“Our business is the salvation of our city from complete destruction. You ought to be glad to sacrifice your store.”
“Sacrifice hell!” Tabelee roared.
An alderman and two city watchmen came up. They lent their authority to Chalender, and restrained the protesting Tabelee while the marines entered the building. It was lighted with the new-fangled system of gas, a dangerous and doubtless short-lived fashion.
Down to the cellar went Chalender, RoBards, and a group of powder bearers with two kegs. They set down one keg and thrust an upright plank between the head of it and the ceiling of the cellar, so that the cellar explosion should be transmitted to the floor above.
There were baskets of champagne in this cellar. Marines stripped the bottles of their straw jackets, piled them up and made a fuse by sprinkling powder on a tape they laid along the floor and up the stairs out into the street.
When the train was ready a spark was snapped at the outer end of the fuse, and the spectators ran in one direction while the fire ran like a sparkling mouse in the other.
Boom! The building split and caved in and a cheer went up at the triumph over the fire. But the fire had the last laugh for the splintered timbers made a lively kindling and the building which was supposed to act as a barrier simply added itself as fuel. This was one of those iron jokes the gods alone can laugh at.
Chalender was not stubborn and dogged. He was elastic. Anybody could bend or turn him aside, but he always came again with the backlash of a steel rod or a whip.
The failure in Tabelee’s case only confirmed his determination.
He and his crew proceeded to level a street of buildings one by one. As if a vast invisible plough overturned them along its furrow, they rolled over and lay black.