As the motor boys turned out of Jerry’s yard into the street, the three chums almost collided with a small chap, enveloped in a big raincoat, who was coming from the opposite direction.
“Look out!” cried Jerry, catching hold of the small lad so as not to knock him over. Then the newcomer, after a glance into the faces of the three, cried out, gaspingly, and in veritable spasms of words:
“Awful—terrible! Worst storm I ever see! A thousand chimneys blown down! Two houses with no roofs! Whoop! Almost blew me—up a tree! Won’t be any water left in the river! Hear that wind! Great guns! One man caught in barn—it blew down on him—all the ships at sea are sunk! Look out! Hear that rain! Whoop!”
The small lad had to pause for breath, after this outburst, which gave Jerry a chance to say:
“Now then, Andy Rush! Hold on a minute. We’ve got something else to do beside listening to you—at least just now. Our racing boat’s adrift and we’ve got to go after her!”
“Is that so?” cried Andy, who was surely the most easily excited chap in Cresville, or for miles around. “Is that so? Too bad—I’ll go along—I can tie knots well—boat adrift—hundred people drowned—may upset—catch on fire—bang into the dock—knock the dock down—go up on land—blow out a spark plug—what a storm—awful ain’t it! Whoop!”
“Hold him, somebody, and stuff a handkerchief in his mouth,” advised Ned. “Come on, fellows, every second counts!”
“I’ll be good—won’t talk any more—please let me help you!” begged Andy in slower tones. Indeed he had to talk more slowly for his breath was about expended.
“All right, come along,” said Jerry good-naturedly. He and his chums liked Andy Rush, but he sometimes got on their nerves with his rapid, disjointed talking. Occasionally they took him on trips with them.
The four boys hurried on toward the river through the storm, which seemed to be getting worse instead of diminishing. The rain came down in torrents, and, in spite of their waterproof coats the boys were soon drenched.