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Flax.
Chapter XXVIII.
McKINNON’S PASS.
“Stress of black storms, lashed by the lightning’s fire.”
The rain falling on the iron roof awoke us at seven o’clock. I opened the door, and behold, another grey and misty morning, the mountains completely hidden, the track sodden, the birches dripping cheerlessly.
“Oh!” exclaimed Mrs Greendays in a disgusted voice. “Well, of course we must stay here until the weather clears, so I shall go to sleep again.”
But just then the cook came with hot water, saying that breakfast would be ready in half-an-hour, so we dressed and went into the common-hut to argue the point over porridge and grilled ham.
By ten we were on the track. It had been decided that the chances of the weather clearing were too hopelessly uncertain to risk remaining on at Mintaro while it was possible to push on. Mr. Inspector assured us that by midday it might be perfectly fine, or it might be snowing,—“you never could tell in this
