"Has anyb-body got a drop of b-brandy?" wailed Trailey, who was shivering with cold and misery. "This will b-be the d-death of me," and his teeth chattered like stones in a bucket. He was a picture of wretchedness. Water and mud streamed down his face and whiskers, and his clothes dripped and clung to him in clammy folds. The sun, too, had dipped behind a clump of poplars on the far side of the slough, which at that time of the year meant a quick drop in temperature.
"Now what d'you think of this fool ranching business?" queried Mrs. Trailey acridly of her half-drowned husband, as she surveyed him from her pinnacle of dryness.
"N-not much, at p-present, my d-dear," moaned Trailey as he wiped his wet face with a wetter handkerchief, and then tried pathetically to hold his waistcoat away from his stomach, first in one place, then in another. His clothes were sticking to him like the skin on a snake, and revealed the curvature of his well-nourished body to perfection.
"I should think not, indeed! No one but an idiot would dream of such a thing, situated like you are. The very idea! What ever things are coming to, I don't know."
"You come on, guv'ner," interrupted Sam; "yore missis'll read the riot act till yer go an' catch a floatin' kidney or somethink. Come wiv me," and as he commenced solicitously to guide the unhappy Trailey towards the farther bank, he said: "Wot you want, sir, is a roarin' fire, a drop of 'ot Scotch, an' then slip inter the blinkin' blankits."
"Help! Help!" yelled a female voice behind them. "Help, somebody! I'm being abandoned on the prairie by a set of cowardly drunkards, I'm——"
"Gawd love us!" muttered Sam; then, turning round, he shouted back at Mrs. Trailey angrily: "Shut up, missis! You'll go an' wake the bloomin' baby if you ain't careful. I'll come back in 'arf a minit an' carry you acrawss—if yer'll only stop that 'orrible squealin'."
The two men waded slowly along. When they reached the middle of the slough, at which depth the water began to dribble into his watch-pocket, Trailey moaned: "C-can't we g-go round, Sam?"
"You go on yerself nah, guv'ner," returned Sam encouragingly. "Yore all right. I'll go back an' fetch the missis afore she gets the 'igh-stericks. Our waggin's rahnd that clump of trees there. That gel of yourn 'as got to be fetched yet, but I know oo'll be bringin' 'er along."
With these remarks, and having indicated to his dripping companion the whereabouts of the other wagon, the indefatigable Sam splashed back to where Martha Trailey was trying to decide whether to weep, or fly into a temper, or both.