“Henry!” gasped Dave, as he found himself rolled over and over in the snow. “What in the world is this?”
There was no answer—indeed, no answer could have been heard above that terrible shrieking and humming of the wind. In the path of the tornado the trees were being mowed down from one end of the forest to the other. Branches were flying in all directions, and when Dave tried to rise he found himself powerless to do so. He was rolled over and over again, and at last brought up against a tree-stump, out of breath and completely bewildered.
Inside of five minutes the tornado was a thing of the past and the wind died down to a moderate breeze. The fire that had been built in the old council-house had been blown in a heap between two old tree-stumps and was still blazing away, thus affording some light. Where the two youths had been sleeping were half a dozen broken and twisted tree-limbs, partly covered with snow.
It took Dave some little time to recover his breath. He had to feel of himself, to make sure that no limbs were broken. He looked around for Henry, but his cousin was nowhere in sight.
“Henry!” he called, loudly. “Where are you? Henry!”
He repeated the cry many times, walking slowly around the wreck of the council-house and among the trees which had been blown down in that vicinity. At last came a faint response, and running in the direction of the sound he found poor Henry wedged under some heavy tree-branches.
“Tak—take them off!” gasped the prisoner. “I—I can hardly breathe.”
To remove the big limbs was impossible, but after a good deal of maneuvering, Dave managed to raise one branch a little and Henry crawled through the snow from underneath. Then he sat on the branch panting for breath.
“It’s a windstorm,” said Dave. “About the worst I ever saw.”
“Whe—where is the house?”