"I'll stay here," says he, and bolts under cover.
The Incubator kids swings like they was on a pivot, and piles in after him. There wasn't anything to do then but stop under the gate, seein' as the club-house was a hundred yards or so off. I snaked Woodie out, though, and made him help me range the youngsters under the middle of the roof; and when we'd got 'em packed in four deep, with Sadie squeezed in too, there wa'n't an inch of room for either of us left.
And was it rainin'? Wow! You'd thought four eights had been rung in and all the water-towers in New York was turned loose on us. And the thunder kept rippin' and roarin', and the chain-lightnin' streaked things up like the finish of one of Colonel Pain's exhibits.
"Sing to them!" shouts Sadie. "It's the only way to keep them from being scared to death. Sing!"
"Do you hear that, Woodie?" says I across the top of their heads. "Sing to 'em, you lobster!"
The Captain was standing just on the other side of the bunch. He'd got the front half of him under cover, but there wasn't room for the rest; so it didn't do him much good, for the roof eaves was leakin' down the back of his neck at the rate of a gallon a minute.
"Only fu-fu-fawncy!" says he. "I don't fu-feel like singing, y'know."
"Make a noise like you did then," says I. "Come on, now!"
"But really, I cawn't," says he. "I n-never sing, y'know."
Say, that gave me the backache. "See here, Woodie," says I, lookin' as wicked as I knew how, "you sing or there'll be trouble! Hit 'er up, now!"