here they flopped about marooned in the channel below. Probably this gully was an old dried-up stream bed.
About a mile from the lake it became wider and was intersected by a road. Here it was that the bridge spanned the hollow. And here it was, right in the hollow near the bridge, that Ebon Berry had his rural garage. Along this road the old bus lumbered daily, bringing new arrivals to camp and touching at villages beyond.
If, indeed, the swollen lake had washed away the inner shore of the cove, the sequel would be serious if not tragic at that quiet road crossing. The question was, had this happened, and if so, had the bus reached the fatal spot? All that the boys knew was that the bus was long overdue and that Berry's "did not answer." And that the fury of the storm was rising with every minute.
Tom Slade spoke calmly as was his wont. No storm could arouse him out of his stolid, thoughtful habit.
"A couple of scoutmasters have started along the road," he said, "to see what they
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