“Can’t you sleep?” said Norman, in a whisper.
“No; come here. It’s so jolly and cool.”
There was a faint rustling sound in the darkness, and the next minute Norman was by his brother’s side, enjoying the soft, comparatively cool, night air.
“Lovely,” he said; and then they both stood gazing at the lightning, which made the clouds look like a chain of mountains, about whose summits the electricity played.
All at once there was a dull, low, muttering sound, apparently at a distance.
“Thunder,” said Norman. “We’re going to have a storm.”
“Good job,” replied Rifle, in the same low tone as that adopted by his brother. “Things were getting precious dry.”
There was a long pause, and the lightning grew nearer and the flashes more vivid. Then, all of a sudden as the same peculiar sound was heard, Rifle whispered:
“I say, Man; that isn’t thunder.”
“No,” was the reply. “I was just thinking so. Sounds to me like a horse galloping.”