Page:Dave Porter in the Gold Fields.djvu/257



", but this is sure going to be a corker!"

Dave shouted out the words—to make himself heard above the whistling of the wind as it blew across the little plateau on the mountainside, where the party had gone into camp.

It was half an hour later, and during that time the oncoming storm had approached steadily. At first the wind had come in fitful gusts, bending the scant brushwood among the rocks first in one direction and then another. This had been followed by a sudden dash of rain, and for a few minutes they had hoped that the worst of the downpour would pass to the south of them. But then had come a sudden turn, and now the rain was descending on them in torrents, driven in a slanting direction by the wind, which showed no signs of abating.

"I should say it was a corker!" returned Roger, as he brushed the water from his face and peered beyond the rocks. To get out of that driving downfall was impossible.