“Such little trials have their usefulness.” It was Victor Gilbert who spoke. “It teaches, or rather, should teach one to be philosophical and accept the inevitable with resignation.”
“I don’t want to be philosophical,” complained Peur Jamais. “And I won’t be philosophical, either. Whew! Some big waste of electric light, that!”
No one made any reply, or if they did it was unheard; for the most appalling detonation shook and rattled the barracks. It seemed as if the structure must be shaken from its very foundations.
And thus the storm continued until the boys were routed from their beds by the musical notes of the bugle.
It was pitch dark and gloomy. The wind tore past with no soft and musical cadences mingled in with its angry whistling, and now and again a flurry of raindrops splattered noisily down.
The usual roll call was held, and then the boys were free to do as they pleased. Don Hale concluded to take a nap in his former place between the sheets.
When he once more opened his eyes the morning was well advanced.
Jumping out of his berth, with an exclamation of surprise, the boy hastily slipped on his clothes and walked outside.
Scarcely a hint of color could be seen in the landscape. Here and there pools had formed, reflecting the dull, leaden gray of the wind-driven clouds, the air was filled with moisture, and the dull and heavy-looking earth seemed to have absorbed all it could possibly hold.
Gazing at the landscape was not a particularly enjoyable pastime; so the boy reentered the barracks.