“No,” said the Sheriff firmly. “In the fu’st place, the chances of a man in a life belt being able to make exack landing at Griffins ain’t one in a thousand. Ain’t one in a million! Hell, you cain’t steer yo’rese’f in a life belt! Man can keep afloat in one—shore!—could keep afloat a week, day an’ night, ef he didn’t starve to death—but he might have to travel hundreds of miles befo’ he’d be able to work out off into hard solid land. Ef he did climb out onto soil that wasn’t downright quicksand, he’d find he was still in God-forsaken swamp or jungle—extending far inland—and ef he did reach houses—he’d find they had no phones—at least nary phone line!—and it’d be 24 more hours befo’ he could boat himself fu’ther—or hop skip on top-soil high-spots fu’ther—to whar they would be a phone. That’s what taking off from here in a belt would mean. Plenty, plenty inconveniences fur the man what does—and plenty waiting for them as stays! While staying right on hyar, as we are, is showing the good sense. Them two old fools I spoke of—Cy and Jawn—has both b’en wrong mo’n once in their perdicting. Trouble was, the town couldn’t take chances on that—with a hundred thousand dollars at stake! It had to accep’ Cy and Jawn’s perdictions at their wu’st—though there was many who said the Mayor was plumb crazy to git panicky. Anyway, the perdicter what’s taking to you three now is a pra’tical river man—who don’t know nothing about curves. And I say there’s allus the p’int—and get that, all three o’ you!—whar this river she has to begin to fall. ’Sides which, there may be so’thing to this newfangled flood control. That nobody hain’t reckoned an at all. Whether or no, though, Big River may rise,—yet never wet the sides o’ that vault. And the time fur anybody to take to this water is when, b’God, she starts to go right up over the top o’ the island! And mebbe not even then, fo’ we all four could set on the top of that vault, and—”

  “And almost certainly,” said the man in the rustic clothes, with an ugly tone in his voice for the first time, “get knocked off—by some tree as big as the one that twisted your police launch off.”

  “Bot notheeng,” explained the Mexican naïvely, “could heet us eef we have hold of cross. God he then no let notheeng heet us.” He made a curious sign of the cross in mid-air. “God, he—”

  “Listen, Lopez,” said the lineman harshly, “if you know anything at all about mechanics, you’d know that if that cross and that slab are approximately balanced when out of water, they’d still be—when under water. And if you know anything about the shrunken weights of things under water, you’d know that if watters ever got to where you’re clinging to that cross, most of that cross and that covering slab will be under water—and with the cross downstream of the slab—and if a big tree even noses that cross gently, over she’d go, with all them that’s clinging on her sailing downstream to—”

  “Including him,” pointed out the man in the rustic clothing, “who lies beneath the cross! For the inpouring water would uproot his body, and down he’d go floating downstream too, so that—”

  “Well,” put in the Sheriff, “sence Philaster McCorniss is dead—and got planted in time—’twont be anybody’s bad luck, ef the river does rout him out, excep’ the people down river who fish fur channel cat—and will be eating channel cat!—during the next few months! The p’int here an’ now is that they ain’t nobody washed off the island yet. And sence the dam and sich up river—on the Ohiuri—was built by enginyeering laws—out of steel and stone—they ain’t even nobody in any immejit danger of being washed off.”

  The lineman made a helpless gesture.

  “All right, Sheriff Brister. When I spoke of a man to go down river in a belt and somehow get help—I had in mind myself, you know. But we’ll play ball. For you know the river. And we don’t. But it does seem to me that that turning point you speak of lies far too far off for one of us not to be hopping it—in a belt—and getting help. For after all, think of all the ditches running into all the creeks up north—and all the creeks going into all the streams—and all the streams, in turn, emptying into all the rivers that empty both into Big River and the Ohiuri. Even if the rains stopped this very minute, still all that water will have to come down river yet. And—”

  “Shore—shore—and what ef the dam over the by-pass—the little Big?—went down? That’d drap the water level faster than she rose, wouldn’t it?”

