“We might get under the sail,” suggested Doris.
“Too much wind,” said Johnny. “Blow away. Give me a hand. I’ll look inside of her.”
Doris gave him a lift and up he went.
“Yo—ho!” he cried ten seconds later. “What luck! A cabin, a regular canvas cabin in her prow. And not a soul on board. Give us your hand and up you come.”
“But dare we?” screamed Doris above the roar of the storm.
There was no time for answering this question. The storm was upon them. She could see it racing in white sheets down the beach.
Up they went, up and over, scramble, tumble, scramble, and they were there, all hidden in the prow with a roof of stout painted canvas over their heads and a brown curtain of the same material hanging before them.
“What could be sweeter?” said Johnny, dropping into a corner.
“How it rains!” Doris shuddered as torrents of water came pelting down.
Once more the native girl was whispering to her snake tooth charm.