"The house has been struck," croaked Tom. "There'll be a fire."
"But the white thing! The white thing...."
There was another lull; in that last burst the storm seemed to have spent itself. Only the rain poured down and down; and now, quite close to them, the thin old voice called out again.
"Ma-a-a-a," it called.
Julian let go of Tom.
"It's only Uncle Sam! That crazy goat! He must have broken out of his pen."
"And come in here for shelter, I guess."
"Why here, I wonder? Why not somewhere else?"
But they would never know the reason. When they called him, Uncle Sam came clicking into the room, smelling strongly of wet goat, and the boys were so relieved, so glad to see him, that they gave him a chocolate bar to eat, paper and all.
"That crash though, brother, what was that?" Tom wondered, and sneezed. The air seemed suddenly thick and itchy. "Do you think we were struck?"