But even the whisky seemed powerless to neutralize their terror, rather increasing the panic by fuddling their faculties.
"Boys!" said Bob Short, trembling, and sitting down on a stump, "this--this ere thing--is a gittin' serious.

Ef--well, ef it _was_ to happen--you know--you don't s'pose--ahem--you don't think God A'mighty would be _too_ heavy on a feller.

Do ye?
Ef it was to come to-night, it would be blamed short notice." At one o'clock the moon was just about dipping behind the hills, and the great sycamores, standing like giant sentinels on the river's marge, cast long unearthly shadows across the water, which grew blacker every minute.

The deepening gloom gave all objects in the river valley a weird, distorted look.

This oppressed August.