They passed the meadow, where the cow was now peacefully chewing her cud again. She cast a reproachful eye at the boy in the baseball suit. “That’s the longest hit that was ever made on our field,” remarked Sandy. “And against Lanky Larry, too! Oh boy! Did you see Lanky after the game? He looked—well, he didn’t look so all-fired stuck on himself.”
“He’s a fine pitcher,” said David; “a mighty good one.”
They quickened their steps, for big drops of rain were beginning to fall. They turned in at the Hapgood farmhouse and stopped long enough for a word with Sandy’s mother. Tom swung the basket of provisions on his arm.
“Don’t you think you’d better wait a short spell,” said Mrs. Hapgood. “Looks to me as if we were in for a right smart shower.”
They looked at the sky—pierced now with frequent sharp jabs of lightning.
“It’s not raining hard yet,” said Tuckerman. “How about it, boys?”
“Let’s beat it,” said Tom.
Out in the road again they jogged down to the water, where the Argo was fastened. Casting her adrift, Tom took the tiller.
It was a real summer thunderstorm that had come up quickly—spurts of rain and banks of black clouds—at the end of the warm day.
But the boys were used to a wetting, and Tom had often sailed through a heavier downpour than this. David stretched himself out on a seat in luxurious comfort. “A shower-bath feels good,” he murmured. “All I want now is a good swim.”