Those who have been so unfortunate as to be placed in the path of an overwhelming flood, which after slowly for weeks and months finally bursts all barriers, need not be told that the awful roar caused by the resistless sweep can never be mistaken for anything else.  
The mill-dam, to which we have made more than one reference, had not been , like that at Johnstown, to afford fishing grounds for those who were fond of the sport, but was reared twenty years before to provide water-power for a company of capitalists, who proposed a series of mills and manufactories in the valley below. They progressed as far in their enterprise as the formation of a substantial dam when the company , and that was the end of their scheme.
 
The dam remained, with its enormous reservoir of water, which, in summer, furnished excellent fishing and, in the winter, fine skating; but during all that time the valuable store of power remained idle.
 
The sudden breakage of the dam, without apparent cause, was unaccompanied by the features which marked the great disaster in Pennsylvania a short time since. The town of Piketon was not in the course of the flood, nor were there any dwelling-houses exposed to the with the exception of the home of a single .
 
The water became a terrific peril for a brief while, but such masses speedily exhaust themselves, though it was fortunate indeed that the topography of the country was so favorable that the uncontrollable fury was confined in so narrow a space.
 
But the camp of the Piketon lay exactly in the course of the flood. Bob Budd and his friends had pitched their tent there because the spot was an one in every respect, and no one had ever dreamed of danger from the breaking of the reservoir above.
 
It was night when that fearful roar interrupted the conversation of the Rangers. The young men were silent on the instant, and stared with bated breath in each other’s faces.
 
“Great Heaven!” exclaimed Bob Budd, rising partly from his seat, “the dam has burst!”
 
“And I can’t swim a stroke!” the terrified Wagstaff.
 
“Nor me either!” added McGovern; “I guess the end has come, boys.”
 
“I can swim,” replied Bob, trembling from head to foot, “but that won’t help me at such a time as this.”
 
“Are we going to stay here and be drowned?” demanded Jim, rousing himself; “we might as well go down fighting; every one for himself!”
 
As he uttered this he dashed through the tent and among the trees outside, where the rays of the moon could not , and it was dark as Egypt.
 
A strong wind seemed to be blowing, though a few minutes before the air was as still as at the close of a sultry summer afternoon. The wind was cool. It was caused by the rush of waters through the forest.
 
It was evident to McGovern and the rest that there was but one possible means of escape—possibly two—and he attempted that which first occurred to him: that was by dashing at right angles to the course of the . If he could reach ground higher than the surface of the water, as it came careering through the wood, he would be safe; but he and his companions knew when the awful roar broke upon them that the waters were close, while it was a long run to the elevated country on either side.
 
But if anything of the kind was to be attempted there was not a moment to spare. One second might settle the question of life and death.
 
“Maybe I can make it!” was the thought that thrilled McGovern as he began fighting his way through the wood, stumbling over bushes, bumping against trunks, and picking his way as best he could; “it isn’t very far to the high ground, but I have to go so blamed slow—great thunder! my head’s sawed off!”
 
At that moment a stubby limb caught under the chin of the and almost lifted him off his feet. H............