rt of the bay, where the current from
Young's River was strongest, setting out toward the Columbia, and where
the wind had the fairest sweep, blowing from the coast across the low
Clatsop plains. Only the tide and his failing strength were opposed to
these; would they enable him to hold his own? He set his teeth harder
than ever, but it was all in vain, and directly the catastrophe came.
His strength wavered, the boat veered round, a sudden gust and roll of
water took it broadside, and over she went, keel up, more than a mile
from land.

But this was not the last of Joe Chillis--not by any manner of means. He
had trapped beaver too many years to mind a ducking more or less, if he
only had his strength. So, when he came up, he clutched an oar that was
floating past him, and looked about for the boat. She was not far
off--the tide was holding her, bobbing up and down like a cork. In a few
minutes she was righted, and Chillis had scrambled in, losing his oar
while doing it, and regaining it while being nearly upset again.

It had become a matter of life and death now to keep afloat, with only
one oar to fight the sea with; and, though hoping little from the
expedient, in such a gale--blowing the wrong way, besides--Chillis
shouted for assistance in every lull of the tempest. To his own intense
astonishment, as well as relief, his hail was answered.

"Where away?" came on the wind, the sound seeming to flap and flutter
like a shred of torn sail.

"Off the creek, about a mile?" shouted Chillis, with those powerful
lungs of his, that had gotten much of their bellows-like proportions
during a dozen years of breathing the thin air of the mountains.

"All right!" was returned on the snapping, fluttering gale. After this
answer, Chillis contented himself with keeping his boat right side up,
and giving an occasional prolonged "Oh-whoo!" to guide his rescuers
through the thickening gloom. How long it seemed, with the growing
darkness, and the effort to avoid another upset! But the promised help
came at last, in the shape of the mail-carrier's plunger, her trim
little mast catching his eyes, shining white and bare out of the dusk.
Directly he heard the voices of the mail-carrier and another.

"Where be ye? _Who_ be ye?"

"Right here, under yer bow. Joe Chillis, you bet your life!"

"Waal, come aboard here, mighty quick. Make fast. Mind your boat; don't
let her strike us. Pole off--pole off, with yer oar!"

"Mind _your_ oar