He was at an impressionable age, and these successive glares, which revealed the rounded, piled-up masses of storm-clouds and continually brought into view vistas of the surrounding country, impressed him strangely. Occasionally the peals of thunder grew louder, but they were not yet loud enough to drown the never-ending grind and rumble of wheels, the faint rattle of harness and clinking of chains, or the voices of drivers yelling commands to their skittish horses. He wondered if he and Dunstan would be called out at such a time. Don did not shrink from any task which he might be called upon to perform, but nevertheless he could not help heartily wishing that the night might pass without a summons.
"It will be a positive wonder, though, if there isn't something doing," he muttered. "The firing is growing heavier and heavier, and guns of all calibers seem to be at it."
He heard the sound of a step and a cheery voice calling:
"Hello, Don! Where are you?"
"At the observation post," returned the aviator's son.
"And I'll be there in another moment."
Dunstan, after colliding with several pieces of furniture, at length reached the window.
"Humph!—pitch black!" he exclaimed.
"Yes—except when it isn't," exclaimed Don, with a faint chuckle.
"Quite correct!" agreed the art student. "By George! How weird and solemn it all seems! And what curious impressions and thoughts it brings to one's mind!"