Devil's Ford - Bret Harte (reading books for 4 year olds .TXT) 📗

and that he must inevitably be carried away with the tossing debris. But this consideration did not seem to affect him; the last blow was struck, and as the freed timbers rolled on, over and over, he boldly plunged into the flood. Christie gave a little cry—her heart had bounded with him; it seemed as if his plunge had splashed the water in her eyes. He did not come to the surface until he had passed the point below where her father stood, and then struggling feebly, as if stunned or disabled by a blow. It seemed to her that he was trying to approach the side of the river where she was. Would he do it? Could she help him? She was alone; he was hidden from the view of the men on the point, and no succor could come from them. There was a fringe of alder nearly opposite their cabin that almost overhung the stream. She ran to it, clutched it with a frantic hand, and, leaning over the boiling water, uttered for the first time his name:

“George!”

As if called to the surface by the magic of her voice, he rose a few yards from her in mid-current, and turned his fading eyes towards the bank. In another moment he would have been swept beyond her reach, but with a supreme effort he turned on one side; the current, striking him sideways, threw him towards the bank, and she caught him by his sleeve. For an instant it seemed as if she would be dragged down with him. For one dangerous moment she did not care, and almost yielded to the spell; but as the rush of water pressed him against the bank, she recovered herself, and managed to lift him beyond its reach. And then she sat down, half-fainting, with his white face and damp curls upon her breast.

“George, darling, speak to me! Only one word! Tell me, have I saved you?”

His eyes opened. A faint twinkle of the old days came to them—a boyish smile played upon his lips.

“For yourself—or Jessie?”

She looked around her with a little frightened air. They were alone. There was but one way of sealing those mischievous lips, and she found it!

 

“That’s what I allus said, gentlemen,” lazily remarked Whiskey Dick, a few weeks later, leaning back against the bar, with his glass in his hand. “‘George,’ sez I, ‘it ain’t what you SAY to a fash’nable, high-toned young lady; it’s what you DOES ez makes or breaks you.’ And that’s what I sez gin’rally o’ things in the Ford. It ain’t what Carr and you boys allows to do; it’s the gin’ral average o’ things ez IS done that gives tone to the hull, and hez brought this yer new luck to you all!”

 

End of this Project Gutenberg etext of Devil’s Ford, by Bret Harte