Ten minutes passed.
"It is immense," began he, wiping his face and lighting a smoke, and turning his handle. "Gentlemen, I thank you."
"Gentlemen, we thank you," I said.
"There's been nothing like it," he went on. "Those Liège pictures of Wilson's at the Hippodrome were tame."
He'd got it all in, and was wasting a few feet for good measure. Sometimes you need a fringe in order to bring out the big minute in your action.
STREET FIGHTING IN ALOST.
This is part of the motion-picture which we took while the Germans were bombarding the town.]
Suddenly, we heard the wailing overhead and louder than any of the other shells. Louder meant closer. It lasted a second of time, and then crashed into the second story of the red house, six feet over Rossiter's head. A shower of brown brick dust, and a puff of gray-black smoke settled down over the machine and man, and blotted him out of sight for a couple of seconds. Then we all coughed and spat, and the air cleared. The tripod had careened in the fierce rush of air, but Rossiter had caught it and was righting it. He went on turning. His face was streaked with black, and his clothes were brown with dust.