.

The sun showed it to be midday.

A glance around at the far-away banks, and he knew that he was on the mighty Yukon.

Sixty Mile could not be far away.