"You are afraid I shall melt?" asked Hildegarde. She stooped down and gathered her skirt together, wringing little floods of water from it. "No, I don't think I shall melt, really, Captain. Do I look as if I were melting?"
"You look—" began Roger, and stopped suddenly, and then wondered why he stopped, and told himself he was an ass.
"Speaking of melting, reminds me," he said, laughing. He felt in his pockets, and produced a small parcel. "I hope this is not melted. No, it is all right. Have some chocolate, and let us make merry on our desert island! See! the worst of the squall is over. It is lightening already; I can see the nearest island."
"Yes, and the water begins to show grey, instead of all black and white. But has this really been nothing more than a squall, Captain Roger?"
"Oh, if you like the dignities of meteorology, I think we might very properly call this a tornado."
"A tornado! I have been out in a tornado! And how splendid it all is!"
Roger laughed again. "Splendid, eh? So it is! Rather good fun, too, now we are on dry land."
"Glorious fun!" cried Hildegarde.
The water still raced past at their feet; the rain still poured down, the thunder cracked and roared and bellowed, and the lightning blazed. But under the canoe it was really quite dry, considering; and the chocolate was excellent, and, on the whole, both Hildegarde and Roger thought well of tornadoes.
Meanwhile, there were some anxious faces at the camp. The storm had broken there as suddenly as out on the lake. Bell and Gertrude were out fishing, but fortunately near the shore, and they reached home just as the fury broke loose. Obadiah and Ferguson were blown in on the gale, turning handsprings as they came, and singing