“Of course not!”
“I tell you, I heard her. And there’s the dog barking again.”
“You can’t go through that rain––”
“I will!” declared Laura, and she wrenched open the door once more. Jess could not hold her. Mother Wit plunged out into the storm.
Never having deserted her chum but once—and then involuntarily at a certain occasion long ago—Jess was not going to be behind now. She dove likewise into the storm.
The rain beat upon the two girls in a fashion to almost take their breath away. Never had they been so beaten by the elements.
They staggered, almost fell, clung together, 145 and then bent their heads to the downpour and pressed on. The flickering lantern still illuminated the cook-tent. The awning was dropped and the canvas heaved and slatted against the poles.
The rain made so much noise that they did not hear Liz now. Or else, she had ceased crying out. Laura and Jess pressed forward and—it being but a few yards, after all, to the tent—they burst into the kitchen in a moment more.
“Liz! Liz!” gasped Laura, almost breathless.
There was a noise behind the fluttering canvas partition. Was it the girl in the sleeping part of the tent?