In this upper chamber the proofs of the leaks in the roof were numerous. Little streams were running down all four of the walls, against one of which, where probably the beams sagged, a pool a yard or more across had formed. Other parts of the floor, however, were still dry. Very few of the furnishings had been left in the room. The tall headboard of an old-fashioned bedstead leaned against a wall, and near the hearth was a heavy settle, too bulky, probably, to have made it worth while to go to the trouble of removing it. It furnished a seat for Lon and Orkney, while Varley and the Shark joined Sam in the inspection of their refuge. This completed, the three joined the two before the fireplace. The Shark stuck his brand in a crevice between two bricks; watched its none too vigorous flame for a moment; stepped forward and extinguished it.
“Guess we’ll economize on the illumination,” he said. “When this is gone, I don’t know where the next’ll come from. And who’s afraid of the dark, anyway?”
Nobody made reply to this query. There was a pause; then Sam asked, a little sharply, if the Shark were sure his supply of matches was protected from the dampness. In turn, the question led to a reckoning of the stock of all the party. Orkney had a metal pocket-case, well filled; Lon had a score of matches loose in a waistcoat pocket; Sam himself could contribute a dozen. In this respect, at least, they were prepared for emergencies. Sam heard somebody’s sigh of relief in the darkness, and sympathized with it.
Truth to tell, the adventurers were now in the midst of one of their most trying experiences. The gloom of the room; the inaction; the forced waiting—all these things tested grit. For the time being, they seemed to be safe enough, but nobody could tell what the conditions might be an hour hence. The flood continued to rise about the old house. Sam’s observations from the window were confirmed by Orkney, who felt his way down the stairs, but only to return with word that the water was encountered half-way down the flight.
Again Sam felt the responsibility which falls to a leader. He whispered a word in Lon’s ear; and Lon, good fellow that he was, did his best to cheer his companions. He racked his memory for tales of Dominie Pike and his exploits, and embroidered the traditions with his own inventions, perhaps, for quaint tales they were which he told of the pioneer days in Sugar Valley. Sam noted that Tom Orkney was especially interested. Varley, too, put an occasional question; but there was nothing to indicate that the Shark was at all attentive.
Sam, presently, crept to the Shark’s side. Lon was in the midst of a yarn, and was talking loudly; there was small danger that a whispered conversation would be overheard.
“Oh, Shark!” Sam spoke very softly.
“Eh? What?” The Shark’s response was in like tone.
“I’ve been wondering—say! ought to be some limit to this sort of thing—rise of the river, I mean. What’s your notion?”
“Pure conjecture!” Low as the reply was, it had a shade of testiness.