During these supreme moments Bill Vanderhook stood like a statue, tense, rigid, implacable. And his wife, the erring Imogene, crumpled and unconscious, overspread the cask of wire.
The dire noises increased. They became more terrible than the ghastly exhibit; and the heat—it was stifling, consuming; and the light—it was paralyzing. What could it mean? The chemist himself was puzzled. He had not anticipated these very unusual phenomena. He did not, however, cease to press the button.
But that strange, unearthly noise, heat and glare increased. They deepened and widened until, as Bill said afterwards, it seemed like a legion of devils had come to escort the doomed to his final abode in chaos.
Now, everywhere, above, below, and roundabout, there was a twisting, grinding roar, like that within the cylinder of a cyclone. All in an instant—to the man at the lever—his house, the world, the universe, seemed to have been swallowed up.
An explosion, long, loud and terrific, shook the Vanderhook habitation, from the foundation stones to the mansard roof.
And after this was silence, thick, oppressive, damp, dead and awesome.
And phlogiston was restored.
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AND BILL IS IT.
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