“I don’t care—anything,” shrugged the Shark.
A dash of rain drove into Paul’s face, and gave a hardly needed hint of the desirability of shelter.
“It’s getting pretty damp,” he said. “We ought to go back, or find some cover till there’s a let up in the shower.”
“Oh, all right,” said the Shark carelessly. “Just as you please—’tis getting to be quite a rain, eh?”
“Yes, it is. And it’s going to be a good deal of a tramp.”
Thereupon the Shark squinted at the leaden sky.
“Umph! Doesn’t show signs of clearing, I must say. Still, the weather’s the weather, and what we know about it doesn’t make an exact science. Maybe there’ll be a lull. Meanwhile, I suppose we might as well make for the house.”
“You mean the Grants’ house or the sugar camp?”
“Neither. There’s another, nearer by.”
“Oh!” said Varley, and, in spite of him, the doubt in his tone was manifest.