It was an intermittent sort of storm, and there would be lulls in it when it seemed about to stop. The rain would almost cease and the thunder die away, while the flashes of lightning would hardly be noticeable.
Then, with a suddenness that was appalling, would come a crash of thunder which would shake the house, and the lightning preceding it would crackle and snap on the electric-light wires.
Sometimes the rain would decrease to a mere drizzle, and again it would pelt down as if about to bore through the roof.
But the Corner House was stanch—Uncle Peter Stower had seen to that—and not a drop entered.
Supper was a jollier meal with all the company present, than otherwise would have been the case.
But to storm and conversation alike Sammy Pinkney was seemingly deaf. He paid strict attention to the affair in hand, which affair consisted in getting outside as much food as possible. Neither thunder, lightning nor rain disturbed Sammy.
As Neale observed him clean off plate after plate, which Linda filled, Agnes’ chum could not help remarking:
“Treasure hunting makes you hungry, doesn’t it, Sammy?”
“Sure!” Sammy answered, not lifting his eyes from the piece of pie.
“I only hope he isn’t made ill,” murmured Ruth.