The window was full of men’s heads, and the heads were full of eyes that stared wildly at my night-dress and my warlike accoutrements.
I dropped the bell, skipped down from the chair in confusion, and said,—
“There is nothing the matter, friends,—only a little discomfort on account of the thunder-storm. I was trying to keep off the lightning.”
“Thunder-storm? Lightning? Why, Mr. McWilliams, have you lost your mind? It is a beautiful starlight night; there has been no storm.”
I looked out, and I was so astonished I could hardly speak for a while. Then I said,—
“I do not understand this. We distinctly saw the glow of the flashes through the curtains and shutters, and heard the thunder.”
One after another of those people lay down on the ground to laugh,—and two of them died. One of the survivors remarked,—
“Pity you didn’t think to open your blinds and look over to the top of the high hill yonder. What you heard was cannon; what you saw was the flash. You see, the telegraph brought some news, just at midnight: Garfield’s nominated,—and that’s what’s the matter!”
Yes, Mr. Twain, as I was saying in the beginning (said Mr. McWilliams), the rules for preserving people against lightning are so excellent and so innumerable that the most incomprehensible thing in the world to me is how anybody ever manages to get struck.
So saying, he gathered up his satchel and umbrella, and departed; for the train had reached his town.