“But we ought to go out and do rescue work, oughtn’t we?” said Latimer, with the instinct of a Parliamentary candidate for getting into the local limelight.

“We can’t,” said Vera decidedly, “we haven’t any boats and we’re cut off by a raging torrent from any human habitation.  My aunt particularly hoped you would keep to your room and not add to the confusion, but she thought it would be so kind of you if you would take in Hartlepool’s Wonder, the gamecock, you know, for the night.  You see, there are eight other gamecocks, and they fight like furies if they get together, so we’re putting one in each bedroom.  The fowl-houses are all flooded out, you know.  And then I thought perhaps you wouldn’t mind taking in this wee piggie; he’s rather a little love, but he has a vile temper.  He gets that from his mother—­not that I like to say things against her when she’s lying dead and drowned in her stye, poor thing.  What he really wants is a man’s firm hand to keep him in order.  I’d try and grapple with him myself, only I’ve got my chow in my room, you know, and he goes for pigs wherever he finds them.”

“Couldn’t the pig go in the bathroom?” asked Latimer faintly, wishing that he had taken up as determined a stand on the subject of bedroom swine as the chow had.

“The bathroom?” Vera laughed shrilly.  “It’ll be full of Boy Scouts till morning if the hot water holds out.”

“Boy Scouts?”

“Yes, thirty of them came to rescue us while the water was only waist-high; then it rose another three feet or so and we had to rescue them.  We’re giving them hot baths in batches and drying their clothes in the hot-air cupboard, but, of course, drenched clothes don’t dry in a minute, and the corridor and staircase are beginning to look like a bit of coast scenery by Tuke.  Two of the boys are wearing your Melton overcoat; I hope you don’t mind.”

“It’s a new overcoat,” said Latimer, with every indication of minding dreadfully.

“You’ll take every care of Hartlepool’s Wonder, won’t you?” said Vera.  “His mother took three firsts at Birmingham, and he was second in the cockerel class last year at Gloucester.  He’ll probably roost on the rail at the bottom of your bed.  I wonder if he’d feel more at home if some of his wives were up here with him?  The hens are all in the pantry, and I think I could pick out Hartlepool Helen; she’s his favourite.”

Latimer showed a belated firmness on the subject of Hartlepool Helen, and Vera withdrew without pressing the point, having first settled the gamecock on his extemporised perch and taken an affectionate farewell of the pigling.  Latimer undressed and got into bed with all due speed, judging that the pig would abate its inquisitorial restlessness once the light was turned out.  As a substitute for a cosy, straw-bedded sty the room offered, at first inspection, few attractions, but the disconsolate animal suddenly discovered an