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globe, he had made no stipulation concerning the trifling movables upon
its surface. And the earth spins so fast that the surface at its equator
is travelling at rather more than a thousand miles an hour, and in these
latitudes at more than half that pace. So that the village, and Mr.
Maydig, and Mr. Fotheringay, and everybody and everything had been
jerked violently forward at about nine miles per second--that is to say,
much more violently than if they had been fired out of a cannon. And
every human being, every living creature, every house, and every
tree--all the world as we know it--had been so jerked and smashed and
utterly destroyed. That was all.
These things Mr. Fotheringay did not, of course, fully appreciate. But
he perceived that his miracle had miscarried, and with that a great
disgust of miracles came upon him. He was in darkness now, for the
clouds had swept together and blotted out his momentary glimpse of the
moon, and the air was full of fitful struggling tortured wraiths of
hail. A great roaring of wind and waters filled earth and sky, and,
peering under his hand through the dust and sleet to windward, he saw by
the play of the lightnings a vast wall of water pouring towards him.
"Maydig!" screamed Mr. Fotheringay's feeble voice amid the elemental
uproar. "Here!--Maydig!
"Stop!" cried Mr. Fotheringay to the advancing water. "Oh, for goodness'
sake, stop!
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