RAINY DAY 97

we went at half speed, barely moving against the
current, while the water was tested with a pole to
ensure the necessary depth. And all the time the
massive clouds rolled up into the sullen glow of a
stormy sky. There was thunder and a sudden gust
of warm wind, followed by a heavier stillness. Rain
came down in sheets, soaking our clothes and the
contents of the boat. We peered across at the banks,
but there was nothing that looked like a camp site;
for miles and miles, only the dark close line of
evergreens blurred by the rain, and the hills behind
them half lost in mist. And then, at the bend in the
river, Sylvester's Mountain came suddenly into
sight; it was snow-capped and glistening, and a
rainbow struck against its shining flank. The river
turned again. We were back in threatening red
half-light between the surly dark banks of the
narrowing stream.

“Might as well camp.”

PY es,”

There was a narrow strip of land, overgrown
. with rank grasses and tall weeds, between the edge
of the bank and the trees. In the wetness and dark-
ness there was an incessant humming of insects.
With miserable haste we groped for the damp tent
and eiderdowns under the dripping tarpaulin, while
the evil-looking water ran past the boat; there was