Sam stooped to tuck the blanket around Chips’ exposed torso. Then, with slickers buttoned, he and Dan went out into the night.
A gust of wind dashed rain into their faces, blotting out a view of the Holloway house on the hill. The area near the cabin had dissolved into a sea of mud.
Sam’s flashlight picked out the graveled path which led to the dock.
During the night, the river steadily had risen. Fed by rampant streams to the north, the swollen waters gradually had nibbled away the sandy beach. The boat, tied securely the night before, now pounded against the dock on a slack rope.
While Dan retied it, Sam Hatfield pushed away a floating log which had lodged against the dock post.
“River’s up another four inches,” he observed gloomily. “And now, more rain.”
“That’s for the fellows to decide,” Mr. Hatfield replied. “It was swell of Midge’s father to let us use this place. It’s almost like having a regular camp.
“The Cubs sure appreciate it. But they’re fed up with the weather. Another day of this and we’ll be sprouting webs on our feet.
“What’s your thought, Dan? Do we stick, or shall we call enough—enough?”
“I hate to be a quitter. It’s easy enough to trot home to our folks. I’d say, let’s hang on another day the way we planned. Maybe the weather man will give us a break.”
“Good,” said Mr. Hatfield in relief. “I was hoping you’d say that, Dan. The question is, will the other Cubs agree?”
“They’re all good sports. If only we could swim or hike, everything would be swell.”
“It can’t rain forever,” said Mr. Hatfield cheerfully. “Fact is, it’s slackening now. If the weather clears, I may have an idea or two for stirring up a little fun.”
From experience, Dan knew that Sam Hatfield, athletic director at Webster City High School, never lacked ideas. For that matter, neither did Midge’s father, Burton Holloway, who was the organization’s official Den Dad.
The camp-out on Mr. Holloway’s property at the edge of Webster City had been planned as a climax to the outdoor activities of the Den. Only the weatherman, it seemed, had pulled a fast one.
The first glimmer of a gray, muggy dawn filtered through the woodland as Dan and the Cub leader climbed the slope to the log cabin.
“I’ll start a fire,” Mr. Hatfield volunteered.