almost simultaneous. Through the open side of our hut I could see and
hear the rain descending in torrents; fortunately it did not beat in,
but it was not long before the wet penetrated the roof--that roof of
leaves that I had mentally condemned the day before. After the rain once
came through, the ground was soon soaking.

It was a dismal scene. I sat up with the others, "the lanterns dimly
burning," and occupied myself for some time contriving gurgoyles at
different angles of my body, but the wet would trickle down my neck.

We made a small fire inside the hut, essaying thereby to dry some of our
things. My socks were soaking; my boots, I found, had a considerable
storage of water; the only dry thing was my throat, made dry by
swallowing the wood-smoke. A more complete transformation scene could
hardly be imagined than our present woeful guise compared with the
merriment of the supper-table, where all was song and jollity.

A German, who was sitting on the same log with myself, looking the
picture of misery, had been one of the most jovial songsters of the
evening.

"Thousand devils!" said he, "you could wring me like a rag. This
abominable hut is a sponge--a mere reservoir of water."

"Oh, well, it is all part of the fun," said I, turning the water out of
my boots, and proceeding to toast my socks by the fire on the thorns of
a twig. "Suppose we sing a song. What shall it be?--'The meeting of the
waters'?"

I had intended a mild joke, but the Teuton relapsed into grim silence.