“No tree for mine in a storm like this, come on boys;” called out the patrol leader, once more starting on a run.
Step Hen hesitated. It even seemed as though the spirit of finding safety was tempting him to hold back. If he thought Giraffe would back him up, Step Hen might possibly have declined to leave the big hollow tree that looked so inviting to him.
But Giraffe, either more submissive to authority just then, or else not quite so frightened by the crash of the approaching storm, was already hurrying after the leader.
And so Step Hen went on, although grumblingly.
“Why couldn’t we use that nice, old hiding-place, Thad?” he called out; for the thunder, together with the roar of the wind, and the rain, in their rear, made so much racket, that talking in ordinary tones was impossible.
“That tree might go down with a crash in the gale,” was what Thad said over his shoulder, as he ran.
“Well, p’raps that’s so,” admitted Step Hen.
“And worse than that, it was liable to be struck by lightning,” added the young scoutmaster. “Nearly always picks out the tallest tree, or one standing alone. You never want to get under a tree in a thunderstorm, remember that, Step Hen. Better lie down flat on the ground, and take your soaking.”
And even though the advice was shouted at him under such peculiar conditions, Step Hen was apt to remember it. Indeed, those very conditions served to impress it indelibly on his mind. He would never again hear the crash of thunder, and see the vivid flash of lightning without remembering what Thad had said.
And every boy should do the same; for what does a wetting amount to, beside the peril of sudden death? Every day during the summer there can be found brief accounts of men or boys killed by lightning, because they took refuge under a tree, when a storm interrupted their work in the harvest field.