“It’s pretty poor comfort to sit in wet clothes,” complained Florence. “I’ve no doubt I shall take my death.”
“You might if you had a cotton frock on. You’re no worse off than the rest of us,” said Bertha. “What did you come to camp for, anyway, Floss?”
“Not to get wet.”
“Well, then, you ought to have stayed at home. It’s part of the performance. With a good dry bench to sit on and a roof over you what more do you want? Look at Miss Lloyd out there; she has actually started a fire and there she is in this downpour acting as if she were really going to cook something. Did you ever?”
“The fire is burning, too, of all things,” exclaimed Jo looking out. “She has made a sort of oven, you see, but why doesn’t the smoke get into her eyes?”
“Because she keeps away from the windy side. Isn’t she a duck?”
“She must be, not to mind the wet,” returned Jo. “I’m going out to help her, being seized with a desire to be a duck, too.”
She went out leaving the others to watch the ingenious manipulation of the frying-pan. They all crowded around the one small window to watch proceedings. Presently from the opposite direction they heard voices and the doorway was darkened by the figure of a man.
“I beg your pardon,” he began hesitatingly, “would you mind very much if we came in?”
The girls huddled around the window turned to see the party they had encountered on the way down the mountain, but in what a forlorn and unhappy state. The crisp white frocks were drenched and stained, the red of rose had run into the green of ribbon on the flower-trimmed hats, the thin stockings fairly oozed water and the natty tan shoes were sodden and muddy. The men looked scarcely less limp than their companions, for their straw hats were out of shape, their trousers soaking, their collars flabby from the moisture which trickled from their hats.