Chapter Forty Five.
Storm Waters.
In the intervals between the almost incessant peals of thunder Joe Cross informed the lads that the storm had been coming on for the last three hours, faint and distant at first, the merest mutterings, and gradually increasing till it was the terrific tempest now raging.
“They must have had it horrid, sir, somewhere, only I don’t suppose there’s no people. What we had before was nothing to it.”
“There,” cried the doctor, “something must be done to the boat in the way of making it thoroughly secure.”
“Can’t be no securer, sir. We’ve got her moored head and stern to a tree, and two grapnels down as well.”
“Capital,” cried the doctor. “Well thought of! But we must have the sail and some of the canvas that we have got here spread over the boat to keep the water out.”
“That’s done, sir, as far as the stuff would go, and now I want what we have got up here, before the rain comes.”
“Down with it at once,” said the doctor; and in an incredibly short space of time the tent was struck, what they had ashore was transferred to the boat, and she was covered in as much as was possible.
And none too soon, for the party had only just embarked when a few heavy drops of rain came pattering down upon the tightened canvas, soon increasing to quite a deluge, but, with the peculiarity of a tropic storm, just when it was beginning to try the canvas and threatening to soak the interior of the boat, it ceased almost instantaneously, and they sat listening to the rushing sound of the rain as it swept over the forest, rapidly growing more distant till it died away.