  “That dam couldn’t go down in a million years,” said the lineman. “I know a chap who worked on the electrical end of that dam. Just long enough, he claimed, to know that it’s one fine dam—and calculated forty ways ahead of the middle! Whereas, now, the dam up river—that one on the Ohiuri—well—I’ve heard vague rumors—”

  “Rumors,” said the Sheriff dryly, “is what people along rivers live on.”

  “Oh, w’y,” put in the Mexican, with true Latin impatience, “we tolk and tolk and tolk about reever rising, and dams ondamming. W’y we no can tune in on radium there—and forget tro’bles lettle w’ile we wait for river to—turn down? We can get lettle danz moosic make us feel gooder annonzements, mebbe!”

  “They hain’t no reason,” granted the Sheriff, “why you yo’-all cain’t have raddio music—ef yo’-all want it. Long’s you don’t call fur the mela’choly kind I turned off when I come abo’d the island this morning.” He flicked his big hand commandingly toward the vault, well up the island, and his head toward the man who had called himself Lopez. “Shake a leg, Mex—and fetch the raddio down thisaway.”

  With alacrity the Mexican sprang up, and hurried up the oval of land as far as the near edge of the vault, where he leaned over and pulled from the soft ground the sharpened steel stake that was providing the radio’s ground connection, and then, carrying radio and stake in the same hand, repaired back with it to the convenient circle of four flat boulders, but leaning far to one side this trip, because of the sheer weight of the thing, the weight being caused—as at least the Sheriff knew—the powerful lead-encased batteries inside. In fact, the Sheriff even knew whose radio it was: it belonged to the arthritic woman from the city, who called herself Mrs. van Renschuyler Barnes.

  In the meantime the Mexican, setting the radio down to the left of where the Sheriff sat, turned it so that its open exposed chassis, with all its bulbs and cross-connections and grids and condensers, was away from the Sheriff—till, in fact the dial would face the Sheriff’s left shoulder,—where the latter could twirl it and, perhaps, bring in entertainment for the Latin soul! After which the Mexican thrust the sharp steel stake back into the soft ground, and with a pleased expectant expression on his dark face took up his seat on the least comfortable of the four convenient boulders.

  The Sheriff turned slightly on his own boulder—the most comfortable of the four!—and snapping on the switch in the upper corner of the dial panel, spun the big dial experi­mentally. A medley of flares of music and announcements flowed forth so fast that none was even identifiable as to what it was. Till suddenly—as the Sheriff held the dial tentatively on one position—the words of a single male speaker came in so clear and sharp that their very clearness and sharpness alone were arresting.

  “—and the fog that has descended on Big River Valley is conceded to be not only the heaviest of years, but one which will persist for at least two or three days because of the peculiar nature of the weather all around it. But, speaking of Big River Valley and the flooded district, this station—which is S-B-Q-L at Memphis—is asked to request all listeners who happen to be residents of Big River Valley to tune in immediately on Government Station U-S-V-B for a most important announcement which—for such listeners—is a matter of life and death and property. And so, folks, we sign off for the morning, and will resume at 2 this afternoon with an address by State Secretary of Labor Mackelson. But do not forget now, listeners to this broadcast. If you live anywhere on Big River, at in the Big River Valley, tune in now and immediately—without any delay—on U-S-V-B. Goodday!”

  Silence followed.

  And the Sheriff looked, puzzledly, toward the three men facing him.

  “We-ell! Looks as though we’d oughter quit fishing around fur jazz fur Lopez here!—an’ tune in on U-S-V-B. Fur ef us four—settin’ on a squib of land plumb in th’ center of Big River, ain’t residents o’ the Valley—then nobody ain’t! Fur–” He glanced off troubledly to one side. “Either that gravel tongue has been et off by the current in the last few moments—or she’s su’merged.”

  “She’s submerged,” said the lineman curtly. “I’ve been watching her. Let’s barge in on that U-S-V-B without any more palaver.”

  The Sheriff turned his dial hastily till one of three calibrations on it that were inked heavily with ink, came opposite to the lighted pointer. All valley radios, he knew, had station U-S-V-B marked—and the woman who called herself Mrs. van Renschuyler Barnes was, even though she was from the city, a valley settler—at least while her arthritis held!

