Explore "The House by the Headland" by H.C. McNeile on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
"You'll no get there, zurr. There'll be a rare storm this night. Best bide here, and be going to-morrow morning after 'tis over."
The warning of my late host, weather-wise through years of experience, rang through my brain as I reached the top of the headland, and, too late, I cursed myself for not having heeded his words. With a gasp I flung my pack down on the ground, and loosened my collar. Seven miles behind me lay the comfortable inn where I had lunched; eight miles in front the one where I proposed to dine. And midway between them was I, dripping with perspiration and panting for breath.