“I suppose this is the answer to your prayers in the early part of the week,” said Dr. Richards, when Mr. Clare warned him of the coming danger.
“I could not tell you about that,” returned the other, “it is hard to decide upon the meaning of a message until one has read it through. Meanwhile, my rooms at ‘Prices’ are entirely at your service; and I should advise you to take valuables, papers, and clothing. You’ll have time to pack them up if you’re not too long about it. Drive over in your buggy, doctor, and I’ll send a boy for the Ark.”
Not every one, however, was as easy to move as the Richardses.
“Is it a flood?” asked one Irish family whom he visited and warned. “Sure, floods is nothin’ when you’re used to ‘em, your Honor.” And not a step would they budge, until they and their shanty were washed away together.
Most people refused to believe that a flood was possible at that season of the year, or that the bursting of the Cannomore Dam could possibly affect the Mickle River.
But at seven o’clock in the evening the river was over its banks; at midnight it was within a foot and a half of the level of “Prices,” and reported to be still rising. There was no rush of a wall of water at this distance from the scene of the catastrophe; only a slow, steady, terrible, irresistible rising. Where now was the beautiful river whereof they had boasted? Instead of it, a boiling, foaming devil rushed headlong by them; its yellow waters swirling with wreckage and horrible with corpses. Truly, their pride was turned to their destruction!
“There are those families at the lower mill,” said Mr. Clare suddenly; “has any one heard of them?”
“They were warned,” said some one, “but whether the blame fools moved out or not, I can’t say.”
“If you will lend me your boat,” said Mr. Clare, “I will see after them.”
“You? there’s work for you here, Mr. Clare; besides, the current”—