“Now you’ve done it, Neale O’Neil!” cried Agnes, in her excitement.
“I s’pose I made it rain, too,” sniffed Neale, in disgust. “You give me a pain, Aggie.”
“What nonsense to blame Neale,” Ruth, the fair-minded, hastened to put in. “What shall we do?”
“Stay where we are and keep dry,” Mrs. Heard declared, with decision.
“But Neale can’t get the car out of the mud with us in it,” Agnes cried.
“Nor with you out of it, I reckon,” said the boy, crossly; “wait till I see.”
He crawled out with some difficulty to look the situation over, having to drive back Sammy and Tom Jonah with decision. “I don’t want you two ramping around out here,” he growled.
Neale had put on his slicker when the downpour began, and it was well he had, for this was no ordinary rain. The rush of water had filled the gutter with sand in solution, and there was now a regular quagmire where the wheels of the automobile stood. The fury of the storm had somewhat relaxed, but the rain fell steadily. Even should the rain stop, the water would not run out of this spot for hours. It did not take “half an eye,” as Neale himself said, to see that they were stuck.
“And this is a nice place to spend the night in,” complained Agnes.
“Can nothing really be done, Neale?” asked Mrs. Heard, much worried.