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Marmaduke thought he knew now what it meant to be in jail. For three whole days he had had to stay in the house. For three whole days and nights, too, it had rained–“rained pitchforks.” That is what Father said, but Marmaduke could see nothing but prongs. There were thousands of them, coming down through the air. Where were the handles? He looked a long time, thinking that perhaps they had gotten loose from the prongs and would come down afterwards, but never a handle came.

They must be having haying time, the folks in the sky, to use so many forks, he decided, and the sun must be shining for them, way up above the clouds, or they wouldn’t have haying weather. But maybe, after all, it was wet there, too, and they had just grown disgusted, and were throwing their forks away, every last one of them.

Yes, it was pretty lonesome and dull, staying in the house like this. To be sure, once in a while, when the rain slackened a little and the pitchforks didn’t come down so fast, he could put on his rubber boots and go out to the barn. But for most of the time he had been a prisoner–in jail.

He looked out at the Pond. So much water had fallen in it that it was swelling up like a pouter pigeon, or like the bowl that held the Chinese Lily, when he dropped pebbles in it.

My, how Duckie the Stepchild must like this weather! There he was now, and his father and his mother and all his relatives. All just letting the water run off their backs and having a grand time. But Father Wyandotte and all his family were sticking pretty close to the coops. Funny how ducks liked water and chickens didn’t, all but the Gold Rooster on the top of the barn. He never seemed to mind it a bit. Marmaduke looked for him up in the sky, but he was almost hidden by the rain and the gray mist, and stood there on his high perch, swinging from East to North, and back again.

But he grew tired of watching the Gold Rooster, and looked up the pasture for his friend, the Brook. It wasn’t hard to find, for it had grown so big and stretched almost to the fence-rails now, and was racing along towards the Pond, growing wider and wider every minute–just like Marmaduke’s eyes.

“Crackey! Sposin’ there should be a flood!” exclaimed Jehosophat.

“Wouldn’t that be fine!” said Marmaduke.

“Fine!” Jehosophat cried. “What would you do? It might rise an’ rise till the barnyard’d be covered, an’ the road an’ all the country an’ the whole world.”

“Like Noah’s flood, you mean?”

“Yes, just like Noah’s, only he isn’t here to build any ole ark for you to get on.”

“I don’t care,” said Marmaduke stoutly.

“You don’t care!” cried his brother. “Why, you’d drown, that’s what you’d do!”

“No, I wouldn’t either–” Marmaduke seemed very sure about this–“’cause,” he started to explain.

“‘Cause what?”

“‘Cause the Toyman is as good as ole Noah any day,” replied the little boy. “He could build an ark as big as a house, as big as the Church, an’ the ducks’d get on an’ the cows an’ the horses an’–“

“Yes,” interrupted his brother, “but don’t you remember–there were only two of each kind. Now Hal an’ Teddy could get on, but White Boots an’ Ole Methusaleh’d have to stay off, an’ Rover an’ Brownie could go, but Wienerwurst couldn’t–see?”

Marmaduke looked frightened at this–at the very thought of Wienerwurst, his little doggie, trying to swim around in a terrible flood.

“I’d hide him under my coat,” he declared.

“You couldn’t get on yourself,” Jehosophat insisted, “I tell you an ark only takes two of each sort of people an’ animals an’ chickens and things. Now Mother and Father could go–that’s two grown-ups, an’ Hepzebiah an’ me, but you an’ Wienie would have to swim around in the water just as long as you could, then go under–way under, too,” he added.