"Do you suppose they've noticed the house?" Marc asked. "But I suppose they must."
"Maybe not," Julie said. "They've been drunk for days. It started out as a house warming party. Do you suppose this is their idea of a joke?"
Marc turned away. "The papers are full of this sort of thing. The anxiety has driven people mad." Then suddenly he stiffened. "Maybe they've heard something! Maybe they've decided to burn their home rather than let the enemy do it for them." He ran to the radio and snapped the switch.
"Beside every man stalks the black shadow of doom...!" the announcer groaned.
At the window Julie instantly snapped to a position of rigid erectness. With cold fury she turned and regarded Marc's lank figure bent attentively to the radio speaker. Her eyes rested on her husband's impassive posterior, and glittering, unbridled madness flickered in their depths.
"When will the attack fall?" the announcer inquired, and Julie answered him without hesitation. "Now, brother," she murmured. "Right now!"
Unaware of the declaration of hostilities from the rear, Marc hung on the words of the announcer: "We can only brace ourselves and hope...."
It was a pity he did not have the foresight—or perhaps hindsight—to follow the announcer's advice. In the next moment Julie's foot, propelled so as to accomplish the same work as an iron sledge, completed an arc that terminated in what might crudely be called a bull's eye.
With a scream of mortal agony, Marc started forward, and jutted his head forthwith into the speaker of the radio. There was a dreadful splintering sound, and then with a squeal, not unlike Marc's, the announcer fell silent.