Now the rain came down in blinding sheets. Betsy could stand it no longer.
“Vanny-Boy, I’m going to get you, no matter what happens.” It was easy enough to open the door, the waiting wind was only too eager. It took but an instant, but in that instant Betsy was soaked to the skin. Without heeding that, nor the roaring of the wind as it burst into the hallway, she stepped out into the awful tumult, slipped the catch of Van’s chain, picked up the half-drowned, frightened little body, and set him inside the door.
Then came the really hard part—to shut the door again. Betsy pushed with all her might. A strong man could hardly have done it, and she was just recovering from an illness. In the hallway pictures were torn from their moorings, and the furniture was dancing a quickstep. Try as best she might, with all her strength, she could not close the latch.
“I’ve got to do it,” she sobbed, “I’ve just got to, that’s all there is to it!”
When a thing must be done, somehow one seems to have a little more than human power. Betsy gave one more desperate push, and click! went the latch. She and Vanny-Boy were safe!
Now she turned to climb the stair, but instead she gave a weak little laugh, her legs crumpled under her like paper, and she went down in a wavering heap on the floor, with puddles of water running from her in every direction. Van stood over her, whining.
“Go call them, Van! Get your rope!”
He knew what that meant; oh, yes! Up the stairs he leaped, barking, as if rope was what all this fuss was about, anyhow.
“Why, there’s Van! How did he get in?” said Dr. Johns. A suspicion came to him, and he hurried down the stairs, where he found Betsy, dripping and helpless, but laughing.
“My dear, you should not have done this! Terrible things might have happened.”