It still rained, so building camp-fires was out of the question.  This being so, the cadets turned in early, glad to seek the shelter of their cots and their warm blankets.

An hour went by, when of a sudden the rain increased once more.  Then came a rush of wind that shook all of the tents violently.

“We are not out of it yet, it would seem,” said Dick, as he sat up on his cot to listen to the flapping of the canvas in the company street.

He had hardly spoken when another gust of wind tore down on the camp.  There was a ripping of cloth and a crashing of poles, and then a cry for help sounded from several places at once.

CHAPTER XIX

A STORM IN CAMP

“Say, fellows, are we all going up in a balloon!” cried Sam Rover, as he rolled off his cot in a great hurry.

One whole side of the tent was loose and the structure was in danger of tumbling down on the inmates’ heads.

“Help!” came from the next tent.  “I’m being smothered!”

“That’s Lew Flapp!” said a cadet.  “What’s up now, Flapp?” he called out.

No answer came back, and now canvases could be heard ripping in all directions.

“Fasten down the pegs!” came the order.  “Fasten them down, quick!”

The cadets were already at work, and Sam and his tent-mates set at their task with a will, realizing that every moment was precious.  While one student held the peg upright the other would pound it down into the wet ground with a hammer or the back of a spade.

“The confounded pegs won’t hold,” cried out one cadet.  “There she goes!” and the next instant the tent went flying skyward, to land on another tent some distance away.

It was still raining “cats, dogs, and hammer handles” as Tom Rover expressed it.  All was dark, the only light being that given forth by the lantern which had not been blown out.  Occasionally came a flash of lightning, followed by the distant rolling of thunder.

“This is one of the real comforts of camp life,” said Songbird Powell sarcastically.  “So much nicer than being under the roof of the Hall, you know!”

“Never mind, Songbird, you need a washing off at least once a year,” replied a fellow sufferer.

A minute later came another yell from Lew Flapp.  He and his tent-mates had tried in vain to hold down their canvas.  Now it went up with a rush.  One of the peg ropes caught around Flapp’s leg and he was dragged over the wet ground, with his head splashing into every pool of water that he passed.

“Help me!  I’ll be killed!” roared the tall youth.

The tent was blowing along the company street and half a dozen cadets ran to the rescue, Tom with them.  Some leaped on the canvas, while others held Flapp.  Then the rope was cut with a knife.

“Wha—­what a fearful wind!” groaned the tall boy, when he could speak.  “This is the worst storm I ever saw!”