"Enough." Brayer looked sick. He burst out, "God amighty, Henry, we're doing this all wrong. We ought to be back in town, running the show, instead of out here trying to do everything ourselves. We ought to have two-way radio on the pumpers, and a first-aid emergency truck, and an organization set up year-round with volunteers trained for emergency work. Sure, it'd cost a little money, but what the hell, the taxpayers'll stand for it. Something like this will make godfearing citizens out of them for a while anyhow." "Sure," said the burgess gently. "Sure, Red. You finish up here and come on back to town and we'll start over." He left the chief of police there, with his thick mustache running water and his old face worried and indignant. As he headed back to the car where the Chesbros were waiting, he thought: Red's a good man and he's right, only he hasn't finished thinking it through yet. We need all those things all right. But after this--what taxpayers? * * * * * Artie Chesbro was sulking. If that power-mad son of a bitch Starkman had been willing to give him two lousy minutes of his time, they could have got the whole thing over with and he'd be back in Summit by now, getting a good night's sleep, instead of catching pneumonia sitting in the car. He couldn't even help out in their lousy Boy-Scout act--they'd chased him back to the car the second time he'd fallen in, on the pretext that they didn't have another flashlight to replace the one he'd lost. So there went a fine chance to get Starkman's ear. Thank God, he told himself virtuously, nothing like this could happen back in Summit. For two cents he'd turn around and head back and the hell with the burgess--the old Swanscomb place wasn't worth all this trouble. Or anyway, it wouldn't be, if it hadn't been for the signed option agreement he'd given the men from Chillicothe, Ohio.... "Shut up that damn humming," he snapped at his wife. Mrs. Chesbro laughed softly. Chesbro didn't even notice the burgess until the door of the car opened. "How's it going, Henry?" he demanded cordially. "Hope you found those kids. Damn shame about the camp, but if they will build on low ground they have to expect something like this." "Let's head back for town," said the burgess. He looked at the clock on Chesbro's dashboard. That couldn't be right! Two--three--four hours they'd been out here, he counted. That was time enough to wash all of Hebertown away. He leaned back, and let himself be weary. He hadn't been up this late in--in--he couldn't remember.