“What’s the difference?” asked Phil. “We’re here, snug as bugs in a rug—”
“Listen,” broke in Frank.
A vivid flash of lightning had plunged into the horizon; the heavens seemed one long roaring roll of thunder and then—as if beginning anew—torrents of rain dashed against what was apparently an enclosing protection of glass.
“The rain’s comin’ from the east,” shouted Phil. “Open one of the ports on the left; it’s in the lee of the [storm] and it’s gettin’ too hot in here.”
Again the boy in the rear arose and, fumbling about in the dark as if turning a catch, at last shoved upward a swinging section of glass. As his companion had suggested, the new opening was in the lee of the rain. There was a welcome inrush of fresh, moist air but the two boys were completely protected from the downpour.
“You’re right,” said Frank as he left his chair and sank down by the open window or port. “As long as the Loon don’t mind it, what’s the difference?”
He leaned his head on his hands, his elbows braced in the open space, and let the cool air fan his perspiring face. “Keep her goin’; go anywhere; go as far as you like. I don’t care whether we—”
“Look at the barometer. How high are we?” interrupted the other boy sharply.
Frank crawled from the open window, flashed his electric light again and turned its rays on an altitude barometer hanging at the right of his companion, crawled closer to the instrument and then announced: “Twenty-three hundred feet! Keep her to it,” he continued. “It’s great. Everything is workin’ fine. The poundin’ of the rain on the glass with us as dry as bones in here, makes me feel mighty comfortable.”
“Like rain on a tent campin’ out when you’re half asleep on your dry balsam,” suggested his companion.