In regular cadence the ocean swept in with a hoarse,
resistless roll on the sands.
We dived in, keeping an eye out for the sharks we knew never come
so far in and probably wouldn't bite if they did. The sun blazed
down white hot from a cloudless sky. This time the Lieutenant and
Sergeant Jack had not been able to come, but we arranged the races
and jumps on the sand for all that, and went into them with a will
and--
A rain-drop fell. Nor was it long lonesome. Before we had finished
the hundred-yard dash we were in the midst of----it was undeniably
raining. Half a moment later "bucketsful" would have been a weak
simile. All the pent up four months of an extra long rainy season
seemed to have been loosed without warning. The blanket of water
blotted out Panama and Ancon hill across the bay, blotted out the
distant American bathers, then the light-brown ones, then the
chocolate-tinted, then even the jet black ones close at hand.
We remained under water for a time to keep dry. But the rain
whipped our faces as with thousands of stinging lashes. We crawled
out and dashed blindly up the bank toward the saw-mill, the rain
beating on our all but bare skins, feeling as it might to stand
naked in Miraflores locks and let the sand pour down upon us from
sixty feet above. When at last we stumbled under cover and up the
stairs to where our clothing hung, it was as if a weight of many
tons had been lifted from our shoulders.
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