“Not to speak of,” Simmons said. “Some of the native huts were swept away when the water backed up into the lagoon, but the people had time to get up here. There’s no saying what might have happened if the water had come up two feet higher.”
“I hope there isn’t going to be a hurricane this time,” I said, thinking of Molly.
“I hope so, I’m sure,” says Simmons, in an undertaker’s voice.
It took more than a falling barometer to put me off sleep those days, and I was off sounder than usual that night. I waked at last in a bedlam of sound, wailing of wind, cracking of branches, and the thunder of surf from the barrier reef.
“It’s the hurricane that owl Simmons was wishing on us,” I thought. I struck a match to find my clothes, but a gust of wind puffed it out. I was just trying for the third time, when Simmons came in, carrying one of the two ship’s lanterns Cartwright kept by the outer door.
“Do you know where Mr. Cartwright is?” Simmons says.
“I? No. Isn’t he in bed?”
Simmons shook his head. “I’m afraid he’s gone down to the pavilion. He began to worry about the piano. I see the other lantern’s gone. I must go after him.”
“I’ll come with you, then,” I said. “Just hold the light while I find my clothes.”
Ordinarily that Yorkshire face of Simmons had no more expression than a granite slab, but he looked human enough now. If he cared for any earthly creature it was Cartwright. I’d not been in the house three days without finding that out.