He leaned his arms on the window-sill, and looked at the gathering clouds. They had already hidden the sun, and hung, dark and jagged, over the city. The air was gloomy. In the street below people hurried along, every now and then glancing upward at the threatening sky. Little whiffs of wind whirled the dust in the roadway, and thunder growled in the distance.
“Bet some folks’ll git wet!” prophesied the boy, as he turned back to the room. He was surprised at the dim light. He could scarcely see Doodles, over on the couch. Doodles was timid in a thunder storm, and Blue crossed the floor to his side.
“Prob’ly the heft of it’ll go round, as usual,” he said; “but ’t will be cooler. We shall like that, old feller, shan’t we?”
Doodles smiled weakly. “Let’s talk about the picnic,” he proposed, putting his hand in his brother’s.
But a mighty gust of wind and a sudden dash of big drops sent Blue upstairs to shut the windows, while Granny bustled about, closing blinds and putting things out of the possible way of rain. Before he returned, the street was a river, and crash after crash was sounding overhead.
Granny, to whom fear was unknown, watched the storm from the window, and Blue would have liked to join her; but the little clinging hand of Doodles was enough to hold him to the couch.
“I’m glad this didn’t come on the picnic day,” piped the small boy above the continuous roar.
“Lucky—” began Blue, but never finished.
A blinding blaze and a simultaneous crash, as if the house were being split in two, brought him to his feet.
Granny, too, started up.