They went to the window. The fronting heavens were a black purple. The thunder, which had been growling in the distance, swept forward and roared above the town. The crash no longer rolled afar, but cracked close to the ear, hard, crepitant. Quick lightning stabbed the world in vicious and repeated hate. A blue-black moistness lay heavy on the cowering earth. The rain came--a few drops at first, sullen, as if loath to come, that splashed on the pavement wide as a crown piece; then a white rush of slanting spears. A great blob shot in through the window, open at the top, and spat wide on Gourlay's cheek. It was lukewarm. He started violently--that warmth on his cheek brought the terror so near. The heavens were rent with a crash, and the earth seemed on fire. Gourlay screamed in terror. The baker put his arm round him in kindly protection. "Tuts, man, dinna be feared," he said. "You're John Gourlay's son, ye know. You ought to be a hardy man." "Ay, but I'm no," chattered John, the truth coming out in his fear. "I just let on to be." But the worst was soon over. Lightning, both sheeted and forked, was vivid as ever, but the thunder slunk growling away. "The heavens are opening and shutting like a man's eye," said Gourlay. "Oh, it's a terrible thing the world!" and he covered his face with his hands. A flash shot into a mounded wood far away. "It stabbed it like a dagger!" stared Gourlay. "Look, look, did ye see yon? It came down in a broad flash--then jerked to the side--then ran down to a sharp point again. It was like the coulter of a plough." Suddenly a blaze of lightning flamed wide, and a fork shot down its centre. "That," said Gourlay, "was like a red crack in a white-hot furnace door." "Man, you're a noticing boy," said the baker. "Ay," said John, smiling in curious self-interest, "I notice things too much. They give me pictures in my mind. I'm feared of them, but I like to think them over when they're by." Boys are slow of confidence to their elders, but Gourlay's terror and the baker's kindness moved him to speak. In a vague way he wanted to explain. "I'm no feared of folk," he went on, with a faint return to his swagger. "But things get in on me. A body seems so wee compared with that"--he nodded to the warring heavens. The baker did not understand. "Have you seen your faither?" he asked. "My faither!" John gasped in terror. If his father should find him playing truant! "Yes; did ye no ken he was in Skeighan? We come up thegither by the ten train, and are meaning to gang hame by this. I expect him every moment." John turned to escape. In the doorway stood his father. When Gourlay was in wrath he had a widening glower that enveloped the offender; yet his eye seemed to stab--a flash shot from its centre to transfix and pierce. Gaze at a tiger through the bars of his cage, and you will see the look. It widens and concentrates at once. "What are you doing here?" he asked, with the wild-beast glower on his son.