“Of course we’ll turn back.”
“There he is,” thrilled Gerty.
Mrs. Blinn’s eye swept the street. “Where? Your husband?”
“No, Mr. Rickard. Passing the bank. There, he’s stopped. I wonder if he is going in? You call him, Mrs. Blinn.”
Obediently her friend hailed Rickard. He turned back to the windy street. He felt boyish: the crisis was giving him mercurial feet. He loved the modern battle. Elements to pit one’s brains against, wits against force!
Gerty Hardin’s face was flushing and paling. “The river,” she faltered. “Should we be alarmed, Mr. Rickard?”
Smiling, he assured her she should not be alarmed; the levees would protect the towns.
She found it hard to meet his eyes; they had always made her conscious in the old Lawrence days. They suggested controlled amusement, a critical detachment. She used to hunt for the cause. Now she was experienced, yet his smile still gave her that old hampered sense of embarrassment.
“She is anxious about her husband,” Mrs. Blinn had to explain. Gerty bit her lip. What a parrot Mrs. Blinn was!
“Mr. Hardin is up at Fassett’s ranch, he will be coming back to-day. I told your husband, Mrs. Blinn, to catch a nap and then relieve Mr. Hardin.”