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Napier. Two-storey buildings came down like a pack of cards, and in one of the streets the two sides met, burying a whole row of taxi-cabs with their drivers.
Harley was familiar with the narrow streets of Napier’s business area. Uninspiring streets of brick buildings, shops, warehouses and offices; streets of architecturally repellent, cramped, often mean, buildings bedaubed with advertisements or bleakly bare; clean streets which appeared to be dirty because of their lack of breathing space; streets lined with shop verandahs, beneath which one sweltered in summer and shivered in winter; streets strangely old in so young a country.
Death-traps in an earthquake!
Clouds of dust enveloped the whole place . . . people were rushing out screaming . . . thousands rushed to the beach; they thought it was the safest place.
People were lying dead in the streets . . .women rushed about in an hysterical condition.
The biggest fire destroyed the Masonic Hotel. It was burned to the ground.. .
Harley read no further. With an inarticulate cry he turned about and literally clawed himself free from the crowd, and ran.
A short, thick-set man, with a flattened nose and curious ears, who had been toppled into the gutter, bounced to his feet, raced after Harley, and pulled him to a halt with a strong hand upon his shoulder. Harley spun round and snarled:
“Keep your hands off me!”
“You may be in a ’ell of a hurry, cobber,” said the broken-nosed one grimly, “but that ain’t no excuse for knocking a man into the gutter. What ’a’ y’got t’say about it?”
“Nothing,” snapped Harley, pointing to the lighted window of the Herald office with a shaking