"Ha!" remarked Planchette serenely, "the piece of skin is as safe and
sound as my eye. There was a flaw in your reservoir somewhere, or a
crevice in the large tube----"
"No, no; I know my reservoir. The devil is in your contrivance, sir;
you can take it away," and the German pounced upon a smith's hammer,
flung the skin down on an anvil, and, with all the strength that rage
gives, dealt the talisman the most formidable blow that had ever
resounded through his workshops.
"There is not so much as a mark on it!" said Planchette, stroking the
perverse bit of skin.
The workmen hurried in. The foreman took the skin and buried it in the
glowing coal of a forge, while, in a semi-circle round the fire, they
all awaited the action of a huge pair of bellows. Raphael,
Spieghalter, and Professor Planchette stood in the midst of the grimy
expectant crowd. Raphael, looking round on faces dusted over with iron
filings, white eyes, greasy blackened clothing, and hairy chests,
could have fancied himself transported into the wild nocturnal world
of German ballad poetry. After the skin had been in the fire for ten
minutes, the foreman pulled it out with a pair of pincers.
"Hand it over to me," said Raphael.
The foreman held it out by way of a joke.
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