Some bushes were not far off, and as soon as he reached the soil the young photographer rolled over and over, until he was out of sight.
Then came another streak of lightning which almost blinded the youth. The air was filled with the smell of sulphur, while the noise was terrific.
“Help I help!” came from the interior of the red house, accompanied by the crash of falling walls.
The lightning had struck the chimney, and run down the centre of the structure, ruining it completely.
For the moment Bob thought the end of the world had come. He lay still, a strange sensation darting like needles through his whole system.
“Come on out, if you value your lives!” he heard Casco cry. “Sure, an’ Horning is kilt!” howled Grogan as he came rushing forth. “The loightning shtruck him, so it did. Come away!”
Bob heard no more. Another crash of thunder roared in his ears, followed by a tremendous downpour of rain, and the crowd moved away to seek a new shelter.
Poor Bob felt as weak as a sick kitten. He tried to move, but the shock to his nerves had been too much, and presently his senses left him, and all became a blank.
When he returned to consciousness, it was beginning to grow dark. The rain had ceased, and the sky overhead was once more a deep blue, flecked with white clouds.
For a while the young photographer could not remember where he was, nor what had happened. But gradually he recalled the scene in the upper chamber of the red house, and what had followed, and raising his head he looked around.