Against the
storm-swept sky, McGowan's short, squat figure was visible, his
hands waving wildly to other gangs of men who were running at full
speed toward where he stood.
Soon a knife-edge of water glistened along the crest of the earth
embankment supporting the roadway of the boulevard, scattered into
a dozen sluiceways, gashing the sides of the slopes, and then,
before Jack could realize his own danger, the whole mass collapsed
only to be swallowed up in a mighty torrent which leaped straight
at him.
Jack wheeled suddenly, shouted to a man behind him to run for his
life, and raced on down stream toward the "fill" a mile below
where MacFarlane and his men, unconscious of their danger, were
strengthening the culvert and its approaches.
On swept the flood, tearing up trees, cabins, shanties, fences;
swirling along the tortuous bed only to leap and swirl again, its
solid front bristling with the debris it had wrenched loose in its
mad onslaught, Jack in his line of flight keeping abreast of its
mighty thrust, shouting as he ran, pressing into service every man
who could help in the rescue.
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