“Ver is mine boy?” demanded old Mrs Winklemann, looking round.
“He’s gane to the kirk for floor. Ne’er fash yer heed aboot him. He’ll be back afore lang.”
The old woman seemed content, though she did not understand a word of Liz’s Scotch.
“Bless mine boy,” she said, with a mild smile at Daddy, who replied with an amiable nod.
But this state of comparative comfort did not last long. In half an hour the water came over the threshold of the door and flooded the floor. Fortunately the old couple had their feet on wooden stools and thus escaped the first rush, but old Liz now felt that something must be done to keep them dry. There was a low table in the room. She dragged it out and placed it between the couple, who smiled, under the impression, no doubt, that they were about to have their evening meal.
“Daddy, I’m gaun to pit yer legs on the table. It’ll be mair comfortabler, an’ll keep ye oot o’ the wat.”
Daddy submitted with a good grace, and felt more easy than usual, the table being very little higher than his chair. Mrs Winklemann was equally submissive and pleased. Covering the two pairs of legs with a blanket, old Liz produced some bread and cheese, and served out rations thereof to keep their minds engaged. She plumed herself not a little on the success of the table-and-legs device, but as the water rose rapidly she became anxious again, though not for herself. She waded about the hut with supreme indifference to the condition of her own lower limbs. At last she mounted upon the bed and watched, as the water rose inch by inch on the legs of the two chairs.
“What wull I do whan it grups them?” she muttered, experiencing that deep feeling of anticipation with which one might watch the gradual approach of fire to gunpowder.
The objects of her solicitude snored pleasantly in concert.
“It’ll kill them wi’ the cauld, to say naething o’ the start,” continued the old woman with deepening, almost desperate, anxiety. “Oh man, man, what for did ye leave us?”