  But no words came. So he turned it up.

  Till words did come, clear and snappy. And which “—yes, folks, the famous old Eclat Luncheon Club of New York City broadcasting. 12:25 past noon—here in New York City; so you far-Midwest folks who hear the clink of luncheon silver at 11:25 on your clock—yes, folks, that’s it!—the old hour difference that no genius has ever been able to iron out. And now, folks, I’m going to present one of the most beautiful acts in dining entatainment—that exquisite little creature known as Mademoiselle Fanchon, who will present her famous Dance of the Seven Oak Leaves, 15 minutes of sheer beauty. And if you will just keep your seats, those of you who are right in the club here, but who came in early—or if you’ll return to this point on your dial, those of you who are radio-listeners and can’t see a magnificent visual presentation—you will, at the conclusion of the dance, hear announcer Tommy Topkins—famous Daily-Radio-News-Story-Beat Tommy!—who will in person, at this very dance floor microphone, give you a most dramatic news-story squarely out of the great flood district of Big River. He’s phoned that he’s on his way up now from lower New York—that the tale is hot!—that it’s 100 per cent exclusive—a wow of a story! And all he would tell me is that it’s a story of four men, including a small-town sheriff, hurtling down swollen Big River in a red police launch, in a fog so thick that they’ve little or no chance to hit the landing stage where it’s known the Sheriff’s heading for; and so will probably hit shore fifty or a hundred miles below this point; but wait, folks, that’s not the story—not all of it. On the Sheriff’s person, unknown to his three companions, is an item worth—and honestly, that’s all Tommy would tell me on the phone! He’ll be here in 15 minutes—and will tell you himself. For—all right, Mademoiselle Fanchon. Let her go, Leader Struther.” And swing music started up.

  The Sheriff looked dumfounded.

  “Four men—in a boat,” he said disgruntedly, “is us, of course. Thanks to Mex tossing out that flare. But—but—”

  “But how,” put in the derby-hatted man, looking intensely worried, “do they know—on land—that there should be four of us in that boat?”

  “Why!” said the Sheriff, plainly a man on whom light had dawned. “That rat!—That scar-faced rat—who tried to land. My poleece boat was still hyar—when he did. And that was full 20 minutes befo’ we lost it—and Mex here, in a panic, tossed out that flare. 20 minutes’ diffe’nce—if they was a minute—thanks to our waiting fur that rat to mebbe come back. An’way, he must ha’ had a rough idea himself of the hour he tried to land, and so—”

  “Rough idea?” echoed the lineman. “Why the fellow had a wrist-watch on his wrist as big as an alarm clock!”

  “Well, thar you are,” put in the Sheriff. “He seed my boat—an’ you three—and so, when the news went fo’th in the valley that I pulled off okay, and ‘cleared’ the island, he was a’reddy back on shore—and up an’ repo’ted that sich clearance would got to include three men he seed here. But—but why?” And the Sheriff stroked his chin helplessly, for he was profoundly, intensely, puzzled.

  The lineman but grunted. “A news-story is a newsstory, I suppose,—for this Tommy Tucker who sings for his supper. Though the one he’s about to hand out blithely isn’t worth even coffee and rolls—considering we’re still all here—and with nary even a cheesebox to go down river in. How’s-about, though, Brister, our getting onto U-S-V-B?”

  “Okay!” said the Sheriff with alacrity. And shoved the dial so that the next inked calibration on it came opposite the lighted pointer. He had it this time, obviously—Station U-S-V-B. For the words that came forth, just a bit too rapid, all of them, for clean announcing, dealt with matters of interest only to Big River residents. And what interest!

