"I won't wake Prescott's muckers," he reflected, "and I want to be sure to attract the dog's notice if he is on guard."
A broad, white streak of lightning showed the tent from the road as Ripley, armed with the club, drew nearer to it.
Fred halted. "They're all asleep, the muckers!" he muttered.
"I'm glad of that. Where is that dog? Why doesn't he come around?
I'm ready for him now."
Fred stole stealthily along, keeping a sharp lookout for the bull-dog.
Suddenly the sky was rent by a vivid flash of lightning so glaring that the lawyer's son covered his eyes with his hands.
Bang! Crash! Almost instantly the thunder followed the flash.
"It's time to be getting out of here if I don't want to get drowned on the way back to the hotel," Ripley decided. "I'll have to postpone getting square with Prescott. Besides, the storm will waken those fellows and I don't want to be caught here."
There came another flash, that descended near the water. The crashing noise of the thunder came at the same instant.
Fred, facing the tent, saw the bolt strike the ridge pole. Evidently the current ran down one of the poles, for he saw the bluish white electric fluid running over the ground, coming from inside the tent. The tent sagged, then fell.
"Gracious!" shivered this evil traveler of the night. "It will be a wonder if that bolt didn't stretch them all out. I wonder if it killed Dick Prescott and his crowd?"