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Updated: June 28, 2025
A chill wind was blowing from the east and the sky was dark with drab, low-hanging clouds when Bruce put on his hip-boots and began to take up riffles. A thin sheet of water flowed through the boxes, just sufficient to keep the sand and gravel moving down as he took up the riffles one at a time and recovered the mercury each had contained.
He was still wearing his hip-boots and sou'wester he was just in from the surf and stood outside the low doorway with a lantern. Its light streamed over the sand and made wavering patterns about the mare's feet. "Thought ye'd never come, Doc," he whispered, as he threw the blanket over the mare. "Wife's nigh crazy. Tod's fightin' for all he's worth, but there ain't much breath left in him.
He was in his shirt-sleeves, without coat or vest; and I noticed that his dirty lawn was oddly plaited in front, and that about his ample paunch was buckled a broad belt of leather. Greased hip-boots encased his lower limbs, and the heels of these were drawn together as he bowed. William Tyrwhitt a master of nervous English muttered "Great Scott!" under his breath. I shook my head.
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