We were
getting along nicely when I came to a place enjoining great caution
in the distribution of the weight. "You are working," read the text,
"with two gases which, if allowed to mix in undue proportion, have
the force and all the destructive power of a bombshell." Mackellar,
all ear, from fidgeting fell into a tremble on his perch. He had not
dreamed of this; neither had we. I steadied him with an imperative
gesture.
"Sit still," I commanded. "Listen! 'If, by any wabbling of the
rack, the pressure were to be suddenly relieved, the gas from one
bag might be sucked into the other, with the result of a disastrous
explosion.'"
We stood regarding each other in dumb horror. Mackellar was deathly
pale.
"Let me off, boys," he pleaded faintly. "I've got to go to the
station to turn out the men." He made a motion to climb down.
Wells had snatched the book from me. "Jack! for your life don't
move!" he cried, and pointed to the next paragraph in the directions:--
"Such a thing has happened when the frame has been upset, or the
weight in some other way suddenly shifted.
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