“Harry; Harry Elder! Get up and come here quick! I’ve got great news for you.”
I sprang out of bed and hurried to the door. There in the hall stood Tony Larcom, waving an umbrella excitedly over his head. From the window in the entry the murky light of a cloudy day struggled in.
“What is the matter?” I asked in amazement, laughing at the ridiculous sight he presented.
“Matter, my boy! Everything’s the matter! I was up at daybreak, and hurried into my clothes to run over here and tell you the good news. We are saved—we are saved, old fellow!”
“Saved? Why, what do you mean?” I exclaimed, still more mystified.
“Rain! rain!” he shouted, waving his umbrella again. “Our luck has turned. It is raining pitchforks! No game to-day.”
I rushed to the window, hardly daring to believe his words. One glance was enough, and then I gave a whoop of joy. The sky was darkly overcast, and the rain was falling softly but steadily—not in a shower, that might pass away in a few hours, but with the heavy, businesslike downpour of a regular easterly storm.
“Didn’t I say that I was going to pray for rain?” said Tony complacently, taking the credit of it all to himself.