“What do you make of it, Smith?” cried the mate to one of the watch.
“Can’t make nothing on it at all, sir,” said the man, taking off his cap and scratching his head, while his face, like those of his companions’ had a peculiar scared aspect. “’Tar’nt like a thunderstorm, cause there ar’n’t a drop o’ lightning.”
“Bit, matey,” said one of the man’s comrades.
“Get out,” growled the first man, “how can it be a bit, Billy Wriggs, when yer can’t touch it? I said a drop and I mean it.”
“Don’t argue,” said the mate, sharply. “Do you mean to say, all of you, that you saw no flash?”
“Not a sign o’ none, sir,” said the first man. “There?”
Another fearful detonation came with startling violence to their ears, and as they stood upon the deck the report seemed to jar them all in a dull, heavy way.
“Warn’t no flash o’ lightning there, sir.”
“No, I saw no flash,” said Oliver Lane, uneasily.
“No, there aren’t been none, sir. Lightning allus flickers and blinks like, ’fore you hear any thunder at all.”