She did fling it overboard; as the choppy waves belabored the dory’s nose she presently laughed aloud as she chastised them with her painted oars, feeling that theirs was just rough play, the wild, boisterous sport of a young dog, proud of his strength, who shows all his teeth in his gambols, but will never close them upon his friends.
She laughed and chanted exultantly a line of some old sea-song while the gusts tore at the green pompon of her woolen Tam O’Shanter and tried to snatch the jaunty, tight-fitting cap itself off her head.
“‘The wind she blow a hurricane, By ’n’ by she blow some more!’
I’m having lots of fun with you!” she sang to them. “And now I guess it’s high time for me to turn back; it must be almost dinner-hour; Gheezies, our Guardian, and the girls may be getting anxious about me! Goodness! how the wind is whipping up the fine sand of the dunes; it’s hovering like pale clouds over the Sugarloaf.”
This sand-fog spreading its storm-wings above the white hills that formed the background of Camp Morning-Glory looked ominous. She caught her breath; it tickled her throat, suddenly, with a feather of fear. She wished she had not come out so far.
“‘It’s a long, long way to yonder shore now! But my heart’s _right_ there!’”
she sang, all in a flutter, determined to keep her courage up, gazing shoreward toward the distant camp under whose sheltering roof her Camp Fire Sisters must be even now gathering for the midday meal.
“Whew! I must be getting into the really rough water, out toward the middle of the river. This—this is no joke!” she cried aloud wildly the next minute as a larger wave than any she had encountered yet not only boisterously showed its teeth, but seemed to fasten them cruelly in the dory, shaking the little boat until its planks creaked as she tried to turn it and drenching her from pompon to shoe-tip with spray.
“‘When perils gather round, All sense of danger’s drowned, We despise it to a man! We sing a little and laugh a little....’”
And even while she tried to sing and laugh the Peril was upon her.
A raving, squalling gust swooped out from that sand-fog swirling over the pale hills of the Sugarloaf; it seemed to mount in delirium to the lowering sky—from which all the sun-rays had fled to hide—and kick over a bucket of fresh water there. Then it roared as it shook its wet wings over the sea; its dripping tail struck the puny dory, just far enough out to be so struck with overwhelming force—and not all the strength of girl or boy, either, could stand or make headway against it.