From the panorama of these
ten mischanced years the face of Ben Jope shone out as in a halo,
wreathed with good-natured smiles. Ben Jope--
Here the Major flung up both hands and tottered back as, with a lift
of the earth beneath his feet, a flame ripped the roof off the tent,
and roaring, hurled it right and left into the night.
Under the shock of the explosion he dropped on hands and knees, and,
still on hands and knees, crawled forward to a ditch, a full ten
yards to the left of the spot where the tent had stood. In the
darkness one of the victims lay groaning.
"Are--are you hurt?" The Major's teeth chattered as he crawled near
and stretched out a hand towards the sufferer.
"Damn the fellow!" swore Ben Jope cheerfully, sitting up. "What'll
be his next trick, I wonder?"
"You--you are not hurt?"
"Hurt? No, I reckon. Who are you?"
"Hymen, Ben--Solomon Hymen. You remember--in the Plymouth Theatre,
ten years back. Oh, hush, man, hush!" for Ben, casting both hands up
to his face, had let out a squeal like a rabbit's.
"An' I saw you die! Oh, take him away someone! With these very
eyes! No, damn it!" Mr. Jope pulled himself together and scrambled
to his feet. "I paid for two pennyworth, but if this goes on I gets
my money back!"
By this time showmen and merrymakers, startled out of the
neighbouring tents by the explosion, as bees from their hives, were
running to and fro with lanterns and naphtha flares, seeking for the
victims.
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