“You may have it in your soul, but it never gets as far as your lips,” retorted Emma Dean.
“The harmony evidently gets switched off on some other line. Don’t try it again, little boy.”
“I agree with you, Emma,” answered Tom soberly.
“We will stand for it this time,” promised Hippy. “But take my advice and never repeat the performance among civilized people, unless you are courting sudden death. Frankly, Chunky, being struck by lightning is preferable.”
“Hippy, you said it that time,” chuckled Emma.
In the meantime the skies again became overcast and a fine drizzle began falling. At Grace’s suggestion the tents were raised, but they were so water-soaked that the interiors were soon as wet as the ground outside. This discovery brought groans and plaints from the party.
“What’s the odds? We cannot be any wetter than we are,” comforted Grace Harlowe.
“That is all very well, but I want to sit down and I don’t want to get rheumatism,” protested Elfreda.
“That’s what is the matter with Stacy Brown. He has rheumatism of the voice,” agreed Grace.
“Huh! Some persons not more than a thousand miles from here have rheumatism of the brain, which is worse,” retorted the fat boy sarcastically, which brought another laugh from his companions.