'Twas nearly eight when they drove into the yard and come slopping
up the steps. And SUCH a passel of drownded rats you never see. The
women-folks made for their rooms, but the men hopped around the parlor,
shedding puddles with every hop, and hollering for us to trot out the
head of the Weather Bureau.

"Bring him to me," orders Peter, stopping to pick his pants loose from
his legs; "I yearn to caress him."

And what old Dillaway said was worse'n that.

But Beriah didn't come to be caressed. 'Twas quarter past nine when we
heard wheels in the yard.

"By mighty!" yells Cap'n Jonadab; "it's the camp-meeting pilgrims. I
forgot them. Here's a show."

He jumped to open the door, but it opened afore he got there and Beriah
come in. He didn't pay no attention to the welcome he got from the gang,
but just stood on the sill, pale, but grinning the grin that a terrier
dog has on just as you're going to let the rat out of the trap.

Somebody outside says: "Whoa, consarn you!" Then there was a thump and a
sloshy stamping on the steps, and in comes Eben and the widder.

I had one of them long-haired, foreign cats once that a British skipper
gave me. 'Twas a yeller and black one and it fell overboard. When we
fished it out it looked just like the Kelly woman done then. Everybody
but Beriah just screeched--we couldn't help it. But the prophet didn't
laugh; he only kept on grinning.