“Ah!” she exclaimed, for now in an instant there fell a fury of driving rain, which struck her on the face and hands like spent shot.
“Let me help you,” said Carington. “Here. How dark it is! Take my hand. This spruce will hold off the rain a while.” Rose leaped out in haste.
“It won’t last,” added the bowman.
“But what does my fish weigh? Couldn’t you strike a match and see? I want to know.”
“Certainly, ma’am!” he said, urgently sensible of the need to get back into character. “Best get it weighed soon. Them fish drops weight a lot.” So saying, he took out a silver match-box, and, taking three matches together, struck them on his corduroys, and hastily covered them with the cavern every smoker knows how to make with his hands. The wind put them out at once.
“No good!” said Polycarp.
“But I must know what my fish weighs,” urged this persistent young woman.
“Of course, ma’am!” said the much-amused Carington.
It had become suddenly still darker. Above them the storm roared, as it tossed the plumes of the unseen tree-tops, and the spruce was no longer a cover. Miss Lyndsay squirmed, and gave a little laugh, as more and more insolent drops crawled down her back.
“Do hurry,” she said, “my good man.”