“All right,” chirped Bobby. “Goodness, how I hate rainy days! I think I know, now, how a chicken in a coop must feel.”
The two walked outside the crowded barracks, and both at once gave voice to expressions indicative of disappointment.
The entire heavens was covered with a thick canopy of clouds.
“I don’t think Druggy need have said good-bye to-night,” remarked Peur Jamais, disconsolately. “If I issued a Weather Communique it would sound something like this: High and steady winds; heavy rains, with no intermissions between; lightning and thunder in equal proportions; life-boats and rafts in demand.’”
“Never mind,” sighed Don. “There are other days ahead of us.”
“If I didn’t think there were I’d never be standing here as calmly as this,” returned Bobby, laughingly. “Let’s go back to the smell of kerosene and dismal light.”
It was rather late when the crowd turned in; and the last one hadn’t been asleep very long before pattering drops of rain were heard falling upon the roof, while the wind, in soft and musical cadences, kept steadily blowing.
About two a. m. there came a veritable downpour and big, booming reverberations of thunder. Vivid flashes of bluish lightning filled each window with a dazzling glare and cast a weird and uncanny light throughout the room.
“It’s a wild night, all right,” exclaimed Dublin Dan, half sitting up.
“It means no flying to-morrow,” grumbled Mittengale.