The tent had collapsed, indeed—the tabernacle of human spirits—and the silver lining was left under.
The flash light had gone out.
The flash light had fainted, at the very most inopportune moment that a craven battery could have chosen to give out.
If confusion had reigned before—and hurry-scurry—now it was extremity—the “neb-end” of extremity! The camp fire black as a “tinker’s pot”, with a dismal brew of shrieks and groanings! The rain-hand slapping right and left in the darkness! Faces running into trees, toes stubbed against stone and stump—wet hair caught on dripping branches that tweaked and plucked at it.
“But—but there was a second battery! Who had charge of—that?”
“Pemrose.”
“I’ll find it in a ‘twink’,” said Pemrose manfully. “I hid it under this bush—lest somebody should step on it.”
But the bush protested that she didn’t, laughing in her face, as lightning played through it—while she felt all round it in the wet grass.
“No-o—oh! dear, I remember—it was at the foot of this little tree.”
“Out again!” said the sapling—and deluged her all over, for her pains.