“What’s the matter with it?” inquired Jack.
“Oh, it’s all flippy-floppy,” replied the urchin. “But some lady saw it goin’ and she tied it back to the stakes.”
“Mrs. Lewis, likely,” suggested Cora. “I hope she did not go out in that down-pour to tie the tents.”
“I rather hope she did,” admitted her brother. “I had some things in that tent not warranted rainproof. Hey, fellows!” he called to the other members of Camp Couldn’t. “Hurry up. Our tent was struck, they say.”
At the word the crowd from the beach ran helter-skelter through the woods toward the camp colony. Surely there was enough excitement around Crystal Bay that afternoon to last for some time, and there was every prospect now of new adventures developing.
“Any tents down?” asked Dainty, as he puffed along.
“Thinking of spilled grub?” queried Walter. “Nothing doing. We have a salvage corps department to our housewives’ league, you know, and they are bound to protect the members from bandits. So you may just run along and see what is going on at the Cattle.”
The storm had played havoc in the woods. Pine branches had scratched deep furrows in the white sand paths, beautiful bushes of blooming mountain laurel and mountain pinks were shorn of every bloom, and the wild roses were scattered like pink butterflies on the catch leaves of shrubs.
The first camp to be met by the boys was Camp Hyphen. This was quite a pretentious establishment with a smaller tent adjunct. The adjunct stood for the hyphen, and it now lay in a heap like a discarded potato sack, its store of supplies settled uncertainly in nearby bushes.