# Harry's Island/Chapter 18
### CHAPTER XVIII THE STORM

“CHUB!
“Chub!!
“CHU-U-UB!!!”
“Eh?” asked Chub drowsily.
“Get up; it’s after eight o’clock,” said Roy.
“Pull the bedclothes off of him,” counseled a voice outside the tent which Chub, just dropping back to slumber, recognized as belonging to Dick.
“Can’t,” Roy answered. “He’s kicked them on to the floor. Chub, you lazy duffer, get up! Do you hear? We’re eating breakfast.”
“Then it’s too late,” murmured Chub serenely. “Call me before lunch.”
“He won’t get up, Dick,” announced Roy. “You’d better come.”
“No!” yelled the tardy one, jumping as though a yellow-jacket had wandered into bed with him. “I’m up, Dick, honest! Ain’t I, Roy?”
“You’re half up,” was the answer. “I want to see you all up before I leave.”
“All right.” Chub stretched his arms above his head, yawned and stumbled to his feet. “What time did you say it was?”
“About ten minutes after eight.”
“Phew! Don’t it get late early? I did sleep, didn’t I? Go ahead and eat, Roy, I’ll be out in two shakes of a lamb’s tail. My, but I’m sleepy! Say, what time was it when we got to bed last night, anyway?”
“A little after eleven.”
“Is that all? I thought it must have been about one. These parties are very unsettling affairs. Say, but wasn’t Billy funny with his imitations?”
“He surely was,” answered Roy, smiling reminiscently. “We had a lot of fun, didn’t we?”
“Well, rather! And can’t that Floating Artist sing, what? Say, if I had a voice like that I’d never do a lick of work!”
“I haven’t noticed that you are killing yourself with labor,” answered Roy as he moved toward the door of the tent. Chub reached for a shoe, but Roy was gone before he got his hand on it. So he sat down again on the side of his bunk and thought of some of the funny things that Billy Noon had said last evening and grinned and chuckled all to himself until a little breeze came frolicking in through the door bringing a fragrant aroma of coffee. Then Chub came back to earth and tumbled feverishly into his clothes.
Harry was to sit again for the Floating Artist at ten o’clock and so was not coming over to the camp for breakfast. Besides, as to-morrow was Thursday, Harry had much to do in regard to her birthday party at the Cottage, and Fox Island was not likely to see much of her before Thursday evening at seven, at which hour the celebration on board the Jolly Roger was to commence. After breakfast Dick made a bee-line for his paint-pots and brushes, and it took all Chub’s and Roy’s diplomacy to restrain him from going to work again on the Pup.
“Honest, Dick,” said Chub, “there’s too much to do to-day and to-morrow for us to start messing with paint. Wait until after Harry’s birthday, like a good chap.”
“What is there to do to-day?” demanded Dick.
“Why,” answered Chub, “we—er—why, we’ve got to go to the Cove to buy provisions for one thing, and—”
“We can get those to-morrow just as well.”
“But think of the time it will take to finish that painting,” begged Roy. “We’ve got to find another rock and lug it out there first.”
“Yes, and there’ll be only you and Roy to do the painting,” said Chub, “because I’ll have to sit on the gunwale to heel her over so as you can reach the bottom; and that means an all-day job.”
“Oh, if you fellows don’t want to help,” said Dick with dignity, “I guess I can get it done somehow.”
“But we do want to help,” answered Chub eagerly. “That’s just it, don’t you see? That’s why we want you to wait until we can all take a hand at it. When Harry’s here, you see, I can paint too, because she will do the heavyweight act for us.”
“Oh, thunder!” muttered Dick, half laughing, half scowling, “you fellows are a pair of squealers, that’s what you are! Hang it, I’ll never get the launch finished!”
“Oh, yes, you will,” said Chub soothingly. “Besides, what if you don’t? I should think you’d be proud to have the only half-and-half boat on the Hudson River!”
They went in bathing instead, managing to kill the better part of two hours in that occupation. They didn’t go far up Inner Beach for fear of disturbing Mr. Cole, who, with Harry, was plainly to be seen on the roof-deck of the house-boat. But about noon, having dressed themselves, they walked up there. The sitting was over and the picture practically finished, although the artist explained that there was a little more to be done to it.
“But he doesn’t want me to sit any more,” said Harry, almost regretfully.
“No, that isn’t necessary,” replied Mr. Cole. “The rest can be done any time.”
