“Why can’t I go, too?” says I, wanting to be as brave as he was. “Then you’ll have me if you need me.”
But he shook his head, laughing.
“You’re the guy who lights up the old South Church tower,” says he.
Every American kid knows that poem.
“And who are you?” I grinned, getting a slant on his scheme. “Paul Revere in a raincoat?”
“Bu-lieve me,” came with another laugh, “it would be ‘Paul Revere in a bathing suit,’ if I had one. For I hate the thought of getting these clothes soaked. I guess, though, it can’t be helped.”
I hinted around then that a little lucid information about my “old-South-Church-tower” job wouldn’t be out of place. So he got down to business.
“Here’s the dope, Jerry: You’re to watch that guy down there. If he moves to another bush, or toward the house, keep track of him. Then, as in the poem, twitch your flashlight once if he’s still there, and twice if he’s moved. Getting your signal, I’ll let you spot me in the lightning and signal back with my cap. See?”
“I get you,” I nodded, writing down the instructions in my mind.
“After that,” came the further dope, “keep track of us both, and guide me. One flash up and down will mean that I’m ‘cold,’ two will mean that I’m ‘warm,’ and three will mean danger—scoot for your life. But keep a steady grip on yourself, old pal, and don’t flash ‘danger’ unless there is danger. When I’m all through, I’ll signal again with my cap. Then you can wait for me in the kitchen, where we’ll dry my clothes.”