“We ought to have got our lantern out,” she said. “You’ve only got a stump of a candle left.”
“Do you think the trees are coming down?” said Peggy.
“They’d be down before now if they were coming,” said Susan.
“Poor Polly,” said Titty, but the parrot corrected her. He was smoothing down the feathers that had been fluffed out in the wind.
“Pretty Polly,” he said.
“I don’t believe he minds losing his blue cloak,” said Titty.
“Is your tent going too?” shouted Captain Nancy in the wind.
“I hope not,” said Captain John.
“What?”
“I hope not,” he shouted in her ear.
The wind was blowing across the island in great gusts that shook the little trees like grass. Overhead the tall pine that was the lighthouse creaked and groaned. For a moment or two it was pitch dark, and then the lightning lit up the sky so that everything was as clear as in daylight. With each gust, Captain John’s tent clapped like a loose jib on a ship going about in a squall and there was a rattle of stones.
Roger crawled out into the rain.
“It’s getting smaller and smaller,” he said. “It’s spilling the stones out of the pockets.”