In the street not one panel of glass remained intact. Cast-iron stack-pipes were riddled with holes cut as cleanly as with a drill. Brick walls were perforated like paper; stone-steps--the "scouring" of which is a solemn rite with Lancashire folk--were chipped and splintered like glass. Doors were burst open as if with a sledge-hammer. And this was fifty yards or more from the scene of the actual explosion. Where the first bomb had fallen nothing remained of the house except a mound of smoking rubbish. The two adjoining buildings were cut away from top to bottom almost as evenly as if severed by a saw. In one the roof was exposed on the underside. The slates were still in position but riddled like a sieve. So violent was the force with which the flying fragments were projected upwards that the fragile slates were perforated before they had time to crack or be dislodged from the rafters. In the house on the other adjoining side the parting wall had vanished, leaving the remaining walls and flooring practically intact. A fire was still burning in the kitchen grate, and on it an iron pot was simmering. In front of the fire were three pairs of "clogs" of varying sizes--the footgear of a family that was no longer in existence. It was the same story. The raid from a military point of view was of no consequence. The munitions factory, in spite of von Loringhoven's assurances, had been missed--missed handsomely. The flight-sub did not linger at this particular spot. Human aid was unavailing as far as those ruined houses were concerned, but on the other side of the street groans and cries of pain told him that here at least there was work to be done. Through an open doorway Barcroft dashed. The woodwork of the door was in splinters. Part of the floor had vanished. The place was full of smoke, while gas from a severed pipe was burning furiously. Grasping a large fragment of paving-stone the flight-sub battered the pipe. "Iron, worse luck," he exclaimed. "Wonder where the meter is?" He discovered it just above the door. In the absence of a key to turn off the inflammable gas he knocked the lead pipe flat. The flame began to die down until it gave a fairly safe illumination. Up the rickety stairs the young officer made his way. With smarting eyes and irritating throat he groped through the stifling smoke, guided by the cries of the injured victims. The room was feebly lighted by a nightlight set in a basin of water. The light flickered in the breeze that swept in through the glazeless window, while its intensity was even more diminished by the eddying smoke. Yet it was sufficient to enable Barcroft to take in his surroundings. The ceiling had fallen. Plaster and broken glass littered the floor, and every object presented a flat, face-upward surface. On the walls were crude prints hanging at grotesque angles and ripped by flying fragments. Pieces of broken furniture were everywhere in evidence.