“That’s a funny sort of spring—a dry one,” exclaimed Walt. “It’s so, just the same,” replied the hermit, rather angrily. “We call a dry spring one that you have to dig out, one that doesn’t come to the surface. We find ’em with divining rods.” “Well, it looks to me as if you might get some rain to–night,” said Jack, who had risen and looked out of the door. “I guess not,” said the hermit confidently. “The sheep ain’t baaing, and they mos’ gen’ally always do afore rain.” “Well, there’s something coming up then, or I’m no judge of weather.” At the same time a low, distant rumbling was heard. “Thunder!” cried Walt, springing to his feet. “That’s what,” agreed Ralph. “I guess we are in for a wetting.” “Oh, I don’t know,” said the hermit, shrugging his thin shoulders. He rose and accompanied by Walt and Ralph came to the door, where Jack was already standing. “Goshen!” he exclaimed, “it is makin’ up its mind to suthin’, fer sure.” Far off to the southwest lightning was ripping and tearing in livid streaks across the sky. It had grown almost as black as night, and there was a distinctly sulphurous smell in the air. It was a magnificent sight as the storm swept down on them, although it was also awe–inspiring. The sky grew like a black curtain spread above the earth. Across it riven fragments of white cloud were driven, like flying steam. Through this sable canopy the lightning tore and crackled with vicious emphasis. But, strangely enough, there was no rain. Instead, great clouds of dust heralded the coming of the storm. The air was stifling and heavy, too, like the breath from an open oven door. “There ain’t much rain up yonder,” said the old hermit, his long white hair and beard blown about wildly by the wind. “No rain?” questioned Jack. “What is there, then?” “Lightning,” exclaimed the old man, his eyes glowing strangely as he spoke. It seemed that he rejoiced and triumphed in the advance of the storm. He held his arms extended to the heavens like a prophet of olden days. Suddenly with an ear–splitting crash a bolt tore its way across the sky and fell with a sizzling crash almost in front of the shanty. It bored into the earth, throwing up a cloud of stones and dust on every side. So great was the force of the explosion when it struck that Jack was sent reeling back against the door post. “No more of that for me,” said the boy. “I’m going inside.” “A lot of good that will do you,” scoffed Walt Phelps. “It wouldn’t much surprise me if this house was hit next.” Ralph’s face turned pale as he heard. In truth the constant display of heavenly artillery was discomposing. A green glare lit up the surroundings, the yuccas standing out blackly against the constant flashes.