The umbrella was wrenched from Susan and her wail as the
biscuits fell pierced the tumult with the thin, futile note of human
dole. He had no time to help her, for the tent with an exultant wrench
tore itself free on one side, a canvas wing boisterously leaping, while
the water dived in at the blankets. As he sped to its rescue he had an
impression of the umbrella, handle up, filling with water like a large
black bowl and Susan groveling in the ashes for her biscuits.
"The tent's going," he cried back; "all your things will be soaked.
Never mind the supper, come and help me." And it seemed in this moment
of tumult, that Susan ceased to be a woman to be cared for and
protected and became his equal, fighting with him against the forces of
the primitive world. The traditions of her helplessness were stripped
from her, and he called her to his aid as the cave man called his woman
when the storm fell on their bivouac.
They seized on the leaping canvas, he feeling in the water for the tent
pegs, she snatching at the ropes. He tried to direct her, shouting
orders, which were beaten down in the stuttering explosion of the
thunder.
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