Cary drew back; her lips quivering.
"I'm cold," she said, for Cary never would have admitted that a boy could hurt her so, "I'm cold, and—and tired. Can't we go home, Johnny?"
"Yes," he said.
"No, we won't," said Rob, moodily, "the oars are gone."
The oars were gone—slipped from the locks when he had drawn them in, and in the excitement of the quarrel they had floated away. The two boys knew that the oars were not the only things on the surface of the deep, drifting out to sea.
Behind them a bank of storm clouds was gathering and a sudden stone-color fell upon the face of the waters.
The clouds increased in size and swept toward them, seemingly poised directly overhead. Then they parted and the rain fell in a great straight sheet of water. The oarless boat tossed dangerously, and the rain gathered in the bottom.
Cary, half rose, beside herself with terror. The storm had drenched her to the skin, and her long, straight hair lay, matted with the wet, close to her small head. Her wide gray eyes looked out dark against the pallor of her skin.
"Sit down!"
It was Johnny's voice. Mechanically, the child obeyed.