"Come on, Judson!" cried Bentham. "If there's anything doing, let's be on the wagon!" And he climbed upon the sill and leaped after the bartender.
Judson hesitated, emptied his glass, and followed. Over in the west, across the park, a great cloud of smoke and dust was rising against the crimson sky.
"What's happened?" asked the now thoroughly sober Judson of a man who was hurrying by.
"Don't know," panted the other. "People say comet's struck us!"
"Comet Nothin'!" shouted a policeman. "It's Hooker's flying machine!"
Judson grabbed Tassifer by the arm, and they hastened cheerfully along with the crowd.
IV
At the moment her husband thus undignifiedly surrendered to mob psychology, Mrs. Bentham T. Tassifer was taking her Saturday-afternoon bath—thus leaving the tub free for Bentham before going to bed. She had closed the windows, which fact, coupled with the noise of her puffings and splashings, had prevented her from hearing the demonstration going on in the street below. She was just reaching for her towel when she heard the door-bell ring and hurried footsteps upon the stairs.
"Is that you, Bentham?" she shrilled.