  “Calling all residents on Big River—from Ohiuri Conflu­ence—to Webb City. Calling all farms—in Big River Valley—lying within 5 miles of the river. Calling all towns-on Big River. The United States Department of Dam Inspection regrets to give out officially that the Cooperstown Dam, on the Lower Ohiuri, is doomed. Skilled divers have found that certain cracks in the structure are increasing so fast, in both number and depth, that it is now purely a question of time—though as yet indefinite time—when the dam will go through. There is no way known to engineering science at this time to repair these defects, which are caused by complicated composite stresses due to the fact that the Cooperstown Dam does not rest totally on the blue shale on which it was originally thought to have been erected. That, plus its unusual cross-sectional shape—and the now unbear­able horizontal forces being brought to play for the first time. When the dam goes down, thousands of tons of water now piled against it—the whole swollen Ohiuri, in short—will be released. It is, of course, quite impossible to divert any of this pent-up water into so-called Lake Oho, the reservoir, since the reservoir itself is full to the top of its own retaining wall, and overflowing. Careful calculations show that the dammed-up Ohiuri River water alone, exclusive of that dammed up in Lake Oho, will, when released, cause a further spread of waters in the mid-Big River region of a couple of miles, and will submerge every island and sandbar in the river between the confluence and at least Webb City. For instance: Calculations show that historic Bleeker’s Island, the height of which is of record, will be under from 10 to 12 feet of swiftly rushing water. Nor will this quickly subside either. For, unfortunately, the mode of attachment and bracement of the great reservoir gate frame to the west end of the dam itself—by oblique beams—and all of which are submerged and dangerously inaccessible at this moment—means that the collapse of the dam itself will in turn tear out the gate frame, if not the entire south end of the reservoir wall, which, due to lying on the identical defective blue shale, is in a far more disastrous physical state than the dam itself. And through such inevitable gap the waters of Lake Oho, adding themselves to the Ohiuri, will maintain the increased spread and submergence downstream for hours and hours beyond the time when they would ordinarily—though but partly—subside. As an example: the 5 or so full hours during which the river, at Bleeker’s Island, will attain a 21/2 mile wider spread—though solely toward the low west banks—and the island itself will be under 10 to 12 feet of torrential water—will be stretched out, through the waters of Lake Oho flowing down river, to 231/2 full hours. After which a 4 or 5 foot fall may be expected. Now if your home is on lowlands anywhere between Confluence and Webb City—or even below—get out quickly—and at once!—to the higher sections. Lose no time! Do not wait for the fog to lift, or even to become v-zero or v-plus, for weather reports show that the fog now on the valley is good for 24 hours—if not probably 48—and will remain exactly what it is—a v-minus fog, impenetrable to flares and fog lamps. Towns which believe themselves safely high are instructed to put in ample supplies of fresh water, and medicines, and food. For reports have it that railroads—at least the East Bank Road—thanks to their modern electrical block signals, and their powerful headlights which can at least penetrate partially through the fog in front of the engines, are running with scarcely any diminution of local schedules. Above all—all listeners to this station—which is U-S-V-B—and who belong to the category we are addressing—do not lose a single minute. The Government not only does not guarantee this dam to have any chance whatsoever of standing up, but goes officially on record as saying it must and will go down. Moreover, while it may stand for an hour—even for six hours—even till tonight—it may also go at any moment—as the debris collected against it on the up-river side increases alarmingly, and the water is rising steadily from descending rains in the north. Get to safety, folks!—to the higher levels!—at once and immediately! Lose no time. This is our one and important injunction. Calling all residents on Big River—from Ohiuri Confluence—to Webb City. Calling all farms—in Big River Valley—lying within—”

  The Sheriff turned off the radio with a sharp snap.

  Wondering if he were downright stupid—that that broad­cast had gone on and on after the dumfounding news that this island would be utterly inundated—and that he had been so slow in absorbing the disconcerting news.

  He did know, though, that his red face had momentarily whitened. And as he turned, he saw that he was facing three more faces which had whitened. Faces which, however, all proceeded to ascend like balloons—as their owners, finally absorbing fully the news as even the Sheriff had, rose automatically to their feet. The Sheriff even found himself on his own feet.

  A dead silence filled the air. A silence marked, however, by the vicious purling of water, each side of the island.

  It was broken by the man in the rustic costume.

  “We’re—we’re—we’re—all—all dead men,” he said in a half gasp.

  “Mother of Jesus!” was all the Mexican said.

  “Pull yourselves together,” said the lineman. “We’re none of us dead. Nor will be. Haven’t we a flock of life belts lying yonder? We—”

 

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