“What a storm,” thought Rodd, “and how hot!”
He slipped out of his cot to go and thrust open the cabin window.
“Hear the thunder, uncle?” he said.
But it had ceased for the moment, the last peal dying softly away, and for answer to his question he had only the deep regular breathing of a sound sleeper.
“He must have been tired,” thought the boy, and creeping closer to the cabin window he thrust out his hand to let in more air, but found the window wide open as it could be.
“He must have found out how hot it was and done that himself,” thought Rodd, as he knelt softly upon the bulkhead to try and breathe the fresh air; but it was hot and half suffocating, while the blackness was intense. One moment there was a faint quivering somewhere above, and just enough to show him the murkiness of the sea which spread out from beneath him far away like so much blackened oil touched for a few brief instants with streaks of gold.
“Why, there isn’t a breath of air,” thought Rodd, and then he started back, dazzled by the brilliant glare of the lightning, which made him involuntarily close his eyes and keep them shut till the terrific crash of thunder, which seemed to burst exactly over his head, had gone rolling away as if its echoes were composed of gigantic cannon balls passing slowly down metallic tunnels right away into space.
“That was a startler,” said the boy to himself. “How awful, but how grand! It’s rather hard to think that the danger’s in the lightning, and that there is nothing in the thunder to hurt.”
Then once more all was black silence above and below, and all beyond the cabin window seemed to be solid.
“I never saw a storm like this at home,” thought the boy. “Uncle can sleep!”