“I feel as if somebody were dead or something,” complained Vi, as they neared the bungalow. “I don’t know what’s the matter with me.”
“It’s the weather, I guess,” said Billie, feeling low in spirits herself—a very unusual state for merry Billie. “We shall all feel better when the sun comes out.”
“If it ever does,” said Laura, gloomily.
“It’s got to,” said Vi.
Half way home they saw Uncle Tom hurrying toward them with Robert Bruce at his heels, and they wondered what the matter was.
“Hello!” he cried when he came within earshot. “I was just going to see your dad, Connie. The boys haven’t gone yet, have they?”
And when Connie said that they had he looked so grave that the girls were frightened.
“Why, Uncle Tom, what’s the matter?” asked Connie fearfully.
“Matter enough,” said Uncle Tom, turning to scowl up at the overcast sky. “It’s as much as those youngsters’ lives are worth for them to set out to-day. Why, there’s a storm on the way,” and he fixed his eyes gravely on the girls, “such as this old Maine coast hasn’t seen for years. Why, every captain who can read the signs is going to make straight for the nearest port, or if he is too far away to make port before the storm breaks, he’s going to get down on his knees and pray the good Lord to make his old ship staunch enough to stand the test. It will be upon us by night.” His eyes sought the wild dreary waste of water and he spoke as though to himself. “Lord, how I dread to-night!”
“But, Uncle Tom, what can we do about the boys?” Connie shook his arm fiercely. “Why, if we have the kind of storm you say they may be drowned! Oh, can’t we do something?”