“I never see sich thunder!” exclaimed Mr. Pipkin. “Look a’ them rain-drops! big as bullets!”
“It’s coming!” cried Jack; and instantly the heavy thunder-gust swept over them.
“Onhitch!” roared out Mr. Pipkin, in the sudden tumult of rain and wind and thunder. “I must look out for my rheumatiz! Put for the house!”
“We shall get drenched before we are half-way to the house,” replied Jack, dropping the trace-chains. “I go for the woods!”
“I’ll take Old Maje, then,” said Mr. Pipkin.
But before he could mount, Phin, darting from the imperfect shelter of the rock, ran and leaped across the horse’s back. As he was scrambling to a seat, holding on by mane and harness, kicking, and calling out, “Give me a boost, Phi!” Mr. Pipkin gave him a boost, and lost his hat by the operation. That was quickly recovered; but before the owner, clapping it on his head, could get back to the horse’s side, the youthful rider, using the gathered-up reins for a whip, had started for the barn.
“Whoa! hold on! take me!” bellowed Mr. Pipkin.
“He won’t carry double—ask Jack!”
Flinging these parting words over his shoulder, the treacherous Phin went off at a gallop, leaving Mr. Pipkin to follow, at a heavy “dog-trot,” over the darkened hill, through the rushing, blinding storm.
Jack was already leaping a wall which separated the pasture from a neighboring wood-lot. Plunging in among the reeling and clashing trees, he first sought shelter by placing himself close under the lee of a large basswood; but the rain dashed through the surging mass of foliage above, and trickled down upon him from trunk and limbs.