“If I had money enough I’d buy that picture,” declared Chub. “I think it’s dandy. I suppose you get a good deal for one like that?”
“Well, that won’t be sold, I guess. If it should, though, I’d want about three hundred for it.”
Chub’s eyes hung out of his head.
“Three hundred!” he gasped. Then, fearing that the artist would think him discourteous, he added: “I—I guess that’s pretty reasonable.”
Mr. Cole laughed. “Well, I don’t think it exorbitant,” he said. “I’ve seen a much smaller canvas than that sell for four thousand.”
“Guess I’ll be an artist,” said Chub with a helpless shake of his head. “Want to give me lessons, sir?”
“Hardly,” was the reply. “I don’t think you would ever make a Sargent or a Chase; do you?”
“Sure,” answered Chub with assurance. “If I learned how I could make them.”
When the rest had stopped laughing Roy said:
“We’re going to Silver Cove after dinner, Mr. Cole, and we thought maybe you’d like to come along and have a sail in the Pup.”
“I’d like to first rate,” said the artist, “but I’m going to be busy this afternoon. I’m sorry. Perhaps you’ll let me come some other time, boys.” They assured him that they would be glad to have him whenever it suited him to go, and then they took their departure, Harry accompanying them after a final look at the picture.
“Well,” said Dick as they walked back to camp along the beach, “I suppose you’re feeling pretty stuck-up, Harry, since you’ve had your picture painted by a real artist.”
“And a Floating Artist at that,” added Chub. But Harry shook her head soberly.
“It must be beautiful,” she said softly and wistfully, “to be able to paint pictures like that!”
“That’s so,” agreed Chub vigorously. “I used to think that an artist chap must be a sort of a sissy; I knew one once: I told you about him, remember? I never thought that sitting down and painting pictures of things on pieces of canvas was a decent job for a full-grown man. But I do now, by jove! A chap must have a whole lot of—of goodness, don’t you think, fellows, to do a thing like that picture of Harry?”
“I should think so,” answered Roy. “Painting a thing like that seems to me like composing a wonderful poem or writing a fine piece of music, eh?”
“You bet!” said Chub. “But I’d rather be a painter than a poet any old day.”
“You’re like Harry,” laughed Dick. “She prefers painters to poets, too, nowadays.”
“Harry’s fickle,” said Chub.
But Harry seemed to be in a strangely chastened mood and paid no heed to their insinuations. After dinner they took her across to the Ferry Hill landing in the canoe. A pile of big purple clouds had formed in the west above the distant hills and already the thunder was muttering along the horizon and flashes of lightning were appearing behind the ragged edges of the clouds.
“We’re going to get that sure,” said Dick, who was the weather-wise member of the party. “You’d better hurry back, you fellows.”
They did, sending the canoe up-stream with long racing strokes of the paddles. But already the big drops were popping down upon the leaves and a little wind was moaning through the woods as they landed.
“No launch sail this afternoon,” said Dick aggrievedly.
“No,” answered Roy. “It’s the tent for us, I guess. Wish there was something to do besides play cards and read.”
“We can write letters,” suggested Chub virtuously, and the others laughed consumedly.
“I tell you what, fellows,” said Dick a moment later, while they were tightening the guy-ropes around the tent. “Mr. Cole told us to come over there whenever we wanted to. Let’s go now. Shall we?”
“He said he was going to be busy, didn’t he?” asked Roy.
“Yes, but he said before that we wouldn’t bother him. Let’s go!” And Chub tossed his cap into the tent, ready for a dash along the beach.
“All right,” said Roy. “We can keep quiet and read. I saw some dandy books there the other day.”
“Last man there’s a chump!” bawled Chub as, having already taken a good lead, he darted off toward the beach. The others followed and the three raced along in the rain, which was now coming down in torrents, and reached the Jolly Roger side by side. A door was thrown open and the smiling face of the artist greeted them.
“In with you!” he cried to an accompaniment of delighted barks from Jack, and they found themselves in the studio, panting and laughing and dripping. “Just in time,” said their host as he put his weight against the door and swung it shut. As if in explanation, a sudden gust of wind burst against the boat, making the windows rattle in their frames and the timbers creak. With the wind came a blinding wall of rain that darkened the little room as though sudden twilight had fallen. The great drops ran down the panes in tiny rivulets and on the island side it was impossible to see a thing. The sound of wind and rain was for a moment deafening. Then the wind died down for a moment and a mighty crash of thunder sent Jack cowering to his master.
