The storm had brought back the floods, and they were now worse than
anything that anybody remembered having ever seen. The feeding sources
of the Rod River had broken all bounds; the lower parts of Hadleigh
Wood had become a quagmire; and the volume of water passing under the
road bridge was so great that many people thought this ancient
structure to be in danger of collapsing. Over at Otterford Mill, the
stream swept like a torrent through a chain of wide lakes; Mr. Bates'
cottage was cut off from the highroad, and the meadows behind the
neighboring Foxhound Kennels were deep under water.
In these days Dale took to riding as the easiest means of getting
about; and one afternoon when he had gone splashing across to see Mr.
Bates, thence to pay a visit of polite canvass at the Kennels, and was
now returning homeward by the lanes, he heard a dismal chorus of cries
in the Mill meads.
Forcing his clumsy horse through a gap in the hedge, he galloped along
the sodden field tracks to the shifting scene of commotion. Three or
four idle louts, a couple of children, and a farm-laborer were running
by the swollen margin of the mill-stream, yelling forlornly, pointing
at an object that showed itself now and again in the swirling center
of the current.
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