“Would you like me to astonish you?” said the Doctor, who had joined me on the gangway.
“Astonish me, Doctor?”
“Well, then, we shall have a storm, perhaps a thunder-storm, before the day is over.”
“A thunder-storm in the month of April!” I cried.
“The ‘Great Eastern’ does not trouble herself about seasons,” replied Dean Pitferge, shrugging his shoulders. “It is a tempest called forth expressly on her account. Look at the threatening aspect of those clouds which cover the sky; they look like antediluvian animals, and before long they will devour each other.”
“I confess,” said I, “the sky looks stormy, and were it three months later I should be of your opinion, but not at this time of year.”
“I tell you,” replied the Doctor, growing animated, “the storm will burst out before many hours are past. I feel it like a barometer. Look at those vapours rising in a mass, observe that cirrus, those mares’ tails which are blending together, and those thick circles which surround the horizon. Soon there will be a rapid condensing of vapour, which will consequently produce electricity. Besides the mercury has suddenly fallen, and the prevailing wind is south-west, the only one which can brew a storm in winter.”
“Your observations may be very true, Doctor,” said I, not willing to yield, “but who has ever witnessed a thunder-storm at this season, and in this latitude?”
“We have proof, sir, we have proof on record. Mild winters are often marked by storms. You ought only to have lived in 1772[1772], or even in 1824, and you would have heard the roaring of the thunder, in the first instance in February, and in the second in December. In the month of January, 1837, a thunder-bolt fell near Drammen in Norway, and did considerable mischief. Last year, in the month of February, fishing-smacks from Tréport were struck by lightning. If I had time to consult statistics I would soon put you to silence.”
“Well, Doctor, since you will have it so, we shall soon see. At any rate, you are not afraid of thunder?”