“Come outside,” said the voice of King Smith. “Quietly—as quickly as you can.”
CHAPTER XIII
Pryce did not wait to dress. Thrusting his feet into a pair of slippers, he hurried into the garden. There on the terrace the King stood, pointing downward and seaward. But there was no need to point.
Far below, amid the dark of the trees, a giant flame leaped hungry and quivering into the air. A column of smoke rose vertically, the head of the column spreading out in all directions against a grey sky; it looked like some monstrous swaying mushroom.
“Good God!” said Pryce. “It’s the club.”
“Scarcely fifteen minutes ago; and now look. I’m going down there directly, taking all the men here with me.” The King spoke in a quiet, even voice.
Pryce shook his head. “No good,” he said. “You can save nobody. The men who are not out of that place already are dead. The whole show will be burned to the ground in less than half-an-hour—you know how it’s built. Wonder what started it. Some careless boozer, I suppose.”
The King put one hand on his arm. “No,” he said. “The fire started in two places at once, at either end of the building. It has come at last—the rising of my people.”
From below came faintly the sound of a crash, and for a moment the stalk of that swaying mushroom was spangled high with a million sparks.