They did, sending the canoe up-stream with long racing strokes of the paddles. But already the big drops were popping down upon the leaves and a little wind was moaning through the woods as they landed.
“No launch sail this afternoon,” said Dick aggrievedly.
“No,” answered Roy. “It’s the tent for us, I guess. Wish there was something to do besides play cards and read.”
“We can write letters,” suggested Chub virtuously, and the others laughed consumedly.
“I tell you what, fellows,” said Dick a moment later, while they were tightening the guy-ropes around the tent. “Mr. Cole told us to come over there whenever we wanted to. Let’s go now. Shall we?”
“He said he was going to be busy, didn’t he?” asked Roy.
“Yes, but he said before that we wouldn’t bother him. Let’s go!” And Chub tossed his cap into the tent, ready for a dash along the beach.
“All right,” said Roy. “We can keep quiet and read. I saw some dandy books there the other day.”
“Last man there’s a chump!” bawled Chub as, having already taken a good lead, he darted off toward the beach. The others followed and the three raced along in the rain, which was now coming down in torrents, and reached the Jolly Roger side by side. A door was thrown open and the smiling face of the artist greeted them.
“In with you!” he cried to an accompaniment of delighted barks from Jack, and they found themselves in the studio, panting and laughing and dripping. “Just in time,” said their host as he put his weight against the door and swung it shut. As if in explanation, a sudden gust of wind burst against the boat, making the windows rattle in their frames and the timbers creak. With the wind came a blinding wall of rain that darkened the little room as though sudden twilight had fallen. The great drops ran down the panes in tiny rivulets and on the island side it was impossible to see a thing. The sound of wind and rain was for a moment deafening. Then the wind died down for a moment and a mighty crash of thunder sent Jack cowering to his master.