“Of course not. I dropped my flashlight. It’s pitch dark,” Jimmie laughed in spite of himself.
There came a minor flash of lightning.
“There!” Mary exclaimed. “I’m all right.”
But by the light of that flash Jimmie had seen something. John was lying on the floor.
“John!” he called. “Are—are you hurt?” A great wave of cold fear swept over him.
“No, not—not ser—seriously.” John’s words came slowly and sounded far away, as if he had gone somewhere and was just coming back.
“Where’s that flash-light?” Jimmie murmured. “Here—here it is. But it—it won’t work.”
“There’s a fountain pen flash-light in my pocket,” John drawled. “Wait. I—I’ll get it.”
A moment later a pencil of light appeared and John struggled to his feet.
“We—we’ve got to get down out of here,” he managed to say. “That bolt struck the chimney. It may have set the house on fire. We’ll be trapped.”