“Here, give me your hand, Taff,” he cried directly after, and turning a little more he held out his hand to lend his brother a little help.
Confused and deafened as he was by the storm himself, he burst out into a roar of laughter at the sight of his brother literally running before the wind in the most comically absurd manner, till, finding a dry spot, he flung himself down in the soft sand, sad clung there with all his might while Dick scudded to him and plumped down at his side.
“Here’s a game!” he roared into Arthur’s ear.
“A game!” faltered the latter; “very—dread—ful—isn’t it?”
“No,” shouted Dick. “It’s all right. Come along. No, no. Turn your back to it.”
“The rain cuts so,” panted Arthur.
“’Tain’t rain; it’s spray. Hook hold tight,” cried Dick. “Ahoy! Coming!” he shouted, wasting his breath, for it was impossible for Mr Temple to hear. “Here comes father after us. Now then, stoop down and let’s do it. Whoo! Knees.”
They threw themselves on their knees to avoid being swept away, for just then a sudden puff came with such violence that, as Dick afterwards described the sensation, it was like being pushed with a big ball of india-rubber.
Mr Temple came with the rush of wind, and as he stopped beside his boys he confessed that it was as much as he could do to keep his legs.
It was only for a few moments that the storm had such tremendous force. Then it lulled a little, and taking advantage of the comparative calm, Mr Temple took hold of his boys’ hands, and the three with bended heads trotted towards the shelter on ahead.