“It may not come higher,” he said, “but the old flood mark is above our heads. And the trunk is too big round for me to swarm up and too smooth to climb. I’m afraid we’ll just have to sit here and see it out, and then swim for it if need be.”
“All right, Dolly,” she said calmly; “you’ve done your best, and we can’t do more. But I’m not afraid.”
“You’re a sport,” he said huskily, “a real sport. I wouldn’t care for myself—but I hate to think of you.”
“Don’t give in, Dolly,” she whispered. “I can be brave as long as you are, but—I’m frightened if you’re not.”
“All right, Miss Ess,” he said cheerily, “never say die. We’ll live to look back and laugh at this yet.”
And the water crept to the buggy wheels and commenced to rise slowly higher and higher on them; and still the rain poured down as if it would never cease.
They sat crouching in silence through the long dragging hours, till the waters of the flood rose lapping to their feet and the waters of despair rose in their hearts, and they turned their haggard faces to the grey light of the wet dawn.
CHAPTER XXI.
The men of Thunder Ridge were revelling in the rain and playing boisterously in it like children at the seaside, or ducks in a pond. They had come splashing into the hut in the afternoon, laughing, and shouting, and stamping the mud from their boots on the verandah, and shaking the water from their hats.