between thumb and
forefinger, and he shuddered. No canvas ever made would keep that
deluge out. And now there was growing up a wind with it. The tents on
the other side would be beaten down like pegged sheets of paper, ripped
up and torn to pieces. He imagined St. Pierre's wife in that tumult and
distress--the breath blown out of her, half drowned, blinded by deluge
and lightning, broken and beaten because of him. Thought of her
companions did not ease his mind. Human hands were entirely inadequate
to cope with a storm like this that was rocking the earth about him.

Suddenly he went to the door, determined that if Bateese was outside he
would get some satisfaction out of him or challenge him to a fight
right there. He beat against it, first with one fist and then with
both. He shouted. There was no response. Then he exerted his strength
and his weight against the door. It was solid.

He was half turned when his eyes discovered, in a corner where the
lamplight struck dimly, his pack and clothes. In thirty seconds he had
his pipe and tobacco. After that for half an hour he paced up and down
the cabin, while the storm crashed and thundered as if bent upon
destroying all life off the face of the earth.

Comforted by the company of his pipe, Carrigan did not beat at the door
again. He waited, and at the end of another half-hour the storm had
softened down into a steady patter of rain. The thunder had traveled
east, and the lightning had gone with it. David opened the window
again. The air that came in was rain-sweet, soft, and warm. He puffed
out a cloud of smoke and smiled. His pipe always brought his good humor
to the surface, even in the worst places. St. Pierre's wife had
certainly had a good soaking. And in a way the whole thing was a bit
funny. He was thinking now of a poor little golden-plumaged partridge,
soaked to the skin, with its tail-feathers dragging pathetically.
Grinning, he told himself that it was an insult to think of her and a
half-drowned partridge in the same breath. But the simile still
remained, and he chuckled. Probably she was wringing out her clothes
now, and the men were cursing under their breath while trying to light
a fire. He watched for the fire. It failed to appear. Probably she was
hating him for bringing all this discomfort and humiliation upon her.
It was not impossible that tomorrow she would give Bateese permission
to brain him. And St. Pierre? What would this man, her husband, think