“No, I don’t think there is,” he said at last. “But it’s a bad night.”
“Pooh!” and Allan whirled his club disdainfully. “Not a drop of water can get to me in this rig,” he added, echoing Jack’s words.
“Anyway,” said the latter, hesitatingly, “y’ll be back in three hours, an’ you kin sleep late in the mornin’. I don’t see no other way,” he added, with a sigh.
“All right,” said Allan; “good-bye,” and went to the door.
But Mrs. Welsh ran after him, threw her arms about his neck and kissed him.
“You’re a good boy, Allan,” she cried, half-sobbing. “I’ll have a good hot meal fer you when y’ git back.”
Allan laughed.
“I’ll be ready for it. Be sure to make a good job of that Christmas tree! Good-bye,” and he opened the door and strode out into the night.
CHAPTER XVII.
A NIGHT OF DANGER
But the storm was not to be dismissed so lightly as Allan had dismissed it. Among the houses of the town he was sheltered somewhat, but, as he strode on westward, out into the open country, it seemed to rage with redoubled violence. The wind swept across the embankment along the river with a fury which threatened to blow him away. He bent low before it, and, swinging his lantern from right to left in unison with his steps, fought his way slowly onward, his eyes on the track. Away down at his right he could hear the river raging, and from instant to instant the lightning disclosed to him glimpses of the storm-tossed water. Once he saw a ball of fire roll down the track far ahead and finally leap off, shattering into a thousand fragments.