"Will the shack stand, Bill?" Paul called to him.
"Can't say. Not if this wind keeps up."
Crash and crack and hurricane of wind. Mountains blurred by distant rain, mountains streaked by lightning flashes. Then came the downpour: the rain deluged, it leapt out of the sky and pierced the earth like javelins. The men got the door closed, and tried to fit an old wash-pan into the window to keep out the torrent. Barbara watched them, so excited she could scarcely contain herself. She would have gone out into it, if they could be induced to let her. Finally the shack was as waterproof as they could make it, with every available thing stuffed round the cracks and the edges.
Bill lit a candle, and Bob sat on the bunk, her feet drawn up under her. It was the one dry spot. They ate crackers and cheese and sardines for supper, with no chance to make a fire.
"It seems trivial to eat, when all that wonder is happening out there," she protested.
"Might as well eat as anything. Can't do nuthin' else," said Bill. "Pesky shame we can't make no coffee."
"But look what that's making, Bill!" she cried.
"Makin' a pesky lot of noise," he grumbled.
"The superman," jeered Paul.
Little by little the artillery diminished.