There was an uncomfortable silence for a minute; then Chips spoke.

“Your house is splendid and safe, isn’t it, Johnnie?”

“Yes, it is.”

“I wonder where we’d better lie down,” pursued Chips.  “I’m sleepy.  Let’s play we’re Crusoe and Friday now.”

“Oh, we can’t,” responded Johnnie impatiently, “not with so many com—­” he was going to say comforts, but changed his mind.

The night was very dark, not a twinkling star peeped down at the children, and the naked branches of the climbing roses rattled against the pillars to which they were nailed, for the wind was rising.

The boys sat down on the steps and Chips edged closer to his companion.  “I think it was queer actions in my mother,” he said, “to leave me here without any shawl or pillow or anything.”

A little chill crept over Johnnie’s head from sleepiness and cold.  “Our mothers don’t care what happens to us,” he replied gloomily.  The stillness of the house and the growing lateness of the hour combined to make him feel that if being wrecked was more uncomfortable than this, he could, after all, be happy without it.

“What do you think?” broke in the shivering Man Friday.  “Mamma says ham isn’t good to eat if it isn’t cooked.”

“And that’s the meanest old hen that ever lived!” returned Crusoe.  “She hasn’t laid an egg since I got her.”

A distant rumble sounded in the air.  “What’s that?” asked Chips.

“Well, I should think you’d know that’s thunder,” replied Johnnie crossly.

“Oh, yes,” said little Chips meekly, “and we’re going to get wet.”

They were both quiet for another minute, while the wind rose and swept by them.

“I really think, Johnnie,” began Chips apologetically, “that I’m not big enough to be a good Man Friday.  I think to-morrow you’d better find somebody else.”

“No, indeed,” replied Johnnie feelingly.  “I’d rather give up being wrecked than go off with any one but you.  If you give up, I shall.”

The rain began to patter down.

“If you don’t like to get wet, Chips, I’d just as lieves go and ring the bell as not,” he added.

A sudden sweep of wind nearly tipped the children over, for they had risen, undecidedly.

“No,” called Chips stoutly, to be heard above the blast.  “I’ll be Friday till to-morrow.”  His last word sounded like a shout, for the wind suddenly died.

“What do you scream so for?” asked Johnnie impatiently; but the storm had only paused, as it were to get ready, and now approached swiftly, gathering strength as it came.  It swept across the piazza, taking the children’s breath away and bending the tall maple in front of the house with such sudden fury that a branch snapped off; then the wind died in the distance with a rushing sound and the breaking tree was illumined by a flash of lightning.

“I think, Johnnie,” said Chips unsteadily, “that God wants us to go in the house.”