d sobbed:

"Don't! Don't look like that! Oh, you poor people! I am the only one!"

Awestruck and silently, men and women enveloped her and ministered unto
her. It was the advance guard of the Red Cross Society, led by Clara
Barton, that sheltered this derelict and messenger of woe.

Set upon by a thousand men, Mr. Ticks and the professor told what they
knew. Some cursed and doubted and pressed on. Some bowed their heads and
turned back. But Swift, who had recognized Dubbs driving two powerful
horses and unreeling two telegraph wires, one for the special use of
the Associated Press and the other for the _Planet_, accosted him, and
sent the most famous message known to the American newspaper world since
the close of the civil war.

It was a long message, and we can only give the more important
headlines:

Russell is no more!

Thirty thousand people killed by one unparalleled electric
discharge.

The gigantic spark fuses the whole city into one
indistinguishable molten slag.

Miraculous escape of one lady. The sole survivor.

Thrilling rescue by the _Planet_ reporters in a special
balloon.

The reporters complete the circuit and touch off an
over-charged storage battery with a circumference of one
hundred and fifty miles.

The territory that was impassable now open.

Fifty thousand people race toward the lost city.

Russell perished of her own electricity.

Civilization's new and formidable danger.

* * * * *

Three months later, on a secular evening, the upholstered pews of an
uptown church were filled with a fashionable audience. As the church
bells tolled eight the organ pealed forth the wedding march. It was
noticed with much comment that the vast audience-room was lighted with
gas, the new electric lights being dispensed with. The bride, Miss
Insula Magnet, had especially desired this.

When the solemn ceremony was ended, and when, amid the craning of necks,
the bride and groom were walking down the white-ribboned aisle, a
diversion happened that arrested the newly wedded couple. But this was
not construed into an ill-omen. A diminutive messenger boy, with a
super-experienced countenance, had met them half way to the vestibule,
and, with a saucy smile, held up an envelope to Mr. Swift's face.

"It's half an hour late. Wires burned out. Guess you'll read it now!"

Mr. Statis Ticks, who, alt