The saw-mill was without side-walls; consisted only of a sheet-
iron roof and floors, on the former of which the storm pounded
with a roar that made only the sign language feasible. It was now
as if we were surrounded on all sides by solid walls of water and
forever shut off from the outer world--if indeed that had
survived. Sheets of water slashed in further and further across
the floor. We took to huddling behind beams and under saw-benches
--the militant storm hunted us out and wetted us bit by bit. "The
Admiral" and I tucked ourselves away on the 45-degree eye-beams up
under the roaring roof. The angry water gathered together in
columns and swept in and up to soak us.
At the end of an hour the downpour had increased some hundred per
cent. It was as if an express train going at full speed had
gradually doubled its rapidity. That was the day when little
harmless streams tore themselves apart into great gorges and left
their pathetic little bridges alone and deserted out in the middle
of the gulf. That was the famous May twelfth, 1912, when Ancon
recorded the greatest rainfall in her history,--7.23 inches,
virtually all within three hours. Three of us were ready to
surrender and swim home through it. But there was "the Admiral" to
consider. He was dressed clear to his scarf-pin--and Panama
tailors tear horrible holes in a police salary.
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