The Metropolis stretched away, lifting
to the north, and sinking to the south into the jewelled river on
whose curved bank rose messages of light concerning whisky, tea and
beer. The peaceful nocturnal roar of the city, dwindling every moment
now, reached them like an emanation from another world.
"You asked for a rocket, Sir John," said Edward Henry. "You shall have
it."
He had taken a box of fusees from his pocket. He struck one, and his
companions in the swaying cage now saw that a tremendous rocket
was hung to the peak of the other crane. He lighted the fuse....
An instant of deathly suspense!... And then with a terrific and a
shattering bang and splutter the rocket shot towards the kingdom
of heaven and there burst into a vast dome of red blossoms which,
irradiating a square mile of roofs, descended slowly and softly on the
West End like a benediction.
"You always want crimson, don't you, Sir John?" said Edward Henry,
and the easy cheeriness of his voice gradually tranquillized the
alarm natural to two very earthly men who for the first time found
themselves suspended insecurely over a gulf.
"I have seen nothing so impressive since the Russian Ballet," murmured
Mr. Alloyd, recovering.
"You ought to go to Siberia, Alloyd," said Edward Henry.
Sir John Pilgrim, pretending now to be extremely brave, suddenly
turned on Edward Henry and in a convulsive grasp seized his hand.
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