“Hullo, Susan,” called John. “Have you got enough stones to hold your tent down? Our tent’s getting smaller.”
“Ours is all right,” shouted Susan, “the stones haven’t moved yet.”
“What?” shouted John. “I can’t hear.”
“Our stones are all right,” shouted Susan. But she spoke too soon. There was a loud crack. The stones had been heavy enough, but a furious jerk of the trees had snapped the wet taut rope on which her tent was hung. The whole tent flopped down, a mass of wet canvas, burying Susan and Titty and the parrot in its folds, knocking over their candle lantern and putting it out.
From the other tents, they heard the crack, an angry scream from the parrot as its cage fell over, and then muffled shrieks of “Help! Help!”
John and Nancy were out of their tents in a moment.