The noise of the storm had increased to such an intensity that conversation was almost impossible.
Doctor Stevens maintained his watchful vigil, noting every movement of the tornado.
The sky was so dark that the daylight had faded into dusk although it was only a few minutes after three. The whole western sky was filled with coal-black clouds and out of the center of this ominous mass rushed the lashing tongue which was destroying everything it touched.
On and on came the storm, advancing with a deadly relentlessness. A farm house a little more than a mile away on one of the hills overlooking the lake exploded as though a charge of dynamite had been set off beneath it.
“It’s terrible, terrible,” sobbed Margaret Stevens, who had come out of the cellar to watch the storm.
“We’re going to get hit,” Tom warned them.
“I’ve got to get home,” said Jim Preston, struggling out of the blankets which Mrs. Stevens had wrapped around him. “My wife’s all alone.”
“Stay here, Jim,” commanded Doctor Stevens. “You couldn’t get more than three or four blocks before the storm strikes and your place is clear across town. Everybody into the cellar,” he commanded.
Mrs. Stevens and Helen’s mother went first to light the candles. They were followed by Margaret and Helen, then Tom and Jim Preston and finally the doctor, who remained in the doorway on guard.
“What will this do to the Herald?” Helen whispered to Tom.