“Quick, Fred!” cried Grant. “Bring her up into the wind. You help me let down this sail, Pop.”

An angry gust of wind scudding across the lake, caught the catboat and made her heel far over.

“Let go your sheet, Fred!” shouted Grant. “Quick or we’ll upset.”

He and George sprang forward and feverishly tried to loosen the ropes that held the sail aloft. The wind was increasing in strength now, however, and the boat was becoming more difficult to manage every moment. The sky was inky black and sharp flashes of lightning cut the clouds from end to end. The thunder roared and echoed and reËchoed over the wooded mountains round about. It was now raining hard.

“Keep that sheet clear of everything,” cried Grant, who usually assumed command in every crisis. “Let it run free whatever you do.”

“You hurry with that sail,” retorted Fred.

“They’re doing their best I guess,” said John.

“If they don’t get it down soon we’ll go over,” cried Fried. “I can hardly hold her now.”

“Can I help you, Grant?” asked John, striving to make his way forward. The boom, however, swung violently back and forth threatening to knock him overboard every second. It was almost impossible to keep out of its way in the tiny catboat.

“Go sit down,” cried Grant. “We’ll get it down in a second.”

The rain now fell in torrents. The wind whistled and shrieked all about them and it seemed as if at any moment the sail must be torn to shreds and the mast ripped from its socket. Lucky it was that Fred was an experienced sailor and endowed with nerve as well. The squall drove the boat backwards but Fred managed to keep her nose pointed straight into the teeth of the gale. Otherwise the Balsam could not have lived two minutes.

“Why don’t they hurry with that sail?” exclaimed Fred peevishly.

“They are hurrying,” said John. “The ropes are wet and they’re nervous.”

“Ah, there it comes,” cried Fred suddenly. “Now we’ll stand a chance.”

With a rush the sail came down, its folds almost completely covering the four boys in the boat. The strain on the tiller was greatly relieved however and the Balsam maintained a more even keel.

“Whew!” exclaimed George, groping his way astern. “What a storm this is!”

“I never saw it rain so hard,” said John. “Just look; you can’t see more than about ten feet.”

“We’ll go aground if we’re not careful.”

“How can we stop it?” demanded Fred. “We’re at the mercy of the storm.”

“Throw the anchor overboard,” suggested George.

“A good idea, Pop,” exclaimed Grant. “Come along and I’ll help you.”

“You’ll get struck by lightning,” warned Fred, half seriously. The flashes were blinding and almost continuous. The thunder ripped and roared all around and so near at hand was the center of the storm that sometimes the smell as of something burning could be detected in the air.

“That anchor will never hold us,” said John who sat in the stern, huddled close to Fred. Grant and George were feeling their way forward.

“Don’t throw the lunch basket over by mistake,” called Fred.

“The lunch won’t be worth much now, I’m afraid,” said John ruefully.

“Oh, I don’t know; it’s under the deck.”

“I know, but the boat has a lot of water in her now and if it touches that basket it will soon soak through.”

“How deep is this lake?”

“I’ve no idea. I don’t even know where we are.”

“I’m afraid we’re going to run ashore all of a sudden somewhere.”

“The anchor ought to catch before that happens,” said John. “It’s trailing now you know.”

“I know it is, but suppose we hit a lone rock.”

“We’re running that chance. I don’t know what we can do about it.”

“Are you trying to steer, Fred?” asked Grant who together with George had now crawled back to the stern of the boat.

“I’m trying to keep her headed with the waves; that’s all I can do.”

“I know it. I think the squall’s letting up some though.”

“Perhaps it is,” agreed John. “It does seem a little bit lighter.”

“It isn’t raining so hard either,” observed Grant. “These squalls stop just as quickly as they start sometimes.”

“The lake must be deep here,” said Fred. “How long is that anchor chain?”

“About fifteen feet I guess,” said John.

“That ought to keep us from going ashore anyway,” exclaimed Fred. “Who said this storm was over?”

“It must be coming back,” said Grant. “It certainly let up for awhile though.”

“But it’s making up for it now all right,” observed George. “I’m so glad I took all that trouble to get my clothes dry.”

The four boys looked at one another and could not help laughing. Every one of them was drenched through to the skin and no one had a dry stitch of clothes on. The rain pelted them mercilessly and the water ran off their faces in streams. All huddled together, they made a forlorn looking party.

“This is what all campers get I suppose,” remarked George.

“They certainly do,” agreed Grant. “Some of them get it worse than this too.”

“Do you suppose our tent is still there?” inquired John.

“Let’s hope so,” exclaimed George fervently. “We’d be in a nice fix if we found it blown away when we got back.”

“If we do get back,” said Fred dolefully.

“What’s the matter with you, Fred?” demanded Grant. “You don’t think we’re all going to die or be killed, do you?”

“I don’t know. This is a bad storm and we can’t see where we are.”

“But the anch—”

There was a sudden jolt. Every boy was almost thrown from his seat as the boat came to a quick stop. Then the bow swung slowly around and a moment later the Balsam was pointed straight into the wind, her anchor chain taut.

“We’re aground,” cried George.

“Not at all,” corrected Grant. “The anchor chain has caught, that’s all.”

“Where are we?”

“I can’t see.”

“We must be somewhere near shore,” said John.

“We might be on a shoal.”

“No, there’s land,” cried John. “I can see it.”

“Maybe it’s on our island,” said George. “Wouldn’t that be queer.”

“Well, I wish the old storm would be over so we can see just where we are located,” exclaimed Fred. “I’ve had enough of this.”

“You’d better be thankful the anchor holds and not worry about anything else,” observed Grant. “So far we can’t complain.”

“It’s stopping,” said George suddenly. “The sun will be out in a minute.”

“If it comes out it had better bring an umbrella, that’s all I can say,” observed John.

“A pretty poor joke, String,” said George. “Try another one; it might be better.”

“The sun is coming out,” cried Grant. “The storm is almost over, I guess.”

“Thank goodness!” exclaimed Fred. “Now we can see where we are.”

Little by little the rain abated, the wind died down and the thunder melted away in the distance. Before many moments had passed the sun broke forth from behind a cloud and blue sky appeared.

“Do they have many of these squalls around here, I wonder?” said George. “I don’t think very highly of them myself.”

“Nor I,” agreed Grant. “Just look where it carried us.”

“There’s our island,” exclaimed Fred. “I thought it was in the other direction though.”

“So it was,” said John. “We traveled the whole length of the lake, I guess.”

“Right past our camp?”

“It looks so.”

“Suppose we had hit one of those big rocks where I fell in,” said George. “Our anchor wouldn’t have done us very much good there.”

“I should say not,” agreed Grant. “Isn’t that a camp over there?”

His three companions gazed in the direction he indicated and sure enough a big white tent very similar to their own appeared on shore, a short distance from the spot where the Balsam lay at anchor.

“I don’t see anybody around,” remarked Fred. “Do you suppose they’re all away?”

“The best way to find out is to go and see for ourselves,” exclaimed Grant.

“That’s right,” observed George. “Let’s get the anchor up and sail in.”

“There’s a dock there too, where we can land,” said Fred. “Perhaps the people who are camping here have been caught out in the storm.”

“We’ll soon know anyway,” said Grant, making his way forward to assist George in getting up the anchor.