Chapter 26. Reaping the Whirlwind

           

           Withaprecursorysoundofhurriedbreathandhurriedfeet,MrPancksrushedintoArthurClennam’sCounting-house.TheInquestwasover,theletterwaspublic,theBankwasbroken,theothermodelstructuresofstrawhadtakenfireandwereturnedtosmoke.Theadmiredpiraticalshiphadblownup,inthemidstofavastfleetofshipsofallrates,andboatsofallsizes;andonthedeepwasnothingbutruin;nothingbutburninghulls,burstingmagazines,greatgunsself-explodedtearingfriendsandneighbourstopieces,drowningmenclingingtounseaworthysparsandgoingdowneveryminute,spentswimmers,floatingdead,andsharks.

           TheusualdiligenceandorderoftheCounting-houseattheWorkswereoverthrown.Unopenedlettersandunsortedpaperslaystrewnaboutthedesk.Inthemidstofthesetokensofprostratedenergyanddismissedhope,themasteroftheCounting-housestoodidleinhisusualplace,withhisarmscrossedonthedesk,andhisheadboweddownuponthem.

           MrPancksrushedinandsawhim,andstoodstill.Inanotherminute,MrPancks’sarmswereonthedesk,andMrPancks’sheadwasboweddownuponthem;andforsometimetheyremainedintheseattitudes,idleandsilent,withthewidthofthelittleroombetweenthem.

           MrPanckswasthefirsttoliftuphisheadandspeak.

           ‘Ipersuadedyoutoit,MrClennam.Iknowit.Saywhatyouwill.Youcan’tsaymoretomethanIsaytomyself.Youcan’tsaymorethanIdeserve.’

           ‘O,Pancks,Pancks!’returnedClennam,‘don’tspeakofdeserving.WhatdoImyselfdeserve!’

           ‘Betterluck,’saidPancks.

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