"What d'you say?" asked Dave sleepily.
"There's an awful storm, I tell you! Don't you hear the rain pelting on the tent? The wind blows like fury. I expect our tent will be down in a minute. The water is all running in under the canvas."
"Dripping through it, too," cried David, thoroughly awakened by the great drops that fell fast upon his upturned face, to avoid which he sprang from bed only to alight in a pool of water deep enough to splash under his feet.
Both boys laughed in spite of their discomfort, and just then Mr. Bernard came to the tent and rapped on the canvas.
"Boys, how are you getting on?"
"Oh, swimmingly."
"Yes, I presume so. It is a fearful storm! You are fortunate to have your tent standing. Several have blown down. You had better come over to the large tent. We have been strengthening the stakes around that. Wrap yourselves in your blankets and run."
The boys got on their rubber boots, and covering themselves with their red blankets, they opened the tent, stood a moment to watch the sheet of rain as it descended, and then ran across to Mr. Bernard's tent, which was about two rods away.
"Let us in!" cried Joe, bumping his blanketed head against the canvas curtain. Some one opened the tent, and the two boys stumbled in.
"Joe and Dave!"