CHAPTER XXXI
DAYS OF TERROR
Larry went back to the hotel to report to Mr. Newton. He did not find him there, and so walked around in the corridor. The men were gathered in groups, talking of nothing but the storm and the danger.
“Worst I ever see in fifty years,” said one old man. “I remember the year Deacon Stout’s old gray mare died the waters riz so high they floated my barn, by gosh, but that wa’n’t nothin’ to this.”
“She’s goin’ t’ rage an’ tear things apart,” said his neighbor.
Other men were saying much the same thing. In one corner Larry saw a woman crying, while others were trying to comfort her.
“I can’t help it,” said the weeping one. “The waters washed away our house and we’ve lost everything we had in the world.”
“Never mind, it’s lucky you and the children were saved,” spoke some of those about her.
“When did the house wash away?” asked Larry, thinking this might be some news for Mr. Newton to put in his story.
“A little while ago,” replied one of the women. “It was down quite close to the river, and these people wouldn’t move out when their neighbors did. They came near being drowned when the waters rose suddenly. Men had to rescue them in boats.”