That afternoon was a repetition of the forenoon, save that at supper-time Tim gravely informed them that there was hardly enough cooked provisions for breakfast.
Tip got along much better than the others. As soon as he learned that he could not venture outside of the tent without getting wet, he curled himself up on the pile of blankets and slept the day away, save at those times when some one would rouse him up to play—a liberty which he resented in such a manner as caused them to leave him alone very soon.
Nearly every five minutes some one of the boys would open the flaps of the tent, look out, and announce it as his opinion that the storm was clearing away; but yet it continued to rain as hard as ever.
Unfortunately for them, the boys were not as sleepy when the second night came, and the evening spent in the dark was not a cheerful one. The rain was still coming down as steadily as ever, and they had ceased to speculate as to when it would stop. It was after they had been sitting in mournful silence for some time that Bill Thompson started what was a painful topic of conversation.
“How long will the victuals last, Tim?”
“They’re ’most gone now, ’cept the pork an’ ’taters, an’ the eggs, that I never thought of till a minute ago.”
“If it would only stop rainin’, Jim could go out fishin’, an’ I could go out huntin’, and in a day we could get more’n the crowd of us could eat in a week. I’ll tell you what I will do”—and Bill spoke very earnestly—“I’ll take Tip an’ go out alone in the mornin’, whether it rains or not.”
“Why not all go?” said Tim, pleased with the plan. “Supposin’ we do get wet, what of that? We can get dry again when the sun does come out, an’ it’ll be better’n stayin’ here scrouchin’ around.”
There were a number of the boys who were of Tim’s way of thinking, and the hunting party was decided upon for the following day, regardless of the weather.