"Awake! You dreamers, wake!"  
Frona was out of her sleeping-furs at Del Bishop¹'s first call; but ere she had slipped a skirt on and bare feet into moccasins, her father, beyond the blanket-curtain, had thrown back the flaps of the tent and stumbled out.
 
The river was up. In the chill gray light she could see the ice rubbing softly against the very crest² of the bank; it even topped it in places, and the huge cakes worked inshore many feet. A hundred yards out the white field merged³ into the dim dawn and the gray sky. Subdued⁴ splits and splutters whispered from out the obscureness, and a gentle grinding could be heard.
 
"When will it go?" she asked of Del.
 
"Not a bit too lively for us. See there!" He pointed⁵ with his toe to the water lapping out from under the ice and creeping greedily towards them. "A foot rise every ten minutes."
 
"Danger?" he scoffed⁶. "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 scour⁷ 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' perishables⁸ into the bunks⁹."
 
"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 baron¹⁰, shivering barefooted, pulled out his watch. "Ten minutes to three," he chattered¹¹.
 
"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 commotion¹², 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 underneath¹³; but it had to be taken on faith. There was a dull hum or muffled¹⁴ 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 momentum¹⁶, and the hum growing louder and more threatening. Balancing gracefully¹⁷, like a circus-rider, the Frenchman whirled away along the rim¹⁵ of the bank. Fifty precarious¹⁸ feet he rode, his mount becoming more unstable¹⁹ every instant, and he leaped neatly²⁰ 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 essentially²¹ masculine portion of his vocabulary.
 
"And for why?" Courbertin demanded, stung to the quick.
 
"For why?" Jacob Welse mimicked²² wrathfully, pointing into the sleek²³ 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 frigid²⁴ flood behind crinkled and bent²⁵ 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 gouge²⁶ were hurled²⁷ 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 chaos²⁸ of pressures, it crumbled²⁹ into scattered³⁰ pieces and disappeared.
 
"God!" The baron spoke³¹ the word reverently³² and with awe³³.
 
Frona caught his hand on the one side and her father's on the other. The ice was now leaping past in feverish³⁴ haste. Somewhere below a heavy cake butted³⁵ into the bank, and the ground swayed under their feet. Another followed it, nearer the surface, and as they sprang back, upreared mightily³⁶, and, with a ton or so of soil on its broad back, bowled insolently³⁷ onward³⁸. 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 gorged³⁹ 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 gashed⁴⁰ and gouged⁴¹, 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 miserable⁴². But the magnificence! Look!"
 
He pointed down to the bunch of islands which obstructed⁴³ the bend. There the mile-wide stream divided and subdivided⁴⁴ 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 steadily⁴⁵. "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 forth⁴⁶ 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 squint⁴⁷, 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 awakened⁴⁸, 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 avalanche⁴⁹ of cakes rattled⁵⁰ 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 intake⁵¹ of the breath he straightened up and threw back his head. He made a sweeping⁵² 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 are not an Anglo-Saxon. The race could well be proud of you."
 
"And you, Frona, would you not glorify⁵³ the French!"
 
"At it again, eh? Throwing bouquets⁵⁴ at yourselves." Del Bishop grinned at them, and made to depart as quickly as he had come. "But twist yourselves. Some sick men in a cabin down here. Got to get 'em out. You're needed. And don't be all day about it," he shouted over his shoulder as he disappeared among the trees.
 
The river was still rising, though more slowly, and as soon as they left the high ground they were splashing along ankle-deep in the water. Winding⁵⁵ in and out among the trees, they came upon a boat which had been hauled out the previous fall. And three chechaquos, who had managed to get into the country thus far over the ice, had piled themselves into it, also their tent, sleds, and dogs. But the boat was perilously⁵⁶ near the ice-gorge, which growled⁵⁷ and wrestled⁵⁸ and over-topped it a bare dozen feet away.
 
"Come! Get out of this, you fools!" Jacob Welse shouted as he went past.
 
Del Bishop had told them to "get the hell out of there" when he ran by, and they could not understand. One of them turned up an unheeding, terrified face. Another lay prone⁵⁹ and listless across the thwarts⁶⁰ as though bereft⁶¹ of strength; while the third, with the face of a clerk, rocked back and forth and moaned monotonously⁶², "My God! My God!"
 
The baron stopped long enough to shake him. "Damn!" he cried. "Your legs, man!—not God, but your legs! Ah! ah!—hump yourself! Yes, hump! Get a move on! Twist! Get back from the bank! The woods, the trees, anywhere!"
 
He tried to drag him out, but the man struck at him savagely⁶³ and held back.
 
"How one collects the vernacular," he confided⁶⁴ proudly to Frona as they hurried on. "Twist! It is a strong word, and suitable."
 
"You should travel with Del," she laughed. "He'd increase your stock in no time."
 
"You don't say so."
 
"Yes, but I do."
 
"Ah! Your idioms. I shall never learn." And he shook his head despairingly wi............