We didn’t discuss it, but ran up the bank to the rock-ledge and crouched under it, our teeth literally chattering.
“Did you ever see such fishing?” I managed to stammer.
“Great! But oh, why didn’t I bring the whiskey bottle?”
“Let’s run for camp! We can’t be wetter.”
We crawled out into the rain again, and first sprinted and then dog-trotted along the river edge. No bird notes now in the woods beside us, no whirring of wings; only the rain sounds: soft swishings and drippings and gusty showerings, very different from the flat, flicking sounds when rain first starts in dry woods.
Camp looked a little cheerless, but a blazing fire, started with dry stuff we had stowed inside the tent, changed things, and dry clothes changed them still more, and we sat within the tent flaps and ate ginger-snaps in great contentment of spirit while we waited for the rain to stop.
It did stop, and very soon the fish were sizzling in the pan.
“Of course, if we had a watch, now—” suggested Jonathan, as he carefully tucked under the pan little sticks of just the right length.
“What should we know more than we do now—that we’re hungry?” I asked.
“Well, for one thing, we’d know what time it is,” replied Jonathan tranquilly.