“Glad I’m on the leeward side of this island of yours,” said the artist. “It must be pretty rough on the other side.”
“Gee!” exclaimed Chub. “The tent, fellows!”
They looked at each other in consternation. Then Dick whistled, Roy smiled, and Chub burst into a peal of laughter.
“I’ll bet a hat it’s gone home,” he said. “The wind would just about carry it toward the boat-house.”
“Oh, maybe it hasn’t any more than blown down,” said Dick. “We made those ropes good and tight. I’ll bet our things will be good and soppy, though.”
“And I left my bag open!” mourned Chub.
“Well, there’s no use in worrying,” said Mr. Cole cheerfully. “Get your wet coats off, boys. You don’t want to catch cold!”
“I’m afraid we’re disturbing you,” said Roy glancing at a canvas on the easel.
“Not you, the storm,” was the answer. “I can’t work in this light. Suppose we go forward to the sitting-room and make ourselves comfortable?”
He led the way through the engine-room, remarking as they passed the engine: “Noon fixed her up for me the other day and I guess she’s all ready to move on when I am.” In the sitting-room Chub went to a window on the river side.