“You see,” he went on after a chuckle, “I had some gas extracted from liquid air in those tubes. When they were all connected and hung down from a tall tree they made quite a long, zig-zagging line. By running a powerful current through the gas in the tubes, I was able to give you a fairly accurate picture of what lightning is at its best.
“Just a neon sign really,” he added quietly. “Sort of irreverent to imitate God’s wrath perhaps, but I trust I’ll be forgiven.”
“I see,” Johnny’s tone told his admiration. “But how about the thunder?”
“Simple enough, but costly. Nice little explosion of liquid air mixed with carbon.”
“You’re an artist in your line,” Johnny complimented him.
“Perhaps,” the other boy agreed. “Also something of a nut. Rather wild sort of way to get what you want. I shouldn’t care to recommend it as a regular thing.”
Later that day Johnny found himself in his car threading his way over a difficult passage. The hour for his departure with Ballard for Hillcrest and the great game on the morrow was rapidly approaching. He did want one more word with the aviator down in the valley so he had decided to have a try at reaching him in his car.
This try was to end in disaster. Just as he was negotiating the last twenty rods of the trail something went wrong with his brakes. He shot down a short, steep slope, took a sudden shock that all but sent him through the windshield, then, with a sinking heart felt his right front wheel crumple from the impact.
“Here we are,” he groaned. “No train until morning! No car available. And tomorrow’s the big game. Hillcrest will be defeated without Old Kentucky. What’s worse, Kentucky will die if he is not there. Could anything be worse?”
“See you’re in a fix,” a friendly voice said. The speaker was close at hand. Johnny looked up. It was the young aviator.