Where were the inhabitants?

Ransome stood and looked and shook like a man in an ague.

“Little,” said he, “this is awful.  Nobody in Hillsborough dreams the extent of this calamity.  I dread the dawn of day.  There must be scores of dead bodies hidden in this thick mud, or perhaps swept through Hillsborough into the very sea.”

A little further, and they came to the “Reindeer,” where he had heard the boon-companions singing—­over their graves; for that night, long before the “cock did craw, or the day daw,” their mouths were full of water and mud, and not the “barley bree.”

To know their fate needed but a glance at the miserable, shattered, gutted fragment of the inn that stood.  There was a chimney, a triangular piece of roof, a quarter of the inside of one second-floor room, with all the boards gone and half the joists gone, and the others either hanging down perpendicular or sticking up at an angle of forty-five.  Even on the side furthest from the flood the water had hacked and plowed away the wall so deeply, that the miserable wreck had a jagged waist, no bigger in proportion than a wasp’s.

Not far from this amazing ruin was a little two-storied house, whose four rooms looked exactly, as four rooms are represented in section on the stage, the front wall having been blown clean away, and the furniture and inmates swept out; the very fender and fire-irons had been carried away:  a bird-cage, a clock, and a grate were left hanging to the three walls.

As a part of this village stood on high ground, the survivors were within reach of relief; and Little gave a policeman orders to buy clothes at the shop, and have them charged to him.

This done, he begged Ransome to cross the water, and relieve the poor wretches who had escaped so narrowly with him.  Ransome consented at once; but then came a difficulty—­the bridge, like every bridge that the flying lake had struck, was swept away.  However, the stream was narrow, and, as they were already muddy to the knee, they found a place where the miscellaneous ruin made stepping-stones, and by passing first on to a piece of masonry, and from that to a broken water-wheel, and then on to a rock, they got across.

They passed the coiner’s house.  It stood on rather high ground, and had got off cheap.  The water had merely carried away the door and windows, and washed every movable out of it.

Ransome sighed.  “Poor Shifty!” said he; “you’ll never play us another trick.  What an end for a man of your abilities!”

And now the day began to dawn, and that was fortunate, for otherwise they could hardly have found the house they were going to.

On the way to it they came on two dead bodies, an old man of eighty and a child scarce a week old.  One fate had united these extremes of human life, the ripe sheaf and the spring bud.  It transpired afterward that they had been drowned in different parishes.  Death, that brought these together, disunited hundreds.  Poor Dolman’s body was found scarce a mile from his house, but his wife’s eleven miles on the other side of Hillsborough; and this wide separation of those who died in one place by one death, was constant, and a pitiable feature of the tragedy.