That flume's six mile long."
Bob strode to the gate, and after some heaving and hauling succeeded in
throwing water into the flume.
"I wanted to see her go," he explained.
"Now if you want some real fun," said Welton, gazing after the foaming
advance wave as it ripped its way down the chute. "You make you a sort
of three-cornered boat just to fit the angle of the flume; and then you
lie down in it and go to Sycamore Flats, in about six minutes more or
less."
"You mean to say that's done?" cried Bob.
"Often. It only means knocking together a plank or so."
"Doesn't the lumber ever jump the flume?"
"Once in a great while."
"Suppose the boat should do it?"
"Then," said Welton drily, "it's probable you'd have to begin learning
to tune a harp."
"Not for mine," said Bob with fervour. "Any time I yearn for Sycamore
Flats real hard, I'll go by hand."
He shut off the water, and the two walked a little farther to a bold
point that pressed itself beyond the trees.
Below them the cliff dropped away so steeply that they looked out above
the treetops as from the summit of a true precipice.
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