“Tom! wake up, lad!”
“Yes! All right!” cried the boy, springing out of bed. “Anything the matter, uncle?”
“Yes. Terrible storm. The big shutter has been torn open, and is beating about on the top of the mill.”
“All right; I’ll go and fasten it,” cried Tom, beginning to dress rapidly, and waking up more and more to the fact that a wild storm was raging. Every now and then, after a great deal of shrieking and howling, as if the wind was forcing itself through crack and cranny, there came a loud heavy bass booming sound, as a vast wave of air broke upon the house, making the windows seem to be on the point of falling in, while the slates upon the roof clattered and the chimneys shook.
“My word, it blows!” muttered Tom, as he buttoned up his jacket tightly, and hurried down-stairs, to find that there were lights in the kitchen and dining-room, while in the hall stood Mrs Fidler, in a wonderful costume of dressing-gown, shawl, and night-cap.
“What a storm, my dear!” she said.
“You up?”
“Oh yes, my dear; it was impossible to lie. I’ve lit the kitchen fire, for poor cook is in hysterics, and Maria is sobbing and crying—quite helpless.”
“How silly!” muttered Tom. “Where’s uncle?”
“Here I am. Ready?”