I went over and stood beside him.
"No," I returned; "it can't keep this up. But, rain or sun, our trip is spoiled now."
"For today, yes. But there is tomorrow, Bill."
But, in the sense that Milton Rhodes meant, there was to be no tomorrow: at the very moment, in the midst of the roar and the rage of the elements, Destiny spoke, in the ring of a telephone-bell—Destiny, she who is wont to make such strange sport with the lives of men. I sometimes wonder if stranger sport any man has ever known than she was to make with ours.
"Wonder who the deuce 'tis now," muttered Milton Rhodes as he left the room to answer the call.
I remained there at the window. Of that fateful conversation over the wire, I heard not so much as a single syllable. I must have fallen into a deep reverie or something; at any rate, the next thing I knew there was a sudden voice, and Milton Rhodes was standing beside me again, a quizzical expression on his dark features.
"What is it, Bill?" he smiled. "In love at last, old tillicum? Didn't hear me until I spoke the third time."
"Gosh," I said, "this is getting dreadful! But—"
"Well?"
"What is it?"