“I can’t stand this any longer,” she said, referring not to our quarrel, but to a more tangible affliction, which we afterward named Nambitis,--with the accent on the penult,--“I’m going to sleep on the floor.” “Perhaps it would be as well,” I answered. Toby made herself a nice bed on the adobe floor with old coats and rugs, and we went to rest,--at least ninety-five out of a possible hundred of us did. For some reason we sprang gladly out of bed next morning, to find that our hosts had taken the trouble to prepare us a liberal breakfast. The lump over Toby’s left eye had spread, giving her a leering expression, but otherwise she was again her cheerful self. The rest of the party suggested it was hardly tactful for her to show herself wearing such an obvious reproach to our hosts on her countenance, and advised her to forego breakfast. Toby rebelled. She replied that she had only eaten two sandwiches since the previous morning, and was faint from loss of blood, and was going to have her breakfast, lump or no lump. Toby is like Phil May’s little boy,--she “do make a Gawd out of her stummick.” I on the contrary can go two or three days without regular food, with no effect except on my temper. So we all sat down to a breakfast neatly served on flowered china, of food which looked like white man’s food, but was so highly over-sugared and under-salted that we had difficulty in eating it. Our host informed us the river had been steadily rising all night. He doubted whether we should see any signs of our car. His doubts confirmed a dream which had troubled me all night, wherein I had waked, gone to the river, and found the old lady completely covered by the turgid flood. I dreaded to investigate, for when one dreams true, dreams are no light matter. Somewhat fortified by breakfast, we went to view the wreck. With mingled relief and despair, we found my dream only about 80 per cent true. The radiator, nearest to shore, lay half exposed. The car sagged drunkenly on one side. The tonneau was completely under water, but we could still see the upper half of the back windows. While others rode eight miles to telephone, we stood on the bank, breathlessly watching to see whether the water line on those windows rose or fell. The Indians told us the river would surely rise a little, as the snow began to melt. But Noah, looking down upon fellow sufferers, must have interceded for us. Inch by inch, the windows came into full view. The worst would not happen. A chance remained that Bill could rescue us before the river rose again. Bill was our rainbow, our dove of promise, our Ararat.