Stephen, of course, did not know what this meant; but Jim did, and he was oppressed with gloomy forebodings.
Mark this: Stephen faced the right bank of the river, while George was on the left bank. The island was hidden by a bend in the river. Consequently, if an explosion should take place, Stephen would naturally jump to the conclusion that it had taken place on the island.
The boat slowly but steadily neared the falls. It certainly would have been prudent to stop their downward course, but no one, except Jim, appeared to be aware of this. Charley whistled bravely, though he wondered why no sign came from George, whom the high bank, fringed with bushes, effectually concealed.
Then the archplotters themselves became uneasy; and concluding that the powder had no virtue whatever they shipped their oars in mournful silence.
What was George doing meanwhile? As soon as the boys left him, he set about digging his mine. “Now,” he mused, “I shall not be so foolish as Stephen; I shall pry the box open, and see what is in it. It may be only a paint box, for all I know.”
By means of his jack-knife he forced off the lid, and found that it was powder—genuine powder—perfectly dry. But alas! the tried and trusty business blade of his knife was snapped off short!
Now, as the reader knows, George was a philosopher, and he took his good fortune and mishap philosophically. “By the end of the week,” he said, “I may be sorry about this knife, but I can’t be now!”
Then, picking up and gloating over the box: “Dry as the sun! How capital! Won’t I make the most of it! But what a blundering family those Lawrences are! Even Mr. Lawrence himself has made a mistake; he thought the powder had got wet. Well, they beat all the folks to blunder that I ever saw; it must run in the family.”
With a chuckle of ineffable satisfaction, he sat down to map out his mode of procedure. “I understand how to make the most of good gunpowder,” he mused; “what fun it would be to have a loud explosion—one that would stun even Will and Charley! I can do it, and I will!”
He arose and began to work as only a boy whose mind is bent on mischief can work, gathering up heaps of stones and rubbish; that soiled his picnic clothes, almost beyond restoration. Then he laid the box of powder in the bottom of his mine, placed a heavy stone on the wrenched-off lid, and piled the accumulated stones and rubbish over it so scientifically that a warlike explosion would be a foregone conclusion. The “train” was very simple—only a little pile of chips, twigs, and shavings, and a cotton string that led down to the powder.