Large drops of rain were falling, but Fred, bent on his evil errand, did not mind.

At any rate he was not afraid of lightning.

Aided by the flashes he searched along the side of the road until he found a branch of a tree that he shaped into a club with his knife.
"I won't wake Prescott's muckers," he reflected, "and I want to be sure to attract the dog's notice if he is on guard." A broad, white streak of lightning showed the tent from the road as Ripley, armed with the club, drew nearer to it.
Fred halted.

"They're all asleep, the muckers!" he muttered.
"I'm glad of that.

Where is that dog?
Why doesn't he come around?
I'm ready for him now." Fred stole stealthily along, keeping a sharp lookout for the bull-dog.
Suddenly the sky was rent by a vivid flash of lightning so glaring that the lawyer's son covered his eyes with his hands.
Bang! Crash! Almost instantly the thunder followed the flash.
"It's time to be getting out of here if I don't want to get drowned on the way back to the hotel," Ripley decided.