“We'll find part or all of the roof gone,” answered the man addressed. As he spoke, he rose quickly and started across the room in the direction of the door leading to the steward's pantry. “I'll have a look from the back of the—”
He stopped short. The dull, ripping crash that had startled them was repeated, this time a little louder and more prolonged than before. The club-house shook. Several of the men sprang to their feet in alarm. A look of comprehension shot among them.
“By Gad! An explosion!” cried one of them. “The damned beasts!”
“The Reynolds Works!” cried another, gripping the back of his chair with tense fingers. “Sure as you're alive! It's only a few miles from here. Nothing else could have—”
“Let's go home, Ned. The children—something may have happened—you never can tell—”
“Don't get excited, Betty,” cried the man in the Morris chair. She was shaking his arm. “The children are in New York, twenty miles away. They're all right, old girl. Lord! What a smash it was!”
The group was silent, waiting with bated breath for the third and perhaps more shocks to come.
The club steward came into the room, bearing a tray of bottles and glasses. His face was ashen; there was a set expression about it, as one who controls his nerves with difficulty.
“Did you hear it, Peter?” was the innocuous inquiry of one of the men, a dapper young fellow in corduroys.
“Yes, Mr. Cribbs. I thought at first it was the roof, sir. The chef said it was the big chimney—”