Night soon began to come on, but we could find no good camping-place.  We had not passed a house for four or five miles, nor a place where we could get water for the horses.  As it grew dark, however, it began to rain.  It kept up, and increased to such an extent that in half an hour there were pools of water standing along the road in many places, and we decided to stop.  It was wet work taking care of the horses, but the most discouraging thing was the report from the cook that there was no milk with which to make griddle-cakes for supper, and as he did not know how to make anything else, the prospect was rather gloomy.  But through the rain we finally discovered a light a quarter of a mile away, and Ollie and I started out to find it.  Jack refused to go, on the plea that he was still lame from his Yankton trip after milk.

[Illustration:  Wet but Hopeful]

We blundered away through the rain and darkness, and after stumbling in a dozen holes, running into a fence, and getting tangled up in an abandoned picket-rope, at last came up to the house.  It was a little one-room board house such as the settlers call a “shack.”  The door was open, and inside we could see a man and woman and half a dozen children and a full dozen dogs.  We walked up, and when the man saw us he called “Come in!” tossed two children on the bed in the corner, picked up their chairs, which were home-made, and brought them to us.

“Wet, ain’t it?” he exclaimed.  “Rainy as the day Noah yanked the gang-plank into the Ark.  I was a-telling Martha there was a right smart chance of a shower this afternoon.  What might you-uns’ names be, and where might you be from, and where might you be going?”

We told him all about ourselves, and he went on: 

“Rainy night.  Too late to help the co’n, though.  Co’n’s poor this year; reckon we’ll have to live on taters and hope.  Tater crop ain’t no great shakes, though.  Nothing much left but hope, and dry for that.  Reckon I’ll go back to old Missouri in the spring, and work in a saw-mill.  No saw-mills here, ’cause there ain’t nothing to saw.  Hay don’t need sawing.  Martha,” he added, turning to his wife, “was it you said our roof didn’t need mending?”

“I said it did need it a powerful sight,” answered the woman, as she put another stick of hay in the stove, and a stream of rain-water sputtered in the fire.

“Mebby you’re right,” said the man.  “There’s enough dry spots for the dogs and children, but when we have vis’tors somebody has got to get wet.  Reckon I oughter put on two shingles for vis’tors to set under.  You fellers will stay to supper, of course.  We ’ain’t got much but bacon and taters, but you’re powerful welcome.”

“No,” I said, “we really mustn’t stop.  What we wanted was to see if we couldn’t get a little milk from you.”

“Well, I’ll be snaked!” exclaimed the man.  “That makes me think I ain’t milked the old cow yet.”