When the end of the world comes and the earth busts in the middle, it won't sound no louder than that bang did.

It was a wooden shutter.

The wind was rising outside, and it flew open and whacked agin' the building.
Then a big, heavy-set man that hadn't spoke before riz up from one of the hind seats, like he had heard a dare to fight, and walked slowly down toward the front.

He had a red face, which was considerable pock-marked, and very deep-set eyes, and a deep voice.
"Since when," he says, taking up his stand a dozen feet or so in front of the doctor, "since when has any civilization refused to commit murder when murder was necessary for its protection ?" One of the top glasses of that window was out, and with the shutter open they come a breeze through that fluttered some strips of dirty-coloured papers, fly-specked and dusty and spider-webbed, that hung on strings acrost the room, jest below the ceiling.

I guess they had been left over from some Christmas doings.
"My friend," said the pock-marked man to the doctor--and the funny thing about it was he didn't talk unfriendly when he said it--"the word you insist on is just a WORD, like any other word." They was a spider rousted out of his web by that disturbance among the strings and papers.