“Lightning,” exclaimed the old man, his eyes glowing strangely as he spoke. It seemed that he rejoiced and triumphed in the advance of the storm. He held his arms extended to the heavens like a prophet of olden days.
Suddenly with an ear–splitting crash a bolt tore its way across the sky and fell with a sizzling crash almost in front of the shanty. It bored into the earth, throwing up a cloud of stones and dust on every side. So great was the force of the explosion when it struck that Jack was sent reeling back against the door post.
“No more of that for me,” said the boy. “I’m going inside.”
“A lot of good that will do you,” scoffed Walt Phelps. “It wouldn’t much surprise me if this house was hit next.”
Ralph’s face turned pale as he heard. In truth the constant display of heavenly artillery was discomposing. A green glare lit up the surroundings, the yuccas standing out blackly against the constant flashes.
The thunder, too, was terrific and incessant, shaking the earth as it reverberated. All at once came a crash that seemed as if it must have split the earth wide open. Balls of green and white fire spattered in every direction. The boys were hurled helter–skelter all over the hut. It was almost pitch dark, and they called to each other nervously. Not one knew but that the other might have been killed or seriously injured.
But although bruised and badly scared, they were all right, it was found. Yet as they scrambled to their feet the lightning outside showed them a still form lying across the door of the hut.
“It’s the hermit!” cried Jack.
“He’s dead!” shouted Ralph.
“Hold on a minute,” warned Jack.