“Glad I’m on the leeward side of this island of yours,” said the artist. “It must be pretty rough on the other side.”
“Gee!” exclaimed Chub. “The tent, fellows!”
They looked at each other in consternation. Then Dick whistled, Roy smiled, and Chub burst into a peal of laughter.
“I’ll bet a hat it’s gone home,” he said. “The wind would just about carry it toward the boat-house.”
“Oh, maybe it hasn’t any more than blown down,” said Dick. “We made those ropes good and tight. I’ll bet our things will be good and soppy, though.”
“And I left my bag open!” mourned Chub.
“Well, there’s no use in worrying,” said Mr. Cole cheerfully. “Get your wet coats off, boys. You don’t want to catch cold!”
“I’m afraid we’re disturbing you,” said Roy glancing at a canvas on the easel.
“Not you, the storm,” was the answer. “I can’t work in this light. Suppose we go forward to the sitting-room and make ourselves comfortable?”
He led the way through the engine-room, remarking as they passed the engine: “Noon fixed her up for me the other day and I guess she’s all ready to move on when I am.” In the sitting-room Chub went to a window on the river side.
“Gee,” he exclaimed, “I never saw the Inner Channel cutting up like this! Come, look, Roy.”
It certainly did look tempestuous. The shore was almost hidden in the smother of rain. The river which an hour before had been like a mill-pond, was a gray-green waste of tumbling waves.
“I wouldn’t care to go out there in the canoe now,” said Roy.
“We might have some music,” observed Mr. Cole, “but I don’t believe we could much more than hear it.” As though to prove the truth of his assertion there came a dazzling flash of lightning and a burst of thunder that shook the boat until the china danced on the kitchen shelves.
“Thunder!” exclaimed Chub involuntarily.
“And lightning,” added Dick.
“Well,” said Mr. Cole, “find seats, boys, and be as comfortable as you can. This can’t last very long; it’s too severe. As long as the cables hold us to the shore we’re all right.”
Roy and Dick settled themselves on the window-seat, but for Chub the seething expanse of troubled water held a fascination and he remained at the window watching. Jack had crawled between his master’s knees and placed his head in his lap, trembling and glancing about affrightedly.
“Poor old boy,” said the artist, patting the dog’s head, “thunder just about scares him to death, doesn’t it, Jack?”
At that instant there was a sharp cry from Chub, and as the others sprang to their feet he turned a pale, excited face toward them.
“Look!” he cried. “There! It’s a boat bottom-up with a man clinging to it! Can you see?”
“Yes,” they answered, and for a moment they were silent while the wind and rain roared outside and the capsized boat tossed heavily between the waves.
“The wind will drive him on shore if he can hold on,” said Roy. But there was little conviction in his tones.
“Not with that current,” answered Chub hoarsely. “He’s going down-stream fast. When I first saw him he was fifty yards further up.”
“Haven’t you a boat?” demanded Dick eagerly of Mr. Cole.
“Yes,” replied that gentleman calmly and thoughtfully, “but it’s just a cockle-shell and hard to row. There’s no use in thinking of that.”
“But we can’t let him drown!” cried Chub.
“No,” answered the artist. “We can’t do that. One of you look in the locker in the engine-room and bring me the coil of rope you’ll find there.”
Roy darted away in obedience.
“What are you going to do?” asked Dick.
“Swim out to him,” was the reply. Mr. Cole was already shedding his outer clothes. “Do you know who he is?”
They shook their heads.
“‘It’s a boat bottom-up with a man clinging to it!’”
“I can’t see,” said Chub. “But he’s having a hard time staying there, I can tell that. The waves are going over him every minute. Do you think you can get to him, sir? Wouldn’t you like me to go along? I’m a pretty fairish swimmer, sir.”
“Let me go!” cried Roy, hurrying back with the big coil of half-inch rope. But Mr. Cole shook his head as he took the rope and tied it under his armpits.
“One’s enough,” he answered. “You keep this end of the rope and when you think best—haul in hard.” He took a final look out of the window at the tossing boat and went to the door and flung it open. The wind and rain burst in upon them, making them gasp. Mr. Cole turned to Dick.
“Hold the dog,” he shouted. “He may try to follow. Pay out the rope as long as you can, boys. If it won’t reach, let go of it and I’ll try to make the end of the island. All right.”
He raised his arms and plunged far out into the tossing water.