Town. My dear, I see them.
Mrs. T. Do you want them killed?
Town. Fiddlesticks! Keep still, can’t you.
Mrs. T. Send them away from that door—if anything happens!
Town. (Goes to door.) Go, my dears, back to the far corner! (Looks out.) Something will happen! It’s a grand sight! It’s coming like a race-horse!
Mrs. B. Oh, Major Townsley, do you want to frighten us all to death!
Mrs. T. (Sarcastically.) It’s no use trying to keep men still.
Jim F. I hope it wont blow this cyclone cellar out of root. (Fearful hissing of wind with lightning.)
Adolph. Gwacious! do you think it’ll do that?
Jim F. No tellin’! Last cyclone—