But our satisfaction was short-lived. We had ditched the tent, to be sure, but we had badly underestimated the volume of a California downpour. Before many minutes had passed Johnny gave a disgusted snort. "I'm lying in a marsh!" he cried. He struck a light, and we all saw the water trickling in a dozen little streams beneath the edge of the tent. "We're going to be ruined!" cried Johnny comically. He arose, and in doing so brushed his head violently against the slanting canvas roof. Almost immediately thereafter the rays of the lantern were reflected from tiny beads of water, like a sweat, appearing as though by magic at that spot. They swelled, gathered, hesitated, then began to feel their way slowly down the dry canvas. The trickle became a stream. A large drop fell straight down. Another followed. "Anybody need a drink?" inquired Cal. "I'm sorry!" said Johnny contritely. "You needn't be," I consoled him. "The whole thing is going to leak, if this keeps up." "What's the matter with going over to the Morena cabin?" queried Yank. We hesitated a little. The events of the day had affected us all more deeply than we liked to acknowledge; and nobody but Yank much liked the idea of again entering that bloodstained abode. "We'd drown getting there," said Cal at last. "I move some of you fellows with two good arms rustle out and fix that ditch." He laughed. "Nothing like having a hole in you to get out of work." We took his advice, and managed to turn the flood, though we got very wet in the process. Then we returned to the tent, changed our clothes, crept into our blankets, and wrapped ourselves close. The spot brushed by Johnny's head dripped steadily. Otherwise our roof shed well. The rain roared straight down with steady, deadly persistency. "She can't keep this up long, anyway; that's a comfort," muttered Johnny sleepily. Couldn't she? All next morning that flood came down without the let-up of even a single moment. It had all the volume and violence of a black thunderstorm at its height; only the worst of the thunderstorm lasts but a few moments, while this showed no signs of ever intending to end. Our stout canvas continued to turn the worst of it, but a fine spray was driven through, to our great discomfort. We did not even attempt to build a fire, but sat around wrapped in our damp blankets. Until about two of the afternoon the deluge continued. Our unique topic of conversation was the marvel of how it could keep it up! We could not imagine more water falling were every stream and lake in the mountains to be lifted to the heavens and poured down again. "Where the devil does it all come from?" marvelled Old, again and again. "Don't seem like no resevoy, let alone clouds, could hold so much!" "And where does it go to?" I supplemented. "I reckon some of those plains people could tell you," surmised Yank shrewdly.