"Doubtful!" muttered Ben, using his oars with fresh vigor.
The girl he called Agnes, folded her cloak about her and settled down among the cushions, casting wistful glances at the sky. "Look," she said at last, pointing upward, "those small lead-colored clouds, how darkly they drift together! Did you ever see a flock of pigeons flying over the western woods, Mr. Benson?"
"Knew she wouldn't do it," muttered Ben, with his eyes bent on the clouds.
"See, see!" cried the girl. "The sky is black—I have seen the same thing!"
"But them was nothing but innocent birds a flying after something to eat," said Ben. "These ere clouds, Miss Agnes, has got a good many unroofed housen', and shipwrecks, and trees broken in two, and torn up by the roots, in 'em, to say nothing of this ere boat as may be upsot any minute."
The girl turned pale; her black eyes shone with sudden fear.
"Do you think there is really any danger, Mr. Benson?"
"Danger? Of course there's danger! What did I follow arter that little boat for, if there wasn't no danger?"
"Perhaps—perhaps," said Agnes tremulously, "it would be safer on shore. The walk will not be much now. What do you say to running ashore?"
"There'll be a howling among the rocks afore you get round the first point, that 'ud take your breath; besides, when the winds begin to rush there'll be a crashing down of trees, and broken limbs will be flying thick enough. No, no—unsartain as the river is, you'd better keep still. I don't want your death on my conscience, any how."