'Charlie came down to help Mr. Sidney lift the gates,' Rhoda continued.
'The flood-gates? They are perfectly easy to handle now. I've put in a wheel and a winch.'
'When the brook's really up they must be took clean out on account of the rubbish blockin' 'em. That's why Charlie came down.'
Midmore grunted impatiently. 'Everybody has talked to me about that brook ever since I came here. It's never done anything yet.'
'This 'as been a dry summer. If you care to look now, sir, I'll get you a lantern.'
She paddled out with him into a large wet night. Half-way down the lawn her light was reflected on shallow brown water, pricked through with grass blades at the edges. Beyond that light, the brook was strangling and kicking among hedges and tree-trunks.
'What on earth will happen to the big rose-bed?' was Midmore's first word.
'It generally 'as to be restocked after a flood. Ah!' she raised her lantern. 'There's two garden-seats knockin' against the sun-dial. Now, that won't do the roses any good.'
'This is too absurd. There ought to be some decently thought-out system—for—for dealing with this sort of thing.' He peered into the rushing gloom. There seemed to be no end to the moisture and the racket. In town he had noticed nothing.
'It can't be 'elped,' said Rhoda. 'It's just what it does do once in just so often. We'd better go back.'
