A gust of wind dashed rain into their faces, blotting out a view of the Holloway house on the hill. The area near the cabin had dissolved into a sea of mud.
Sam’s flashlight picked out the graveled path which led to the dock.
During the night, the river steadily had risen. Fed by rampant streams to the north, the swollen waters gradually had nibbled away the sandy beach. The boat, tied securely the night before, now pounded against the dock on a slack rope.
While Dan retied it, Sam Hatfield pushed away a floating log which had lodged against the dock post.
“River’s up another four inches,” he observed gloomily. “And now, more rain.”
“Think we ought to call it quits?”
“That’s for the fellows to decide,” Mr. Hatfield replied. “It was swell of Midge’s father to let us use this place. It’s almost like having a regular camp.
“The Cubs sure appreciate it. But they’re fed up with the weather. Another day of this and we’ll be sprouting webs on our feet.
“What’s your thought, Dan? Do we stick, or shall we call enough—enough?”
“I hate to be a quitter. It’s easy enough to trot home to our folks. I’d say, let’s hang on another day the way we planned. Maybe the weather man will give us a break.”