The men-folk did not interfere. Once Dick suggested that she take his
oilskins, as her mackintosh was worth no more than paper in such a storm.
But she sniffed her independence so sharply that he communed with his
pipe till she tied the flaps on the outside and slushed away on the
flooded trail.
"Think she'll make it?" Dick's face belied the indifference of his
voice.
"Make it? If she stands the pressure till she gets to the cache, what of
the cold and misery, she'll be stark, raving mad. Stand it? She'll be
dumb-crazed. You know it yourself, Dick. You've wind-jammed round the
Horn. You know what it is to lay out on a topsail yard in the thick of
it, bucking sleet and snow and frozen canvas till you're ready to just
let go and cry like a baby. Clothes? She won't be able to tell a bundle
of skirts from a gold pan or a tea-kettle."
"Kind of think we were wrong in letting her go, then?"
"Not a bit of it. So help me, Dick, she'd 'a' made this tent a hell for
the rest of the trip if we hadn't. Trouble with her she's got too much
spirit. This'll tone it down a bit."
"Yes," Dick admitted, "she's too ambitious.
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