Wet, weary, disgusted, Mr.
Warmdollar sought refuge in a coop of a sentry-box, which stood upon the crest of a hill through which the road that bounded one side of the burying ground had been cut.

The sentry-box was waterproof and to that extent a comfort, being designed for deluges of the sort then soaking Mr.Warmdollar.
Had there been nothing but a downpour, Mr.Warmdollar might have borne it until his watch was relieved; he might have even continued to perform the duties and draw the emoluments of his place indefinitely.

But the winds rose; and they blew down Mr.Warmdollar's sentry-box.

Toppling into the road, it rolled merrily down a steep and then lay upon its front, door downward, in the mud.

Mr.Warmdollar could not get out; being discouraged by what he had undergone, he broke into yells and cries like a soul weltering in torment.
The yells and cries engaged the heated admiration of a farmer's dog that dwelt hard by, and the dog descended upon the sentry-box and Mr.
Warmdollar, attacking both with an impartiality which showed him no one to split hairs.