Just then the Admiral, warming to his theme, pushed back his chair a
few inches. . . .
For some days previously a stream of traction-engines had passed
along the high road, dragging timber-wagons, tent-wagons, machinery,
exhibits of all kinds, towards the Tregarrick Show. This heavy
traffic (it was afterwards surmised) had helped what Wordsworth calls
"the unimaginable touch of Time," shaking the dry-rotted joists of
Scawns House, and preparing the catastrophe.
The Admiral was a heavy-weight. He rode, in those days, at close
upon seventeen stone. As he thrust back his chair, there came from
the floor beneath--from the wall immediately behind him--an ominous,
rending sound. The hind legs of his chair sank slowly, the seat of
justice tilted farther and farther; as he clutched wildly at the
table, the table began to slide upon him, and with an uproar of
cracking timber, table, chairs, magistrates, clerks, together, in one
burial blent, were shot downwards into the cellarage.
The Inspector--a tall man--staggering to his feet as the table slid
from him into the chasm, leapt and clutched a crazy chandelier that
depended above him.
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