“Pshaw! he’d be ‘beyond praying for’, if he were to shoo us out,” came from Madeline. “Ugh! How cold the rain is! I was just falling asleep—dr-reaming of the horses.”
“Um-m. Novel experience, any way, breaking camp by flash light! My shoes! Oh! where are my shoes? My ring! I have that safe! One teeny drop of rain would spoil that new crystal—as a detector, a ‘radio soul!’” Pemrose was excitedly tucking away the ring and paraphernalia—tucking it away in her bosom.
“The fancy paper-rolls! Oh! don’t let the colored paper-rolls get wet—all wet an’ pulpy—then, there would be no flower party on my birthday!” wailed Una.
“Bah! You and your last straw! They’re done up in oilskin,” hooted Pemrose. “What—what are you looking for Dorothy?”
“My—toothbrush.”
“Oh-h! come; we’ve no time for tomfoolery.” Whereat every one laughed—the lightning, too!
“My-y hair-brushes; where did I lay them?” Rain was pelting pitilessly on Lura’s burnished “nob”, as she knelt, feeling round in the sodden grass.
“Before a storm everything goes wrong!” hooted the jeering thunder.
“Cheep! Cheep! Tweak! Tweak! Very wrong, indeed!” echoed the poor little birds in their rocking nests, complaining of the pecking rain-crow.
“But it isn’t as bad as if we had a tent to take down, girls.” The Guardian was searching for a silver lining, mislaid among other things. “That’s—weird. Pulling tent pegs in a hurry, tent collapsing, just shuddering down, canvas grating on the rough edge, something sure to be left under.... What!”