The qualification was well put.
Surely no one save a person whose errand was most pressing would venture out in a spot so lonely upon a night like this.
The wind whirling down the road from the Hudson and the heights of the Palisades beyond played with the alpaca umbrella as with some child's toy, the rain coming down in what appeared in the darkness an almost unbroken sheet, has drenched the clothes of this unfortunate traveler as to make them cling like so many plasters to his body.
Indeed, so utterly saturated has he become, that it seems a matter of wonder that he does not abandon the umbrella altogether and boldly face the storm.
Slump! Slump! Slump!
As he raises one foot from the pasty, dripping mass of melting snow the other sinks through it to the very stones of the road beneath.
As he approached the broken gate leading up to the clump of oaks behind which the dark outlines of the old Mansfield house could be dimly seen, the man paused, leaned for a moment against the dripping wall, and gave utterance to a single word:
"Rube!"
There was no answer.
"He has not come," muttered the man, impatiently. "Can anything have happened? Rube is generally punctual. Perhaps the wind sighing through those gloomy old oaks has deadened the sound of my voice."