'Now you know about it, what are you goin' to do—sir?'
She had the answer on her lean cheek before the sentence was finished.
'Go and see if you can get us something to eat, Rhoda. And beer.'
'I expec' the larder 'll be in a swim,' she replied, 'but old bottled stuff don't take any harm from wet.' She returned with a tray, all in order, and they ate and drank together, and took observations of the falling flood till dawn opened its bleared eyes on the wreck of what had been a fair garden. Midmore, cold and annoyed, found himself humming:
'That flood strewed wrecks upon the grass,
That ebb swept out the flocks to sea.
There isn't a rose left, Rhoda!
An awesome ebb and flow it was
To many more than mine and me.
But each will mourn his . . .
It'll cost me a hundred.'
'Now we know the worst,' said Rhoda, 'we can go to bed. I'll lay on the kitchen sofa. His light's burnin' still.'
'And she?'
'Dirty old cat! You ought to 'ear 'er snore!'
At ten o'clock in the morning, after a maddening hour in his own garden on the edge of the retreating brook, Midmore went off to confront more damage at Sidney's. The first thing that met him was the pig, snowy white, for the water had washed him out of his new sty, calling on high heaven
