“Do come into the house, Miss Miggs,” urged Ruth. “It isn’t going to fall yet.”
“How do you know?” snapped the school teacher, as obstinate as ever.
The cottage that had been battering the corner of the porch was now torn away by the river and swept on, down the current. There sounded a great hullabaloo from the ballroom. Although the river had not yet risen as high as the dancing floor, the frightened revelers saw that the flood was fairly upon them. At the back the darkies added their cries to the screams of the hysterical guests.
Another drifting object struck and jarred the hotel. Miss Miggs repeated her scream of fear, and darted into the hall with the same impetuosity with which she had darted out.
“Who are you girls?” she demanded, peering at Ruth and Helen closely, for she did not wear her spectacles. “Haven’t I seen you before? I declare! you’re the girls who stole my ticket—the idea!”
At the moment—and in time to hear this accusation—Mrs. Holloway appeared from down the hall. “Oh, Martha!” she cried. “Are you out of your bed?”
She gave the two girls from the North a sharp look as she spoke to the teacher; but this was no time for an explanation of Miss Miggs’ remark. The school teacher immediately opened a volley of complaints:
“Well, I must say, Cousin Lydia, if I were you I’d build my house on some secure foundation. And calling it a hotel, too! My mercy me! the whole thing will be down like a house of cards in ten minutes, and we shall be drowned.”
“Oh, no, Cousin Martha,” said the Southern woman. “We shall be all right. The river will not rise much higher, and it will never tear the hotel from its base. It is too large.”
“Look at these other houses floating away, Lydia Holloway!” screamed Miss Miggs.