There wasn’t much space under the deck. But it was better to squeeze, I told Peg, than to get soaked. So we shoved our bedding into the hole, where tools such as shovels and picks had been kept under padlock when the scow had been used for clay hauling.
Peg crept into the hole, flashing the light ahead of him.
“What if the Strickers come?”
“They won’t come in the rain,” I predicted.
“I saw them just before dark.”
“In the brickyard?”
“Sure thing. They were watching us.”
“We’re safe from them now.”
“I hope so.” He laughed. “Well, here’s hoping that our cabin roof doesn’t leak.”
“If it does,” I joked, following him into the hole, “we’ll have it shingled to-morrow.”