The wind was whistling again and when she turned to look in the direction her brother pointed, she stopped suddenly. The black storm clouds were massing for the main attack and they were rolling together.
In the seconds that Helen watched, she saw them swirl toward a common center, heard the deafening rise of the wind and trembled as the clouds, now formed in a great funnel, started toward the lake.
“Come back, Helen, come back!” Tom shouted.
Forcing herself to overcome the storm terror which now gripped her, Helen looked out over the boiling waters of the lake.
The wind was whipping into a new frenzy and she could just barely see the Flyer above the white-capped waves. Jim Preston was making a brave effort to reach shore and Helen knew that the little group at her own home were probably the only ones in Rolfe who knew of the boatman’s danger. Seconds counted and ignoring the warning cries from her brother, she hurried on toward the lake.
The noise of the oncoming tornado beat on her ears, but she dared not look toward the west. If she did she knew she would turn and race for the shelter and security of Doctor Stevens’ storm cellar.
The Flyer was rolling dangerously as Jim Preston made for the shore and Helen doubted if the boatman would ever make it.
On and on the sleek craft pushed its way, the waves breaking over its slender, speedy nose and cascading back into the open cockpit in which Jim Preston was bailing furiously. The Flyer was nosing deeper into the waves as it shipped more water. When the ignition wires got wet the motor would stop and Preston’s last chance would be gone.
Helen felt someone grab her arms. It was Tom.
“Come back!” he cried. “The tornado will be on us in another five minutes!”