Eliphalet had smelt the smoke too. It made him cough, so he impromptued quickly.
“The devils have fired the outbuildings. Phew! how the infernal fumes choke one.”
He strode over to the window, through which, and beyond the edge of the back cloth, the open scene door gave a view of the factory fire.
Great geysers of flame were spouting from the back windows and reaching loving hands toward the gasometer, not sixty feet distant.
Old Kitterson had followed and he, too, saw and realised the waiting danger.
“God!” he exclaimed. “If that catches!” And there was a note of terror in his voice.
“Yes,” said Eliphalet thoughtfully, “if they fire the magazine it would not be pleasant.”
Kitterson was plucking his sleeve and beckoning him to come away, but Eliphalet threw the old fellow from him with a fine flash of anger in his voice and eyes.
“If we are to die,” he cried, “we will die like soldiers and gentlemen—at our posts.”
There was a hoarse, solid detonation, followed by a splutter of little reports and the sharp stink of gunpowder filled the auditorium.