we're going to be drenched."

The next town was Kokomo, about ten miles away, where we were to stop
at the telegraph office and see if there was a message from Gladys.
Then began a race the like of which I have never seen before. It was
the speed of man matched against the speed of the storm gods. Behind us
the storm was breaking; we could see the grey wall of the rain in the
distance; the wind was rising to a tornado and the thunder claps seemed
to split the earth open. And there we were, scudding along before it,
like a tiny craft fleeing from a tidal wave. The Glow-worm bore us
onward like a gallant steed, and I compared our headlong flight with
the King of Denmark's ride when his Rose of the Isles lay dying.

"Think of something cheerful," said Sahwah, crossly; "Gladys isn't
lying at the point of death."

After all, the comparison didn't hold good, for the King's steed
reached his destination and the Glow-worm didn't. We had been so taken
up with our search for Gladys that we had neglected to supply the life
blood to our iron steed, namely, gasoline, and we came to a dead stop
in the road four or five miles from town. Our exclamations of disgust
were still hovering in the air when the storm struck us. As Sahwah has
always described it, "And then the water came down at Lodore." I could
devote several pages to the fury of that rainfall, but what is the use
of taking up the reader's time when her own imagination will supply the
details? Just imagine the worst storm you were ever caught in, or ever
saw anyone else caught in, and multiply it by two or three times and
you have our situation.

With a shriek of delight the wind seized the loose end of the storm