An excited cheer went up from the boys. "And what's more," the Forecaster went on, "I can tell you this--that just as soon as Anton is old enough, there will be a place waiting for him in the Bureau. He knows almost enough now to pass the Civil Service Exam, and in a couple of years he'll be as well equipped to enter the Service as any of the boys that are going in. I miss my guess if we don't find out, some day, that Issaquena County has given to the United States one of the best meteorologists of the next generation." "Three cheers for Anton!" shouted Fred. They were given heartily and the boys separated in groups, excitedly discussing what they ought to do to prepare for the visit of the Chief of the Weather Bureau. Anton and Ross drove home to Anton's place together, Ross driving and the crippled lad, with his eyes glowing with enthusiasm, talking about the work he intended to do in the ranks of the Weather Bureau. Meanwhile, the storm grew nearer and nearer. The thunder, which had been rolling menacingly, now came with shorter and sharper claps. "I wonder if we'll get home before the rain," said Ross and leaned forward to slap the pony with the reins. At the instant that he leaned forward there was a blinding flash of light, and, almost simultaneously, a terrific crash. For a second Anton was stunned, and then, as the frightened pony started to bolt, he saw he was alone. Ross was gone. The crippled lad cast a frightened glance over his shoulder and saw his chum lying on the ground beside the roadway, stripped to the skin. Some pieces of his clothing, burning and smouldering, lay a few feet away. Grabbing the reins, Anton managed to pull the pony down to a walk and scrambled out, awkwardly, with the crutch, but rapidly. The lightning, as so often happens, had snatched every stitch of Ross's clothes from him. There was not a mark of a burn on the boy's body, but he lay deathly still, with his arm cramped under him. Anton, exerting all his strength, rolled his chum over on his back. Then, kneeling across him, as best he could with his lame leg, he took Ross's wrists, jerked his arms to their full length, brought the wrists back upon the chest and pressed. Again he stretched the arms out, again brought them back, and pressed. Again, and again and again. Time passed and the perspiration stood out on the crippled lad's forehead and trickled down into his eyes and the corners of his mouth. Yet he did not pause for a second. He stretched the arms out, brought them in and pressed down upon the chest. Again and again and again. Fifteen minutes passed, and there was no sign. Probably further work was of no use, but Anton persisted. He could not stop, as long as there was a chance. Out, in again, and pressure on the chest.