he hurried down, driven on by the strong cold wind at his back.Remembering what his father had said, he eyed the mills on the banks of the river apprehensively and thought it was lucky that the overflow would occurâif it occurred at allâduring the night when the mills were closed. Now that the rain had ceased, the peak of the water intake would be past in a few hours; if nothing happened before dawn, the reservoir would be safe for this time. Luckily Beaumontâs Row stood halfway up the hillside, where surely the overflow would not reach. Beaumont House, however, stood on the level of the mill yard, tucked into the side of the hill. Joe hesitated. Pride made him exceedingly reluctant to approach the Beaumonts, yet it seemed to him mean, ignoble, not to give them warning. At length his natural goodness triumphed; he entered the massive front portico and pulled the bell. The maid who opened the door started back in alarm as she recognised him, and this angered Joe.
âPlease tell Mester Beaumont as the Ling is still filling and thereâs like to be an overflow,â he said drily.
âShall I say who brought the message?â
âNo. Itâs no matter. Well, say it came from the drawerâthatâs true enough,â said Joe.
âWeâve heard about Ling before,â said the maid pertly, âfrom your family.â
Joe shrugged his shoulders and turned away.
He went home, ate his tea, talked with his wife and mother about the Ling and went to bed.
7
It was ten oâclock that night when the water in the reservoir, driven hard by the strong wind, began to flow over the top of the embankment. By midnight torrents of water were cascading down the outer surface at many points, and soon this grass-grown surface, not being faced with stone, began to crumble. Tons of loose earth and rubble were swiftly carried away. Hardly had the alarmed watchers become accustomed to this spectacle than the whole outer surface of the bank disappeared, leaving exposed the inner layer of clay. At one point near the north side of the reservoir there now became visible a gap in the clay.
âThatâs where the spring came through,â said old Boothpointing. âI told âem so. I told âem. There was clay in the watter, could only have come from the puddle in the wall.â
His hearers murmured agreement.
âI was right, I believe?â went on old Booth fiercely. âWerenât I right? Eh?â
âRight enough,â murmured his hearers, uneasily shuffling their feet.
Water now began to pour through the gap. The clay around it bulged, cracked, split; the split became fissures and ran along the whole length of the embankment; the clay bank began to slide and in a moment, it seemed, had totally disintegrated.
âThis is more than brimming, John,â said one man sardonically.
âIt is that,â replied old Booth gravely.
âBut if that inner wall doesnât hold, what then?â
âGod knows.â
âItâs stone, think on,â said the drawer in the high quavering tones of fear.
At that moment, with a noise like a rolling peal of thunder, the whole mass of earthwork gave way, and three hundred thousand tons of water were released to rush down with fearful velocity upon the narrow valley through the gap thus made. For a moment the watchers stood stupefied, awestruck by the magnitude of the calamity and the fearfully grand spectacle of the huge waves billowing white beneath the moon. Then with incoherent cries of panic they turned and ran for their homes.
8
âWakken up, Joe!â said his wife, shaking him.
âWhatâs wrong?â said Joe, starting up.
âThi fatherâs not home yet, and thi motherâs right upset.â
His mother stood in the door of the tiny loft, wrapped in a shawl, a lighted candle in her hand.
âItâs so fearfully wild, Joe,â she murmured. âThe windâs howling like a