He
feared rain. The season had been quite wet enough, particularly down on
the swamp land, and but yesterday Bles had viewed his dykes with
apprehension for the black pool scowled about them. He dared not think
what a long heavy rain might do to the wonderful island of cotton which
now stood fully five feet high, with flowers and squares and budding
bolls. It might not rain, but the safest thing would be to work at those
dykes, so he started for spade and hoe. He heard Miss Smith calling,
however.
"Bles--hitch up!"
He was vexed. "Are you--in a hurry, Miss Smith?" he asked.
"Yes, I am," she replied, with unmistakable positiveness.
He started off, and hesitated. "Miss Smith, would Jim do to drive?"
"No," sharply. "I want you particularly." At another time she might have
observed his anxiety, but today she was agitated. She knew she was
taking a critical step.
Slowly Bles hitched up. After all it might not rain, he argued as they
jogged toward town. In silence they rode on. Bles kept looking at the
skies. The south was getting darker and darker. It might rain. It might
rain only an hour or so, but, suppose it should rain a day--two days--a
week?
Miss Smith was looking at her own skies and despite the promised sunrise
they loomed darkly. Five thousand was needed for the land and at least
another thousand for repairs.
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