We are trying bags of
cement, but it doesn't do much good."
MacFarlane caught up his hat and the two hurried down stream to
the "fill," while Jack, buttoning his oilskin jacket over his
chest, and crowding his slouch hat close to his eyebrows and ears
strode out into the downpour, his steps bent in the opposite
direction.
The sight that met his eyes was even more alarming. The once quiet
little stream, with its stretch of meadowland reaching to the foot
of the steep hills, was now a swirl of angry reddish water
careering toward the big culvert under the "fill." There it struck
the two flanking walls of solid masonry, doubled in volume and
thus baffled, shot straight into and under the culvert and so on
over the broad fields below.
Up the stream toward the boulevard on the other side of its sky
line, groups of men were already engaged carrying shovels, or
lugging pieces of timber as they hurried along its edge, only to
disappear for an instant and reappear again empty-handed. Shouts
could be heard, as if some one were giving orders.
Pages:
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389