"You're a poet, Bobby," declared Tommy. "Tennyson had nothing on you—had he, Libbie?"
Libbie turned her dark eyes on him and frowned a little.
"I wasn't listening," she said indifferently.
"Well, anyway, row up to the end of the lake, will you?" suggested Gilbert. "With drill night ahead of us, we want a little brightness to remember the day by."
Canoes, rowboat and shell swept on up the lake, and when the scrubby pines that bordered the narrow peak of the north shore were in sight, Bobby glanced back over her shoulder at Betty.
"You're spattering me," she complained.
"I thinks it's beginning to rain," said Betty mildly, and even as she spoke, Louise called to them:
"Girls, it's beginning to pour!"
A sudden blast of wind struck them, blowing the rain against their backs.
"Keep on rowing!" shouted Bob's voice. "We'll have to land and walk back. You girls can never beat back against this storm. We're almost to the shore now."
A few minutes more and the boats touched shore. The boys were out in an instant and helped the girls to land.
"We'll carry up the boats—don't you think that is best, Tommy?" shouted Bob. "If we
