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 “Why?”

“I made a hundred-weight of it. A hundred-weight of Krakatit. No, about three ounces. Up there, in that porcelain box. When it explodes, man—but wait a minute, that’s impossible. It’s senseless,” mumbled Prokop, clutching his head.

“Well?”

“Why—why—why didn’t it explode also in the box? If the powder exploded by itself—wait a moment, on the table there’s a sheet of zinc—why did it explode on the table? Wa-it, be quiet, be quiet,” said Prokop. His teeth chattered, and he rose up unsteadily.

“What’s up with you?”

“Krakatit,” muttered Prokop. He made a twisting movement with his whole body and fell on the ground unconscious.