'"Dynamite and badly managed," was his laconic explanation. We all asked each other if we were hurt, and began to be alarmed about my brother John, who, however, put in an appearance in a singularly attenuated nightshirt, with a candle in one hand and a revolver in the other, with which he was rubbing his sleepy eyes.
'"Singular time of night, John, to try chemical experiments without our permission, is it not?" said my father.
'Then John and my mother went downstairs to inspect the premises; of the back windows, thirty-four in number, there was not a bit of glass as big as a threepenny piece left. Our brougham was in the yard; the window next the explosion was intact, but the one on the further side was blown to smithereens.
'The servants were very scared, and one maid having rushed straight to a sitting-room, was there found hysterically embracing a sofa cushion.
'We received one odd claim for compensation. An old woman living half a mile off complained that the force of the explosion had knocked some of the plaster off the wall, and that it had fallen into a pan full of milk, spoiling it.
'Whilst we were all chattering about the outrage, father said:—
'"Don't be uneasy about a mere dynamite explosion; it's like an Irishman's pig, you want it to go one way and it invariably goes in the other."
'And with that he went off to bed again, with the remark about having a quiet night which he has mentioned earlier in this chapter.
'The only other thing which I now recall is, that a detachment of the Buffs in the neighbourhood had found us the only people to entertain them.
'On being told that Edenburn had been blown up, one of them said:—