VII
“The dam has burst,” said old Mr. Cooper.
He made this melodramatic announcement with great calm, because it was a very unimportant dam, and not likely to evoke much excitement; but Jerry Sargent, his employer, sprang to his feet.
“What?” he cried. “Elliot’s dam? Then Sloan Street must be under water!”
“I’m afraid so,” said Cooper, somewhat[Pg 179] startled; “but No. 93 is the only house there that’s tenanted, and I didn’t imagine you’d be much upset about them.”
He was still more startled by the expression he now saw upon Sargent’s usually good-humored face.
“What do you mean by supposing that?” thundered Jerry. “On the contrary, they’re—they’re special tenants. They—”
“Well,” said Mr. Cooper, “you see, in view of the correspondence we had with them—”
“What correspondence?”
“Why, those letters that Mrs. Aldrich directed us to send while you were away. You distinctly said we were to take directions from her in your absence.”
“Let me see those letters!”
Mr. Cooper produced them. Mr. Sargent read them.
“It’s an outrage!” shouted Jerry. “It’s persecution! It’s—”
He flung himself into his overcoat, jammed a felt hat well down on his head, and started out, slamming the office door behind him. His roadster stood at the curb. He got in, started off with a jerk, and went down the street, around the corner, and out into the road that led to Sloan Street from the town. It was a good road, and he took advantage of it. He turned another corner, and Sloan Street lay before him at the foot of the hill.
Oh, Sloan Street was under water, sure enough! It was, in fact, a shallow stream, moving sluggishly. It was certainly not more than six inches deep, and there was no danger, visible or implied; yet to Sargent it was horrible, that sullen, muddy stream, under the merciless downpour of rain, with stanch old No. 93 standing there among the tossing, dripping branches of the trees.
He left his car, ran down the hill, and splashed into the water, ankle deep. His feet sank into the mud, the rain beat in his face, but he bent his head and floundered on, the slowness of his progress putting him into a dogged fury. He wanted to get there at once, to explain.
He stumbled over something, fell to his knees, and lost his hat while regaining his feet. He wiped his rain-blurred eyes with a muddy sleeve, and went on.
“Mr. Sargent! Mr. Sa-argent!”
He stopped, turned, and saw Lynn standing on the hill he had recently left.
“Oh, please come back!” she cried. “Please, Mr. Sargent!”
He did come back, and stood before her.
“I had to come,” he said, “to tell you that I didn’t know anything about those letters from Cooper & Cooper. I never heard of them till to-day.”
Never in his life had he imagined that a girl could look like this. Her hair lay dank across her forehead, giving to her glowing face an adorably childlike look. Her dark lashes were wet, and were like rays about her clear eyes; and the kindness, the heavenly kindness of her regard! The poor fellow had positively no idea that she was a forlorn, bedraggled little object. There he stood, looking up at her, and she looked at him, and tears came into her eyes.
“Don’t!” he cried.
“But you don’t know!” she said.
She meant that he didn’t know how splendid and gallant and handsome he appeared, bareheaded in the rain, with a great streak of mud across his face, and how deeply touched she was by his coming through a flood to explain about the letters; and of course she didn’t wish him to know.
“I—my boxes!” she said, by way of explaining the tears. “I’ve been into the city to see a wholesaler, and he’s bought them all. I had them all on the dining room floor, ready to pack, and I’m afraid—”
“I’ll see what I can do,” said Sargent.
“No! No! Mr. Sargent, come out of that water!” said she sternly. “It doesn’t matter!”
“It does,” said he. “Wait here!”
Off he splashed again.
No. 93 was built on the side of a little slope. The front door was reached by a flight of steps, but the back door was level with the garden, and Jerry knew very well that the house must be filled with water. He kicked open the gate, made his way along the path and up the steps to the veranda, and put the pass key he carried with him into the lock.
The key turned readily, but the door would not open. He pushed his hardest. At last he drew off a little and crashed against the door with his shoulder. Then it opened, and a great flood of water, dammed up inside, came rolling down the steps in a cascade. Suddenly something heavy, borne on the swift-moving current, struck Jerry on the shins, knocked him backward, and, sailing on, struck him violently on the head. The chill, muddy water[Pg 180] rolled over him, but he was as indifferent to it as the fleet of hand-decorated boxes that went down the front steps with him.