  Tom’s cry brought the others from the dinner table to the screened-in porch which overlooked the lake. He was right. The storm was roaring down out of the hills in the west in all its fury. The black clouds which had been rolling along the horizon when Tom and Helen had come home were massed in a solid, angry front. Driven by a whistling wind, they were sweeping down on the lake. An ominous fringe of yellow wind clouds dashed on ahead and as they reached the porch they saw the waters of Lake Dubar whiten before the fury of the wind. “Looks like a twister,” shouted Tom. His mother’s face whitened and she anxiously scanned the sky. Doctor Stevens ran across from his home. “Better close all your windows and secure the doors,” he warned. “We’re going to get a lot of wind before the rain comes.” “Tom is afraid of a tornado,” said Mrs. Blair. “The weather is about right,” admitted the doctor. “But we won’t worry until we see the clouds start to swirl. Then we’ll run for the storm cellar under my house.” Helen and Margaret hurried to help Mrs. Blair close the upstairs windows while Tom went around to make sure that the screens were secure. He bolted all doors except the one to the porch and when he returned to join the others, the tempo of the wind was increasing rapidly. The wind suddenly dropped to a whisper and Doctor Stevens watched the rolling clouds with renewed anxiety. The waters of the lake were calmer and the dust clouds which the wind had driven over the water cleared partially. “Look!” cried Helen. “There’s a motorboat trying to reach one of the boathouses here!” Through the haze of dust which still hung over the lake they could discern the outline of a boat, laboring to reach the safety of the Rolfe end of the lake. “It’s Jim Preston,” said Doctor Stevens. “He goes down to the summer resorts at the far end of the lake every Sunday morning with the mail and papers.” “His boat’s got a lot of water in it from the way it is riding,” added Tom. “If the storm hits him he’ll never make it.” “Jim should have known better than to have taken a chance when he could see this mess of weather brewing,” snorted the doctor. “His wife’s sick,” put in Mrs. Blair, “and Jim’s probably taken an extra risk to get home as soon as possible.” “I know,” said Doctor Stevens. “He’s bailing by hand,” cried Tom. “That means something has gone wrong with the water pump on the engine.” “Can you see what boat he has?” asked Doctor Stevens. “It looks like the Flyer,” said Helen, who knew the lines of every motorboat on the lake. “That’s the poorest wet weather boat Jim has,” said Doctor Stevens. “Every white cap slops over the side. She’s fast but a death trap in a storm. Either the Liberty or the Argosy would eat up weather like this.” “Jim’s been overhauling the engines in his other boats,” said Tom, “and the Flyer is the only thing he has been using this spring.” “Instead of standing here talking, let’s get down to the shore,” said Helen. “Maybe we can get someone to go out and help him.” Without waiting for the others to reply, Helen started running toward the lake. She heard a cry behind her and turned to see Tom pointing toward the hills in the west. The wind was whistling again and when she turned to look in the direction her brother pointed, she stopped suddenly. The black storm clouds were massing for the main attack and they were rolling together. In the seconds that Helen watched, she saw them swirl toward a common center, heard the deafening rise of the wind and trembled as the clouds, now formed in a great funnel, started toward the lake. “Come back, Helen, come back!” Tom shouted. Forcing herself to overcome the storm terror which now gripped her, Helen looked out over the boiling waters of the lake. The wind was whipping into a new frenzy and she could just barely see the Flyer above the white-capped waves. Jim Preston was making a brave effort to reach shore and Helen knew that the little group at her own home were probably the only ones in Rolfe who knew of the boatman’s danger. Seconds counted and ignoring the warning cries from her brother, she hurried on toward the lake. The noise of the oncoming tornado beat on her ears, but she dared not look toward the west. If she did she knew she would turn and race for the shelter and security of Doctor Stevens’ storm cellar. The Flyer was rolling dangerously as Jim Preston made for the shore and Helen doubted if the boatman would ever make it. On and on the sleek craft pushed its way, the waves breaking over its slender, speedy nose and cascading back into the open cockpit in which Jim Preston was bailing furiously. The Flyer was nosing deeper into the waves as it shipped more water. When the ignition wires got wet the motor would stop and Preston’s last chance would be gone. Helen felt someone grab her arms. It was Tom. “Come back!” he cried. “The tornado will be on us in another five minutes!” “We’ve got to help Mr. Preston,” shouted Helen, and she refused to move. “All right, then I stay too,” yelled Tom, who kept anxious eyes on the approaching tornado. The Flyer was less than a hundred yards from shore but was settling deeper and deeper into the water. “It’s almost shallow enough for him to wade ashore,” cried Helen. “Wind would sweep him off his feet,” replied Tom. The speedboat was making slow progress, barely staggering along in its battle against the wind and waves. “He’s going to make it!” shouted Helen. “I hope so,” said Tom, but his words were lost in the wind. Fifty yards more and the Flyer would nose into the sandy beach which marked the Rolfe end of the lake. “Come on, Flyer, come on!” cried Helen. “The engine’s dying,” said Tom. “Look, the nose is going under that big wave.” With the motor dead, the Flyer lost way and buried its nose under a giant white-cap. “He’s jumping out of the boat,” added Helen. “It’s shallow enough so he can wade in if he can keep his feet.” Ignoring the increasing danger of the tornado, they ran across the sandy beach. “Join hands,” cried Helen. “We can wade out and pull him the last few feet.” Realizing that his sister would go on alone