"Yes," said the botanist gravely, "I do. In fact I am sure of it. Barbados is full in the hurricane track, you know."
"But why?" queried the boy. "I've always heard of West Indian hurricanes. Do they only happen here? I don't see why they should come here more than any other place."
"Do you know why they come at all?"
Stuart thought for a moment.
"No," he answered, "I don't know that I do. I never thought anything about it. I always figured that storms just happened, somehow."
"Nothing 'just happens,'" was the stern rebuke. "Hark!"
He held up his finger for silence.
A low rumbling, sounding something like the pounding of heavy surf on a beach heard at a distance, and closely akin to the sound made by Niagara Falls, seemed to fill the air. And, across the sound, came cracks like distant pistol shots heard on a clear day.
The white arch rose slowly and just underneath it appeared an arch of darker cloud, almost black.
At the same moment, came a puff of the cool wind from the north.