JACK LONDON: All 22 Novels in One Illustrated Edition. Джек Лондон

out from under the ice and creeping greedily towards them. "A foot rise every ten minutes."

      "Danger?" he scoffed. "Not on your life. It's got to go. Them islands"--waving his hand indefinitely down river--"can't hold up under more pressure. If they don't let go the ice, the ice'll scour them clean out of the bed of the Yukon. Sure! But I've got to be chasin' back. Lower ground down our way. Fifteen inches on the cabin floor, and McPherson and Corliss hustlin' perishables into the bunks."

      "Tell McPherson to be ready for a call," Jacob Welse shouted after him. And then to Frona, "Now's the time for St. Vincent to cross the back-channel."

      The baron, shivering barefooted, pulled out his watch. "Ten minutes to three," he chattered.

      "Hadn't you better go back and get your moccasins?" Frona asked. "There will be time."

      "And miss the magnificence? Hark!"

      From nowhere in particular a brisk crackling arose, then died away. The ice was in motion. Slowly, very slowly, it proceeded down stream. There was no commotion, no ear-splitting thunder, no splendid display of force; simply a silent flood of white, an orderly procession of tight-packed ice--packed so closely that not a drop of water was in evidence. It was there, somewhere, down underneath; but it had to be taken on faith. There was a dull hum or muffled grating, but so low in pitch that the ear strained to catch it.

      "Ah! Where is the magnificence? It is a fake!"

      The baron shook his fists angrily at the river, and Jacob Welse's thick brows seemed to draw down in order to hide the grim smile in his eyes.

      "Ha! ha! I laugh! I snap my fingers! See! I defy!"

      As the challenge left his lips. Baron Courbertin stepped upon a cake which rubbed lightly past at his feet. So unexpected was it, that when Jacob Welse reached after him he was gone.

      The ice was picking up in momentum, and the hum growing louder and more threatening. Balancing gracefully, like a circus-rider, the Frenchman whirled away along the rim of the bank. Fifty precarious feet he rode, his mount becoming more unstable every instant, and he leaped neatly to the shore. He came back laughing, and received for his pains two or three of the choicest phrases Jacob Welse could select from the essentially masculine portion of his vocabulary.

      "And for why?" Courbertin demanded, stung to the quick.

      "For why?" Jacob Welse mimicked wrathfully, pointing into the sleek stream sliding by.

      A great cake had driven its nose into the bed of the river thirty feet below and was struggling to up-end. All the frigid flood behind crinkled and bent back like so much paper. Then the stalled cake turned completely over and thrust its muddy nose skyward. But the squeeze caught it, while cake mounted cake at its back, and its fifty feet of muck and gouge were hurled into the air. It crashed upon the moving mass beneath, and flying fragments landed at the feet of those that watched. Caught broadside in a chaos of pressures, it crumbled into scattered pieces and disappeared.

      "God!" The baron spoke the word reverently and with awe.

      Frona caught his hand on the one side and her father's on the other. The ice was now leaping past in feverish haste. Somewhere below a heavy cake butted into the bank, and the ground swayed under their feet. Another followed it, nearer the surface, and as they sprang back, upreared mightily, and, with a ton or so of soil on its broad back, bowled insolently onward. And yet another, reaching inshore like a huge hand, ripped three careless pines out by the roots and bore them away.

      Day had broken, and the driving white gorged the Yukon from shore to shore. What of the pressure of pent water behind, the speed of the flood had become dizzying. Down all its length the bank was being gashed and gouged, and the island was jarring and shaking to its foundations.

      "Oh, great! Great!" Frona sprang up and down between the men. "Where is your fake, baron?"

      "Ah!" He shook his head. "Ah! I was wrong. I am miserable. But the magnificence! Look!"

      He pointed down to the bunch of islands which obstructed the bend. There the mile-wide stream divided and subdivided again,--which was well for water, but not so well for packed ice. The islands drove their wedged heads into the frozen flood and tossed the cakes high into the air. But cake pressed upon cake and shelved out of the water, out and up, sliding and grinding and climbing, and still more cakes from behind, till hillocks and mountains of ice upreared and crashed among the trees.

      "A likely place for a jam," Jacob Welse said. "Get the glasses, Frona." He gazed through them long and steadily. "It's growing, spreading out. A cake at the right time and the right place . . ."

      "But the river is falling!" Frona cried.

      The ice had dropped six feet below the top of the bank, and the Baron Courbertin marked it with a stick.

      "Our man's still there, but he doesn't move."

      It was clear day, and the sun was breaking forth in the north-east. They took turn about with the glasses in gazing across the river.

      "Look! Is it not marvellous?" Courbertin pointed to the mark he had made. The water had dropped another foot. "Ah! Too bad! too bad! The jam; there will be none!"

      Jacob Welse regarded him gravely.

      "Ah! There will be?" he asked, picking up hope.

      Frona looked inquiringly at her father.

      "Jams are not always nice," he said, with a short laugh. "It all depends where they take place and where you happen to be."

      "But the river! Look! It falls; I can see it before my eyes."

      "It is not too late." He swept the island-studded bend and saw the ice-mountains larger and reaching out one to the other. "Go into the tent, Courbertin, and put on the pair of moccasins you'll find by the stove. Go on. You won't miss anything. And you, Frona, start the fire and get the coffee under way."

      Half an hour after, though the river had fallen twenty feet, they found the ice still pounding along.

      "Now the fun begins. Here, take a squint, you hot-headed Gaul. The left-hand channel, man. Now she takes it!"

      Courbertin saw the left-hand channel close, and then a great white barrier heave up and travel from island to island. The ice before them slowed down and came to rest. Then followed the instant rise of the river. Up it came in a swift rush, as though nothing short of the sky could stop it. As when they were first awakened, the cakes rubbed and slid inshore over the crest of the bank, the muddy water creeping in advance and marking the way.

      "Mon Dieu! But this is not nice!"

      "But magnificent, baron," Frona teased. "In the meanwhile you are getting your feet wet."

      He retreated out of the water, and in time, for a small avalanche of cakes rattled down upon the place he had just left. The rising water had forced the ice up till it stood breast-high above the island like a wall.

      "But it will go down soon when the jam breaks. See, even now it comes up not so swift. It has broken."

      Frona was watching the barrier. "No, it hasn't," she denied.

      "But the water no longer rises like a race-horse."

      "Nor does it stop rising."

      He was puzzled for the nonce. Then his face brightened. "Ah! I have it! Above, somewhere, there is another jam. Most excellent, is it not?"

      She caught his excited hand in hers and detained him. "But, listen. Suppose the upper jam breaks and the lower jam holds?"

      He looked at her steadily till he grasped the full import. His face flushed, and with a quick intake of the breath he straightened up and threw back his head. He made a sweeping gesture as though to include the island. "Then you, and I, the tent, the boats, cabins, trees, everything, and La Bijou! Pouf! and all are gone, to the devil!"

      Frona shook her head. "It is too bad."

      "Bad? Pardon. Magnificent!"

      "No, no, baron; not that. But that you