The strength of the current carried us toward
the off bank, but we plied our oars desperately and well, and
managed to keep fairly well in to the end of the curve.
We missed the wall of the tunnel--black, grim rock that would
have dashed out our brains--by about ten feet, and were swept
forward under the arch, on our way--so we thought--to the land of
sunshine.
Chapter XX.
AN INCA SPEAR.
Here I might most appropriately insert a paragraph on the vanity
of human wishes and endeavor. But events, they say, speak for
themselves; and still, for my own part, I prefer the philosopher
to the historian. Mental digestion is a wearisome task; you are
welcome to it.
To the story. As I have said, we missed the wall of the tunnel
by a scant ten feet, and we kept on missing it. Once under the
arch, our raft developed a most stubborn inclination to bump up
against the rocky banks instead of staying properly in the middle
of the current, as it should.
First to one side, then to the other, it swung, while Harry and I
kept it off with our oars, often missing a collision by inches.
But at least the banks were smooth and level, and as long as the
stream itself remained clear of obstruction there was but little
real danger.
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