“I imagine this must be something like the storming of the Bastille,” O’Rane murmured coolly.
“They’re absolutely out of hand. The police are using their truncheons, too,” I added, as the sickening smack of hard wood on human flesh and bone was followed by yelps of rage and whimpering moans.
“I haven’t heard anything of our precious reinforcement . . . There’s a most awful reek of whisky.”
“They’re looting the cellar. Once that begins . . .”
“If they’ll get drunk quietly, it will be the best thing in the world for everybody. . . . D’you smell burning?”
I sniffed; but my duller senses told me nothing till I saw a distant orange glow fainter than the reflection of a winter sunset.
“They’ve started a fire. I can’t see where.”
“Is it making any difference to the fog?”
“No, but I believe the fog’s lifting. I can see . . . oh, ten yards. Come out of the way: I think the police are going to charge again.”
Though I dragged at his arm, O’Rane stayed motionless.