"Oh, yes," said little Chips meekly, "and we're going to get wet."
They were both quiet for another minute, while the wind rose and swept by them.
"I really think, Johnnie," began Chips apologetically, "that I'm not big enough to be a good Man Friday. I think to-morrow you'd better find somebody else."
"No, indeed," replied Johnnie feelingly. "I'd rather give up being wrecked than go off with any one but you. If you give up, I shall."
The rain began to patter down.
"If you don't like to get wet, Chips, I'd just as lieves go and ring the bell as not," he added.
A sudden sweep of wind nearly tipped the children over, for they had risen, undecidedly.
"No," called Chips stoutly, to be heard above the blast. "I'll be Friday till to-morrow." His last word sounded like a shout, for the wind suddenly died.
"What do you scream so for?" asked Johnnie impatiently; but the storm had only paused, as it were to get ready, and now approached swiftly, gathering strength as it came. It swept across the piazza, taking the children's breath away and bending the tall maple in front of the house with such sudden fury that a branch snapped off; then the wind died in the distance with a rushing sound and the breaking tree was illumined by a flash of lightning.