Читать книгу Tom Slade's Double Dare - Percy Keese Fitzhugh - Страница 4

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There, just below them was the springboard an inch or two above the surface of the lake. Ordinarily it projected from the shore nearly a yard above the water, but lately the swollen lake had risen above it. Now, however, it was visible again just above the surface.

This meant that the water had receded more in an hour than it had risen in a whole week. The strong wind was blowing toward the pavilion and would naturally force the water up along that shore. But in spite of the wind the water in the lake was receding at an alarming rate. Something was wrong. The little trickle from the spring up behind the camp had grown into a torrent and was pouring into the lake. Yet the water in the lake was receding.

Down out of the mountain wilderness across the water came weird noises, caused no doubt by the tumult of the wind in the intricate fastnesses and by the falling of great trees, but the sounds struck upon the ears of the besieged listeners like voices wild and unearthly. The banging of the big shutters of the pavilion was heard in echo as the furious gale bore the sounds back from the mountain and the familiar, homely noise was conjured into a kind of ghostly clamor.

“There goes Pee-wee’s signal tower,” a scout remarked, and just as he spoke, the little rustic edifice which had been the handiwork and pride of the tenderfoots went crashing to the ground while out of the woods across the water came sounds as of merry laughter at its downfall.

“Something’s wrong over on the other side,” said Westy Martin of Roy’s patrol; “the lake’s breaking through over there.”

Scarcely had he uttered the words when all the scouts of the little group were at the railing craning their necks and straining their eyes trying to see across the water. But the wind and rain beat in their faces and the driving downpour formed an impenetrable mist.

As they withdrew again into the comparative shelter of the porch they saw a young fellow standing with his bare arm upraised against the door-jam, watching and listening. This was the young camp assistant, Tom Slade. He had evidently come out to fasten the noisy shutters and had paused to contemplate the tempest.

“Some storm, hey, Tomasso?” said Roy.

“I think the water’s going out through the cove,” said Tom. “It must have washed away the land over there.”

“Let it go, we can’t stop it,” said Roy.

“If it’s running out into the valley, it’s good-night to Berry’s garage, and the bridge too,” said Tom.

The young assistant was popular with the boys at camp, and struck by this suggestion of imminent catastrophe, they clustered about him, listening eagerly. So loud was the noise of the storm, so deafening the sound of rending timber on that gale-swept height before them, that Tom had to raise his voice to make himself heard. The danger to human life which he had been the first to think of, gave the storm new terror to these young watchers. It needed only this touch of mortal peril in that panorama of dreadfulness to arouse them, good scouts that they were, to the chances of adventure and the possibility of service.

“We can’t do anything, can we?” one asked. “It’s too late now, isn’t it?”

“It’s either too late or it isn’t,” said Tom Slade; “and it’s for us to see. I was thinking of Berry’s place, and I was thinking of the crowd that’s coming up to-night on the bus. If the water has broken through across the lake and is pouring into the valley, it’ll wash away the bridge. The bus ought to be here now. There are two troops from the four-twenty train at Catskill. Maybe the train is late on account of the weather. If the bridge is down....”

“Call up Berry’s place and find out,” said Westy Martin.

“That’s just what has me worrying,” said Tom; “Berry’s doesn’t answer.”