"Arrow head," said Mr. Harley. "Indians once lived on this island, and you're likely to turn those things up most anywhere. Will your mother be afraid alone in the bungalow?"
"Mother's never afraid," declared Bobby confidently, putting the arrow head back in his pocket to show his father. "Oh, that lightning went right into the lake!"
"Better get in now," Mr. Harley told them, holding up the oilcloth so that they could creep in under the door-roof. "All in? Then here I come."
The rain was coming down in great, dashing torrents in another moment and the four little Blossoms were thankful for their dry corner.
"It's a good thing we didn't start out," shouted Mr. Harley above the noise of the rain. "We never could have made the bungalow before the rain caught us. This will knock the apples off. That's a pity because they're fine when they're left to ripen."
"Meg said they weren't ripe yet," said Bobby.
"I hope you didn't try to eat any," answered Mr. Harley earnestly.
"Green apples are not good for you."
"Oh, we didn't touch one," Bobby assured him, trying to punch
Twaddles, who was tickling him. "Meg said they belonged to you."
"I want you children to eat 'em, but not till they are ripe," Mr. Harley shouted back. "Along about the first week in July, you come up here and you'll find the best sweet apples you ever tasted. That is, if the storms leave any on the tree, and I guess they will. You eat all you want—I never want to taste one of those apples again!"
Twaddles stopped trying to tickle Bobby, and Meg squeezed Dot's hand excitedly. Poor Mr. Harley!