“No use, Jane,” gasped Betty. Weak with laughter she relaxed her hold. “She’s a second Sandow. I’d rather unpack the hamper twice over than keep this up.”
“The world is mine!” orated the triumphant conqueror, cheerfully waving the arm that Betty gladly dropped. “I feel like the Brave Little Tailor in Grimm’s Fairy Tales, who vanquished seven at one blow. Plain Jane, you may spend the next week of your young life embroidering me a girdle bearing that lovely legend.”
“You’re a brave little nuisance,” scathingly commented Jane. “You’ll wait a long time for that girdle.”
“How can I win her approbation?” murmured Frances. “Ah, I have it! I will unpack the eats and feed her a sandwich.”
“You will not.” Jane beat a prompt retreat as Frances made an energetic attack upon the hamper. Snapping up the fateful sandwich, she pursued the fleeing object of her mischievous intentions in and out among the trees, leaving her amused companions to busy themselves with the task she had begun only to abandon.
It was a very merry group that presently gathered about the tablecloth, laid on the mossy ground, and covered with a variety of eatables, best suited to picnicking. Frances’ nonsense had only served to heighten the atmosphere of good humor which had prevailed from the starting out of the expedition. Luncheon finished, they strolled over to the little brook to watch its hurried progress over the greenish-brown stones, and to dabble their hands in its clear waters.
“Why, what has become of the sun?” was Ruth’s cry. After loitering for half an hour by the rock, they had returned to the spot where they had lunched to recover the hamper and go forward again. Along the banks of the little stream the trees grew thickly, seeming almost to arch overhead. In consequence, they had failed to note Old Sol’s gradual disappearance behind a bank of bluish-gray clouds until, back in the open space, Ruth now called concerned attention to it.
Miss Drexal raised anxious eyes to the threatening cloud bank. “It doesn’t look promising, girls,” she declared uneasily. “I am not sure what those clouds mean. We sometimes have dreadful wind storms in this region. We had best about-face and make for the cottage. These clouds may pass; again they may not. It is almost three o’clock now. Should it begin to rain and rain steadily, it would be anything but pleasant in these woods.”
With no impeding luggage save the now light hamper, the return journey through the forest was begun within three minutes after Miss Drexal had sounded her warning call to march. This time there was no stopping by the way. All realized the importance of reaching shelter before a storm of either wind or rain or both should descend upon them. Thus far, there was little wind, yet as they proceeded, a faint but ominous rustling of leaves overhead told them that the wind was rising. The fact that it did not increase as they hurried along served somewhat to still their fears.
Apprehension returned full force during the last half mile. The portending rustle gradually grew into a profound sigh, as though the very leaves on the trees had united in protest against the rough tactics which the wind was rapidly adopting.