So we waited and
dodged and squirmed into closer holes for another hour; and grew
steadily wetter.
Then at length dusk began to fall, and instead of slacking with
the day the fury of the storm increased. It was then that "the
Admiral" capitulated, seeing fate plainly in league with his
tailor; and wigwagging the decision to us beside him, he led the
way down the stairs and dived into the world awash.
Wet? We had not taken the third step before we were streaming like
fire hose. There was nearly an hour of it, splashing knee-deep
through what had been when we came out little dry sandy hollows;
steering by guess, for the eye could make out nothing fifty yards
ahead, even before the cheese-thick darkness fell; bowed like
nonogenarians under the burden of water; staggering back and forth
as the storm caught us crosswise or the earth gave way under us.
"The Admiral's" patent-leather shoes--but why go into painful
details? Those who were in Panama on that memorable afternoon can
picture it all for themselves, and the others will never know. The
wall of water was as thick as ever when we fought our bowed and
weary way up over the railroad bridge and, summoning up the last
strength, splurged tottering into "Angelini's."
When our streaming had so far subsided that they recognised us for
solvent human beings, encouraging concoctions were set before us.
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