“Gabriel thought of it,” said Madge. “It is his country. He is very old. He always knows the right thing to do. Isn’t it grand?”
Johnny thought it a little more than grand.
“We British and you Americans,” she said slowly, “think we are very smart. We know many things. But the natives of other lands, they know many useful things that we never dreamed of.
“But you are hurt. Your face—it is bloody.” Her eyes grew suddenly large.
“No, I guess not. Nothing much. It must have been the branch of that fallen tree. Lucky it didn’t kill us all.”
The wound, little more than a deep scratch, was soon dressed. Then, against the sheltered side of the “storm cellar” left by the tree roots, they sat down to patiently await the passing of the storm.
“Getting worse. Listen!” Johnny whispered as the wind whipped the dead branches with increasing fury.
The girl shuddered. “The bananas,” she said. “They will all be down. Ruined. The whole plantation. There will be no more for nine months.”
“Then it’s the end of our plans.”
“I am afraid so.”