"Oh, yes," said Hank, his hand to his ear to measure the sound of the pouring rain, and his gray eyes intently fixed on the ceiling, as if he were trying to find out when the flood would break through and drench them.
"Well," said Mr. Willett, nervously, "what's your opinion?"
"I don't really think that Ulna, or Sam, ken git back to Hurley's for days. Cos why, they can't cross the flood to the trail, an' no man could, onless he chanced to be rigged with wings, like a bird, an' up to this time I ain't run acrost a human mortal fixed in that way, though I'll allow that sich an addition would be powerful convenient at times."
"But if my son can't come here, what then?"
"You mean, how will it fare with us?"
"Yes, Hank, that is what I mean."
"Wa'al, it'll depend on many pints."
"Give me some of them."
"If the men in these diggins keep sober, we ken hope for fair treatment, but if they don't it'll go hard on us. But all that depends on the storm," said Hank, with great deliberation.
"On the storm?" repeated Mr. Willett.