A man was fishing from the end of the dock. Allan went over and asked him if he thought it was going to rain.
“Rain before seven, clear before eleven,” said the man, without looking up.
“But it isn’t raining,” chimed in McConnell.
“Yes, it is,” said the man, without moving; and then Allan felt a drop on his hand.
“What a strange man,” said McConnell, as they moved away.
“When they are queer like that they always know about the weather,” said Allan.
“What did he say?” asked Owen.
“That it would clear before eleven.”
“Then that’s all we want. We won’t get to Coney Island much before twelve.”
The fisherman was right. The light drizzle fell until after nine. At ten the clouds began to lift; and while they were on their way down the bay on the Coney Island boat, the sun came forth cheerily.