“I guess we are within the rules all right,” said Harry.
“I think so. Of course we shall have to make out a written explanation of the case,” rejoined Frank, “but it would have been impossible for us to rise from that wood clump into which Luther Barr lured us.”
“Say, boy, I’m afraid we’re in for it,” suddenly exclaimed Bart Witherbee.
“What?” asked Frank.
“Why, the storm I said was coming up. She’s going to be a rip-snorter, or my name’s not Bart Witherbee.”
As he spoke there came a low moaning sound in the tree-tops, and the sky began to be overcast with dark storm clouds. The dust on the road, too, began to be puffed into little whirlwinds before the breath of the oncoming storm.
Presently a few great drops of rain fell, coming with heavy splashes on the dry road, and falling with resounding splashes on the planes packed on top of the auto.
“Here she comes, boys; we’ve got to seek shelter some place,” warned the miner.
They looked about them in vain, when all at once, up the hillside to the right of the road, they became aware of a trail leading to a ruinous-looking hut that had evidently at one time been occupied by a miner.
“We’ll take shelter there, boys,” exclaimed Bart, pointing to it. “I’ll bet the roof leaks like a sieve, but it’s better than the open at that.”