“All right, dummy,” answered his friend. “I am not predicting anything. I only mentioned the possibilities of a very small cloud. And the night of the Shell Island fire I said what certainly proved to be perfectly true—that the hotel was a regular fire trap.”
“Are you really a good weather prophet, Ben?” asked Billie anxiously. She did not like to have her parties turn out disastrously.
“He—he’s the poorest ever,” cried Merry.
“Don’t go on what he says, Billie,” put in Percy. “The last camping trip we went on, he predicted fair weather and it rained for a week.”
“Well, just to prove that I know what I’m talking about,” cried Ben, “I predict that it rains before night.”
This unpopular prophecy was greeted by hoots of derision from the others.
“What makes you think so, Ben?” asked Elinor. “It’s as clear as a bell now.”
“Certain signs,” he answered.
“Now, Ben Austen,” ejaculated Nancy. “Don’t go spoil our day before it’s begun. You know just as well as I do that it’s Indian summer, and it never rains in Indian summer.”
“Never, Miss Nancy-Bell?” repeated Ben, smiling. He minded as little being teased by his friends as a big, good-natured dog minds the antics of a lot of puppies.