"Yes, it is."
"I wonder where we'd better lie down," pursued Chips. "I'm sleepy. Let's play we're Crusoe and Friday now."
"Oh, we can't," responded Johnnie impatiently, "not with so many com—" he was going to say comforts, but changed his mind.
The night was very dark, not a twinkling star peeped down at the children, and the naked branches of the climbing roses rattled against the pillars to which they were nailed, for the wind was rising.
The boys sat down on the steps and Chips edged closer to his companion. "I think it was queer actions in my mother," he said, "to leave me here without any shawl or pillow or anything."
A little chill crept over Johnnie's head from sleepiness and cold. "Our mothers don't care what happens to us," he replied gloomily. The stillness of the house and the growing lateness of the hour combined to make him feel that if being wrecked was more uncomfortable than this, he could, after all, be happy without it.
"What do you think?" broke in the shivering Man Friday. "Mamma says ham isn't good to eat if it isn't cooked."
"And that's the meanest old hen that ever lived!" returned Crusoe. "She hasn't laid an egg since I got her."
A distant rumble sounded in the air. "What's that?" asked Chips.
"Well, I should think you'd know that's thunder," replied Johnnie crossly.