"River still rising," he cried, pointing to the flood in the moonlight,
"and the wind's simply awful."

He always said the same things, but it was the cry for companionship that
gave the real importance to his words.

"Lucky," I cried back, "our tent's in the hollow. I think it'll hold all
right." I added something about the difficulty of finding wood, in order to
explain my absence, but the wind caught my words and flung them across the
river, so that he did not hear, but just looked at me through the branches,
nodding his head.

"Lucky if we get away without disaster!" he shouted, or words to that
effect; and I remember feeling half angry with him for putting the thought
into words, for it was exactly what I felt myself. There was disaster
impending somewhere, and the sense of presentiment lay unpleasantly upon
me.

We went back to the fire and made a final blaze, poking it up with our
feet. We took a last look round. But for the wind the heat would have been
unpleasant. I put this thought into words, and I remember my friend's reply
struck me oddly: that he would rather have the heat, the ordinary July
weather, than this "diabolical wind."

Everything was snug for the night; the canoe lying turned over beside the
tent, with both yellow paddles beneath her; the provision sack hanging from
a willow-stem, and the washed-up dishes removed to a safe distance from the
fire, all ready for the morning meal.

We smothered the embers of the fire with sand, and then turned in. The flap