Again, in Mr. Wiel's store a shell
burst while the building was full of people, without injuring anyone;
but one of the splinters carried an account-book from the counter and
deposited it in the roof on its outward passage. Indeed, not a day
passed but one heard of marvellously narrow escapes.
As the heat increased, the shelling grew certainly slacker, and, after
an hour or two spent in exchanging greetings in the early morning, both
besieged and besiegers seemed to slumber during the sultry noonday
hours. About four they appeared to rouse themselves, and often my
telephone would then ring up with the message: "The gun is loaded, and
pointed at the town." Almost simultaneously a panting little bell, not
much louder than a London muffin-bell, but heard distinctly all over the
town in the clear atmosphere, would give tongue, and luckless folk who
were promenading the streets had about three seconds to seek shelter,
the alarm being sounded as the flash was seen by the look-out. One
afternoon they gave us three shots in six minutes, but, of course, this
rapid firing was much safer for the inhabitants than a stray shot after
a long interval, as people remained below-ground expecting a repetition
of that never-to-be-forgotten crashing explosion, followed by the
sickening noise of the splinters tearing through the air, sometimes just
over one's head, like the crack of a very long whip, manipulated by a
master-hand.
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