poured forth from the lighthouse of Cape Peril.
"Buffum's on the job," declared the Tarheel.
About eleven, the three watchers noted a perceptible lull in the blast and, amid the scudding clouds, stars peeped out here and there. The barometer was rising, as Turner noted.
"The storm must have turned tail at Hatteras as Buffum predicted," was his opinion, "and the worst is over. I was afraid we'd have one of those August blows that come once in a generation and lift a few house lids and rear-range the forestry, but it seems that's given us the go-by. How about bed?"
As it was evident that the speaker had no intention of turning in himself, the lads, fortified by their nap, firmly declined. They meant to see the thing out. Turner allowed himself to be persuaded. With blinds tight shut and a bright light burning, the room was filled with talk of Indians for half an hour longer. Then, aircraft bobbed up. After an hour and more of war-aeronautic talk, the Tarheel woke up to the very evident fact that, although the breakers kept up their uninterrupted boom against the beach, the main fury of the wind was well
