“The dam has burst,” said old Mr. Cooper.
He made this melodramatic announcement with great calm, because it was a
very unimportant dam, and not likely to evoke much excitement; but Jerry
Sargent, his employer, sprang to his feet.
“What?” he cried. “Elliot’s dam? Then Sloan Street must be under water!”
“I’m afraid so,” said Cooper, somewhat startled; “but No. 93 is the
only house there that’s tenanted, and I didn’t imagine you’d be much
upset about _them_.”
He was still more startled by the expression he now saw upon Sargent’s
usually good-humored face.
“What do you mean by supposing that?” thundered Jerry. “On the contrary,
they’re--they’re _special_ tenants. They--”
“Well,” said Mr. Cooper, “you see, in view of the correspondence we had
with them--”
“What correspondence?”
“Why, those letters that Mrs. Aldrich directed us to send while you were
away. You distinctly said we were to take directions from her in your
absence.”
“Let me see those letters!”
Mr. Cooper produced them. Mr. Sargent read them.
“It’s an outrage!” shouted Jerry. “It’s persecution! It’s--”
He flung himself into his overcoat, jammed a felt hat well down on his
head, and started out, slamming the office door behind him. His roadster
stood at the curb. He got in, started off with a jerk, and went down the
street, around the corner, and out into the road that led to Sloan
Street from the town. It was a good road, and he took advantage of it.
He turned another corner, and Sloan Street lay before him at the foot of
the hill.
Oh, Sloan Street was under water, sure enough! It was, in fact, a
shallow stream, moving sluggishly. It was certainly not more than six
inches deep, and there was no danger, visible or implied; yet to Sargent
it was horrible, that sullen, muddy stream, under the merciless downpour
of rain, with stanch old No. 93 standing there among the tossing,
dripping branches of the trees.
He left his car, ran down the hill, and splashed into the water, ankle
deep. His feet sank into the mud, the rain beat in his face, but he bent
his head and floundered on, the slowness of his progress putting him
into a dogged fury. He wanted to get there at once, to explain.
He stumbled over something, fell to his knees, and lost his hat while
regaining his feet. He wiped his rain-blurred eyes with a muddy sleeve,
and went on.
“Mr. Sargent! Mr. Sa-argent!”
He stopped, turned, and saw Lynn standing on the hill he had recently
left.
“Oh, please come back!” she cried. “Please, Mr. Sargent!”
He did come back, and stood before her.
“I had to come,” he said, “to tell you that I didn’t know anything about
those letters from Cooper & Cooper. I never heard of them till to-day.”
Never in his life had he imagined that a girl could look like this. Her
hair lay dank across her forehead, giving to her glowing face an
adorably childlike look. Her dark lashes were wet, and were like rays
about her clear eyes; and the kindness, the heavenly kindness of her
regard! The poor fellow had positively no idea that she was a forlorn,
bedraggled little object. There he stood, looking up at her, and she
looked at him, and tears came into her eyes.
“Don’t!” he cried.
“But you don’t know!” she said.
She meant that he didn’t know how splendid and gallant and handsome he
appeared, bareheaded in the rain, with a great streak of mud across his
face, and how deeply touched she was by his coming through a flood to
explain about the letters; and of course she didn’t wish him to know.
“I--my boxes!” she said, by way of explaining the tears. “I’ve been into
the city to see a wholesaler, and he’s bought them all. I had them all
on the dining room floor, ready to pack, and I’m afraid--”
“I’ll see what I can do,” said Sargent.
“No! No! Mr. Sargent, come out of that water!” said she sternly. “It
doesn’t matter!”
“It does,” said he. “Wait here!”
Off he splashed again.
No. 93 was built on the side of a little slope. The front door was
reached by a flight of steps, but the back door was level with the
garden, and Jerry knew very well that the house must be filled with
water. He kicked open the gate, made his way along the path and up the
steps to the veranda, and put the pass key he carried with him into the
lock.
The key turned readily, but the door would not open. He pushed his
hardest. At last he drew off a little and crashed against the door with
his shoulder. Then it opened, and a great flood of water, dammed up
inside, came rolling down the steps in a cascade. Suddenly something
heavy, borne on the swift-moving current, struck Jerry on the shins,
knocked him backward, and, sailing on, struck him violently on the head.
The chill, muddy water rolled over him, but he was as indifferent to it
as the fleet of hand-decorated boxes that went down the front steps with
him.