those who have been so unfortunate as to be placed in the path of an overwhelming flood, which after slowly gathering 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 erected, like that at johnstown, to afford fishing grounds for those who were fond of the sport, but was reared fully twenty years before to provide water-power for a company of capitalists, who proposed erecting 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 collapsed, 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 appalling 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 peril with the exception of the home of a single humble laborer.

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 rangers lay exactly in the course of the flood. bob budd and his friends had pitched their tent there because the spot was an inviting 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!” gasped 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 exclamation he dashed through the tent and among the trees outside, where the rays of the moon could not penetrate, 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 dense 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 torrent. 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 frantic fugitive and almost lifted him off his feet. he quickly freed himself and dashed wildly on again with feelings that must have resembled those of the multitude fleeing from before the sweep of the overwhelming lava.

a vine enclosed the ankle of the fugitive and he fell headlong; he was instantly up again and collided with a tree, which he did not detect soon enough in the gloom; at any other time mcgovern would have taken his own time in rising and vented his feelings, but he did not do so now; his single thought was one wild, desperate hope that he might escape.

he never exerted himself so before, for, despite the stirring experiences through which he had passed in his short life, he had never encountered anything like this.

those who have hovered on the verge of death have made known that in the few seconds when life was passing, the whole record of their former lives has swept like a panorama before them. the events of months and years have clustered in those few fearful moments.

jim mcgovern’s experience was somewhat similar. there were mighty few seconds at his command, while struggling with the whole energy of his nature to reach the rising ground beyond reach of the flood; but in some respects that brief interval of time was as so many years to him.

how well it will be if, when we reach that supreme moment which must come to all of us, the hasty retrospect brings us pleasure and hope rather than remorse and despair!

there was nothing of this nature in the review that surged through the brain of the miserable fellow. broken promises, disobedience to parents, wrangling, thievery, drinking—these were the scarlet tints of the picture which memory painted for him in vivid colors.

“if you’ll only save me,” he gasped, addressing the sole one who could rescue him, “i will stop the bad things i’ve been doing all my life, and do my best to live right always.”

would he never pass the boundary of this narrow valley? it had always seemed straight to him before, but now its width was expanded not to yards and rods, but to miles. and never were the trees so close together or the bushes, vines, and undergrowth so dense, or his own wind so short, or his muscles so weak.

suddenly something cold was felt against his ankle.

he knew what it was—it was water!

the fringe of the flood had reached him. where the bursting away was so instantaneous and the released volume was so enormous, the flow could not be like that of an ordinary torrent, which rises rapidly because of the swiftly-increasing mass behind it. the awful rush at johnstown resembled the oncoming of a tidal wave or wall of water, so high, so prodigious, so resistless that nothing less than the side of a granite mountain could check it.

it would have been the same in the case we are describing, though of course to a less degree, but for the interposing wood, which, beginning at the very base of the dam, continued the entire length of the valley, which was several miles in extent.

some of these trees were uprooted as if by a cyclone, others were bent and partly turned over, while the sturdiest, which did not stand near the middle of the path, held their own, like giants resisting death tugging at their vitals.

the woods also acted as a brake, so to speak, on the velocity of the terrific rush of waters. the flow could not be stopped nor turned aside, but it was hindered somewhat, and, as it came down the hollow, was twisted and driven into all manner of eddies, whirlpools, and currents, in which the most powerful swimmer was as helpless as an infant.

“it’s no use!” panted mcgovern, when he felt the cold current rising about his ankles like the coiling of a water-snake; “i must die, and with all my sins on my head! heaven have mercy! do not desert me now when a little farther and i will be saved!”

never was a more agonized appeal made to his creator than that by the despairing mcgovern.