She continued to be thoughtful until after lunch, when, upon the sun's disappearance behind a fat cloud, Jane and the heavens exchanged dispositions for the time—the heavens darkened and Jane brightened. She was in the front hall, when the sunshine departed rather abruptly, and she jumped for joy, pointing to the open door. “Look! Looky there!” she called to her brother. Richly ornamented, he was descending the front stairs, his embellishments including freshly pressed white trousers, a new straw hat, unusual shoes, and a blasphemous tie. “I'm goin' to get to sail my boat,” Jane shouted. “It's goin' to rain.”
“It is not,” said William, irritated. “It's not going to anything like rain. I s'pose you think it ought to rain just to let you sail that chunk of wood!”
“It's goin' to rain—it's goin' to rain!” (Jane made a little singsong chant of it.) “It's goin' to rain—it gives Willie a pain—it's goin' to rain—it gives Willie a pain—it's goin' to—”
He interrupted her sternly. “Look here! You're old enough to know better. I s'pose you think there isn't anything as important in the world as your gettin' the chance to sail that little boat! I s'pose you think business and everything else has got to stop and get ruined, maybe, just to please you!” As he spoke he walked to an umbrella-stand in the hall and deliberately took therefrom a bamboo walking-stick of his father's. Indeed, his denunciation of Jane's selfishness about the weather was made partly to reassure himself and settle his nerves, strained by the unusual procedure he contemplated, and partly to divert Jane's attention. In the latter effort he was unsuccessful; her eyes became strange and unbearable.
She uttered a shriek:
“Willie's goin' to carry a CANE!”
“You hush up!” he said, fiercely, and hurried out through the front door. She followed him to the edge of the porch; she stood there while he made his way to the gate, and she continued to stand there as he went down the street, trying to swing the cane in an accustomed and unembarrassed manner.
Jane made this difficult.
“Willie's got a CANE!” she screamed. “He's got papa's CANE!” Then, resuming her little chant, she began to sing: “It's goin' to rain—Willie's got papa's cane—it's goin' to rain—Willie's got papa's cane!” She put all of her voice into a final effort. “MISS PRATT'LL GET WET IF YOU DON'T TAKE AN UMBERELLER-R-R!”
The attention of several chance pedestrians had been attracted, and the burning William, breaking into an agonized half-trot, disappeared round the corner. Then Jane retired within the house, feeling that she had done her duty. It would be his own fault if he got wet.