I saw him lean over, and something of the truth flashed upon me—he groped until he had found the clapper, which with one mighty wrench he dislocated, holding it in his hand after the manner of a hammer.
Then he started in.
With quick, energetic strokes, he rang the anvil chorus, each brazen note smiting the air with the power of a cannon shot, and rolling over old Bolivar as though a burst of tropical thunder had broken loose.
How it thrilled me!
As yet I had not fully grasped the whole idea—my first impression seemed to be that Robbins was trying to create a diversion, to add all he could to the clamor, under cover of which we might in some way escape; just as the pearl diver, upon finding a man-eating shark hovering above him, stirs up the sand until the water is no longer clear, and he is able to gain his boat unseen.
For once, however, I failed to give my comrade sufficient credit.
He had a better plan than this.
There was a deep significance in the wild alarm that pealed out from the brazen-throated bell under his throbbing strokes.
As I listened and wondered, I heard another bell begin to give tongue some distance away. Then a third took up the refrain.
The air thrilled with the increasing din—I had never heard a greater racket save in a boiler factory.