'Rasmus was the unmistakable son of his father.
"And it ain't no _got-up_ ark, neither!" he yelled at me, in a tone which
pierced through the distance and the darkness, and every intervening
obstacle. "It's the reg'lar old _Ark_! It's what Noer, and the elephant,
and them fellows come over in!"
I did not wonder, as we journeyed on, that my informant of the _depot_
platform had used his "ups" and "downs" indiscriminately in indicating
the direction of Wallencamp. In the inky blackness by which I was
surrounded I was conscious, clearly, of but one sensation--that of going
_up_ and _down_. The rumbling of the wheels reached me as something far
off and indefinably dreadful.
Then we stopped, and I crawled out like one in a dream. There was no
light at the Ark to make it a distinguishable feature of the gloom.
'Rasmus found the door and knocked loudly. I became dimly conscious of
the knocking, and followed 'Rasmus.
"I reckon they're to bed," said he, and knocked louder.
Pretty soon a clear, feminine voice, startled into musical sharpness,
issued from a room quite near, with--"Who's there?" and was followed by
two small, squealing voices, in unison,--"Who's there?"
Then other sounds arose--sounds from some quarter mysterious and
remote--low, mumbling, comfortable refrain, and ominous snatches of an
uneasy grumble; then a roar that shook the Ark to its foundations:--
"Who the devil's making such a rumpus out there at this time in the
mornin'?" (It was nine o'clock P.
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