if he did not help her, Tom locked his hands in hers and they plunged into the shallow water. Jim Preston, on the verge of exhaustion, staggered through the waves. The Flyer, caught between two large rollers, filled with water and disappeared less than ten seconds after it had been abandoned. The boatman floundered toward them and Tom and Helen found themselves hard-pressed to keep their own feet, for a strong undertow threatened to upset them and sweep them out into the lake. Preston lunged toward them and they caught him as he fell. Tom turned momentarily to watch the approach of the tornado. “Hurry!” he cried. “We’ll be able to reach Doctor Stevens’ storm cellar if we run.” “I can’t run,” gasped Preston. “You youngsters get me to shore. Then save yourselves.” “We’ll do nothing of the kind,” said Helen. With their encouragement, Preston made a new effort and they made their escape from the dangerous waters of the lake. Alone, Helen or Tom could have raced up the hill to Doctor Stevens in less than a minute but with an almost helpless man to drag between them, they made slow progress. “We’ve got to hurry,” warned Tom as the noise of the storm told of its rapid approach. “Go on, go on! Leave me here!” urged Preston. But Helen and Tom were deaf to his pleas and they forced him to use the last of his strength in a desperate race up the hill ahead of the tornado. Doctor Stevens met them half way up the hill and almost carried Preston the rest of the way. “Across the street and into my storm cellar,” he told them. “Is the tornado going to hit the town?” asked Helen as they hurried across the street. “Can’t tell yet,” replied Doctor Stevens. “There’s a common belief that the hills and lake protect us so a tornado will never strike here,” said Tom. “We’ll soon know about that,” said the doctor grimly. They got the exhausted boatman to the entrance of the cellar, where Mrs. Blair was anxiously awaiting their return. “Are you all right, Helen?” she asked. “A little wet on my lower extremities,” replied the young editor of the Herald. “I simply had to go, mother.” “Of course you did,” said Mrs. Blair. “It was dangerous but I’m proud of you Helen.” Mrs. Stevens brought out blankets and wrapped them around Jim Preston’s shoulders while Margaret took candles down into the storm cellar. The noise of the storm had increased to such an intensity that conversation was almost impossible. Doctor Stevens maintained his watchful vigil, noting every movement of the tornado. The sky was so dark that the daylight had faded into dusk although it was only a few minutes after three. The whole western sky was filled with coal-black clouds and out of the center of this ominous mass rushed the lashing tongue which was destroying everything it touched. On and on came the storm, advancing with a deadly relentlessness. A farm house a little more than a mile away on one of the hills overlooking the lake exploded as though a charge of dynamite had been set off beneath it. “It’s terrible, terrible,” sobbed Margaret Stevens, who had come out of the cellar to watch the storm. “We’re going to get hit,” Tom warned them. “I’ve got to get home,” said Jim Preston, struggling out of the blankets which Mrs. Stevens had wrapped around him. “My wife’s all alone.” “Stay here, Jim,” commanded Doctor Stevens. “You couldn’t get more than three or four blocks before the storm strikes and your place is clear across town. Everybody into the cellar,” he commanded. Mrs. Stevens and Helen’s mother went first to light the candles. They were followed by Margaret and Helen, then Tom and Jim Preston and finally the doctor, who remained in the doorway on guard. “What will this do to the Herald?” Helen whispered to Tom. Her brother nudged her hard. “Don’t let Mother hear you,” he replied. “There is nothing we can do now except hope. The Herald building may not be destroyed.” Helen dropped to the floor and her head bowed in prayer. Their father’s illness had been a blow and to have the Herald plant destroyed by a tornado would be almost more than they could bear. The noise of the tornado was terrific and they felt the earth trembling at the fury of the storm gods. Helen had seen pictures of towns razed by tornadoes but she had never dreamed that she would be in one herself. Suddenly the roar of the storm lessened and Doctor Stevens cautiously opened the door of the storm cellar. “We’re safe!” he cried. They trooped out of the cellar. The tornado had swung away from Rolfe without striking the town itself and was lashing its way down the center of Lake Dubar. “It will wear itself out before it reaches the end of the lake,” predicted Jim Preston. “I don’t believe any houses in town were damaged,” said Doctor Stevens. “A hen house and garage or two may have been unroofed but that will be about all.” “How about the farmers back in the hills?” asked Helen. “They must have fared pretty badly if they were in the center of the storm,” said the doctor. “I’m going to get my car and start out that way. Someone may need medical attention.” “Can I go with you?” asked Helen. “I want to get all the facts about the storm for my story for the Herald.” “Glad to have you,” said the doctor. “Count me in,” said Margaret Stevens. “I’ve joined Helen’s staff as her first reporter,” she told her father. “If you want to go down the lake in the morning and see what happened at the far end I’ll be glad to take you,” suggested Jim Preston. “I’m mighty grateful for what you and Tom did for me and I’ll have the Liberty ready to go by morning.” “What about the Flyer?” asked Tom. “I’ll have to fish her out of the lake sometime next week,” grinned the boatman. “I’m lucky even to be here, but I am, thanks to you.” Doctor Stevens backed his sedan out of the garage and Helen started toward the car. “You can’t go looking like that,” protested her mother. “Your shoes and hose are wet and dirty and your dress looks something like a mop.” “Can’t help the looks, mother,” smiled Helen. “I’ll have to go as I am. This is my first big news and the story comes first.” |
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