It was the second day after Chub’s success with the grasshopper bait, and the second day of rain. Yesterday, it had merely showered at intervals, and the three had half a day of good fishing, but since about dawn it had been pouring torrents and they had been forced to remain indoors save when, at about eleven, they had gone in bathing. That had been good fun; there is a certain excitement about bathing in a heavy downpour of rain that is missing under other conditions. Chub had pretended to be disgruntled. “What’s the use of bathing,” he had asked, “when you’re sopping wet before you get into the water?” But he had enjoyed it as much as any of them.
The Slow Poke stood the deluge well, all things considered. The rain managed to get under the door of the after cabin until they spread towels along the sill, and there was a small leak in the bedroom. But Chub declared that he didn’t mind as long as it wasn’t over the bed.
“I think,” remarked Dick a few minutes later, laying down his book with a yawn and glancing disapprovingly out of the rain-streaked windows, “that we’ve had enough of this place. Let’s go on. What do you say, Roy?”
