He beat against it, first with one fist
and then with both. He shouted. There was no response. Then he
exerted his strength and his weight against the door. It was
solid.
He was half turned when his eyes discovered, in a corner where the
lamplight struck dimly, his pack and clothes. In thirty seconds he
had his pipe and tobacco. After that for half an hour he paced up
and down the cabin, while the storm crashed and thundered &s if
bent upon destroying all life off the face of the earth.
Comforted by the company of his pipe, Carrigan did not beat at the
door again. He waited, and at the end of another half-hour the
storm had softened down into a steady patter of rain. The thunder
had traveled east, and the lightning had gone with it. David
opened the window again. The air that came in was rain-sweet,
soft, and warm. He puffed out a cloud of smoke and smiled. His
pipe always brought his good humor to the surface, even in the
worst places. St. Pierre's wife had certainly had a good soaking.
And in a way the whole thing was a bit funny. He was thinking now
of a poor little golden-plumaged partridge, soaked to the skin,
with its tail-feathers dragging pathetically.
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