Joe had boasted a little too soon. The water running down the side of the hill was making its way in large quantities into the tent. To save their clothes and blankets, the boys had to stand up and hold them in their arms, which was by no means a pleasant occupation, especially as the cold rain-water was bathing their feet.
“It can’t last long,” remarked Tom. “We’re all right if the lightning doesn’t strike us.”
“Where’s the powder?” asked Harry.
“Oh, it’s in the flask,” replied Joe, “and I’ve got the flask in my pocket.”
“So, if the lightning strikes the tent, we’ll all be blown up,” exclaimed Harry. “This is getting more and more pleasant.”
The boys were not yet at the end of their troubles. The rain had loosened the earth, and the tent-pins, of which only four had been used, were no longer fit to hold the tent. So, while they were talking about the powder, the tent suddenly blew down, upsetting the boys as it fell, and burying them under the wet canvas.
“Lie still, fellows,” said Tom, as the other boys tried to wriggle out from under the tent. “We’ve got to get wet now, anyway; but perhaps, if we stay as we are, we can manage to keep the blankets dry.”
The wet tent felt miserably cold as it clung to their heads and shoulders, but the boys kept under it, and held their blankets and spare shirts wrapped tightly in their arms. Luckily the storm was nearly at an end when the tent blew down, and a few moments later the rain ceased, and the crew of the Whitewing, in a very damp condition, crept out and congratulated themselves that they had escaped with no worse injury than a wet skin.
“Where are your rubber blankets?” asked Harry, presently.
“Rolled up with the other blankets,” answered everybody.