“Thunder!” cried Walt, springing to his feet.
“That’s what,” agreed Ralph. “I guess we are in for a wetting.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said the hermit, shrugging his thin shoulders.
He rose and accompanied by Walt and Ralph came to the door, where Jack was already standing.
“Goshen!” he exclaimed, “it is makin’ up its mind to suthin’, fer sure.”
Far off to the southwest lightning was ripping and tearing in livid streaks across the sky. It had grown almost as black as night, and there was a distinctly sulphurous smell in the air.
It was a magnificent sight as the storm swept down on them, although it was also awe–inspiring. The sky grew like a black curtain spread above the earth. Across it riven fragments of white cloud were driven, like flying steam. Through this sable canopy the lightning tore and crackled with vicious emphasis.
But, strangely enough, there was no rain. Instead, great clouds of dust heralded the coming of the storm. The air was stifling and heavy, too, like the breath from an open oven door.
“There ain’t much rain up yonder,” said the old hermit, his long white hair and beard blown about wildly by the wind.
“No rain?” questioned Jack. “What is there, then?”