A spell of wet weather set in. Every day it rained and rained as if it would never leave off. The creek rose and rose, until there was danger that Mrs. Buckle would be cut off, and the field in which her house stood made temporarily into an island. There was no such danger for Ripple, where the house stood on rising ground, and was a whole field distant from the swollen creek.
But corn planting had to stop while the rain came down. Jack had more time for the work in the barn now, so Pam was free for her campaign of scouring and scrubbing. Oh, how dirty the house was! Surely never had a place been as long without a spring clean as this comfortable old timber house at Ripple! The best sitting-room had been a dumping-ground for all manner of things during the winter. Extra firewood had been neatly stacked in a remote corner. Sophy had kept her big rolls of flannel and calico on the massive centre table. All kinds of rubbish had gathered there. But now Pam meant that it should be clean, as clean as her mother doubtless kept it in those long-past days before Mrs. Walsh had run away to be married.
It was a pouring wet day when Pam started on her campaign. The rain was coming down with a steady slant that promised more flooding later on. Jack wanted to help in the cleaning, but Pam thought he would be of more use elsewhere, so she suggested that he should do all the outside “chores”, and get breakfast also, which would leave her free for her great campaign. This suited Jack finely; he had scored a distinct success in the making of Indian corncake and buckwheat porridge, which was uncommonly good when eaten with maple syrup. He went to work with great zest when he came in from the barn, while Pam for her part was busy sorting the lumber and carrying the things which belonged to Sophy to the sanctuary of one of the clean rooms upstairs.
Breakfast was about an hour late, but Pam was so hard at work that she did not notice that, although she was faint and fagged from want of food. When Jack called to her that it was ready he apologized meekly enough for the delay, which had been owing to accident; he had upset the porridge into the fire, and had been obliged to make a fresh lot.
“Oh, Jack, it is just lovely for you to upset something, because in the past it was poor unlucky me who had all the accidents!” cried Pam, as she drew up her chair to the table and fell upon the second edition of porridge with keen appetite.
“It makes one feel so horribly mad with oneself—such a silly thing to do!” growled Jack, who was by way of being very cross over his stupidity.
“I suppose even that state of mind is rather an advantage than otherwise, since it takes away any tendency to swelled head,” said Pam, as she helped herself to more syrup—then, abruptly, she changed the subject—“Jack, I wonder who it was that sold Sam Buckle’s watch to the second-hand shop at St. John?”
Jack scraped the saucepan with great care, for he was not minded to waste any of the porridge which had bothered him so much in the making. Then he said with deliberation: “If we knew so much we should most likely be able to get the miserable business cleared up. But you know what the manager said when we wrote to him—he had so many men in during the winter selling their watches because they were hard up that it was impossible to remember any details.”
“It is very mysterious,” said Pam thoughtfully. “Still, it is only reasonable that the man should not be able to remember. There is one thing about it that bothers me though——”
“Only one? You are lucky. There are a round dozen bothering me at this very moment!” exclaimed Jack, and then he got up from his place at the table and went to fetch the letter which had been received from the manager of the second-hand shop at St. John where he had purchased the watch.