“Hullo, Jones, I say, have you heard? Some chap’s been trying to blow up the gym. in the night, and there’s a row and a half on. The front door is smashed, and the floor all knocked to bits. Come and have a look.”
“Any one killed or hurt?”
“I’ve not heard. Didn’t you hear the noise?”
“Yes. Our chaps heard a row in the night.”
“We could hear it at our place,” said Brown. “They say the chap’s known who did it, too.”
“Who?”
“How do I know? Some chap who’s been extra drilled, most likely.”
“There’s plenty of them,” suggested I.
“Well, yes. They say a lot of gunpowder had been stowed in the lumber room just under the door. There, do you see?”
We had reached the scene of the tragedy, and I was able to judge of the mischief which had been done. The door was broken, but whether by the explosion or ordinary violence it was hard to say. The floor and grating over the lumber room were broken away, and one or two windows were smashed. That was all. My first feeling was one of relief that the damage was so slight. I had pictured the whole building a wreck, and a row of mangled remains on stretchers all round. Compared with that, our poor guy had really made a very slight disturbance. Of him I was thankful to be able to observe no trace, except one tan boot and a fragment of a ginger-beer bottle in the area. That indeed was bad enough, but, I argued, the lumber room was full of old cast-off shoes and bottles, and these would probably be set down as fragments of the rubbish displaced by the explosion.