“No, uncle,” cried Vane, as a fresh burst of screaming, arose; “but it’s cook. She has been blowing up the copper hole to make the fire draw.”
“Come along! That’s it!” cried the doctor. “Stupid woman! I hope she is not much burned.”
This all took place as they were hurrying down into the hall, where the odour was stifling now: that dank, offensive, hydrogenous smell which is pretty familiar to most people, and as they hurried on to the kitchen from which the cries for help came more faintly now, they entered upon a dimly-seen chaos of bricks, mortar, broken crockery, and upset kitchen furniture.
“A pound of powder at least,” cried the doctor, who then began to sneeze violently, the place being full of steam, and dust caused by the ceiling having been pretty well stripped of plaster. “Here, cook—Eliza—where are you?”
“Oh, master, master, master!”
“Help!—help!—help!”
Two wild appeals for aid from the back kitchen, where the copper was set, and into which uncle and nephew hurried, expecting to find the two maids half buried in débris. But, to the surprise of both, that office was quite unharmed, and cook was seated in a big Windsor chair, sobbing hysterically, while Eliza was on the floor, screaming faintly with her apron held over her face.
“How could you be so foolish!—how much powder?—where did you get it?—where are you hurt?” rattled out the doctor breathlessly.
“Anything the matter, cook?” said Bruff, coming to the door.
“Matter? Yes,” cried the doctor, growing cool again. “Here, help me lift Eliza into a chair.”