So I ran to the front door, and seeing a soldier at one of he barrack
windows, I waved and waved my hand until he saw me. He understood at
once and came running over, followed by three more men, who brought
spades and other things. In a short time sods had been banked up at
every door, and then the water ceased to come in. By that time the
heaviest of the storm had passed over, and the men, who were most
willing and kind, began to shovel out the enormous quantity of
hailstones from the shed. They found by actual measurement that they
were eight inches deep--solid hail, and over the entire floor. Much of
the water had run into the kitchen and on through to the butler's
pantry, and was fast making its way to the dining room when it was cut
off. The scenes around the little house were awful. More or less water
was in each room, and there was not one unbroken pane of glass to be
found, and that was not all---there was not one unbroken pane of glass
in the whole post. That night Faye telegraphed to St. Paul for glass
to replace nine hundred panes that had been broken.
Faye was at the quartermaster's office when the storm came up, and
while it was still hailing I happened to look across the parade that
way, and in the door I saw Faye standing. He had left the house not
long before, dressed in a suit of immaculate white linen, and it was
that suit that enabled me to recognize him through the veil of rain
and hail.
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