It washed about their knees as the frail craft plunged, and Thirlwell wondered anxiously how much she would carry without capsizing.

The rocks and pines ashore now streamed past, blurred and indistinct, but he had seldom an opportunity for glancing at the bank.

He must look ahead, and every now and then his view was shortened by a ridge of tumbling foam.
Somehow she came through, half-swamped, and swung down the savage fan-shaped rush that spread in white turmoil across the tail-pool.
Paddling hard, they drove her out of the eddies that circled along the bank, and finding a slack, ran her on to a shingle beach.

Then they sat down, wet and exhausted, to recover breath.

Driscoll helped to pull the canoe up, but when Thirlwell presently looked about he could not see him.
"He's gone," Scott remarked dryly.