The professor, obviously disappointed, turned again to the bomb that was fast reaching a state of déshabille—if bombs can be said to reach that state.
"You assume this to be the work of people on that yacht," he said, with a touch of annoyance. "Can you sustain that theory?"
"Why, of course, sir," Gates declared.
"A mere presumption, mon Capitaine!"
"But the voice," I challenged. "Don't you suppose I recognized it?"
"Tut-tut, my boy Jack! You have never actually heard the lady's voice!" And as this was true I had nothing further to offer; but he brightened up, adding: "We shall now go to the stomach of the bomb, if only to enjoy ourselves."
"You've a curious idea of fun," I grunted.
"Just go easy," Tommy said. "She may be ticklish."
"Why not sink the wicked thing at once, sir," Gates urged. "We've seen enough now to keep us awake nights, and I haven't any craving to look at its stomach, Lor' knows I haven't!"
But the professor would not listen. Already he had recommenced the exploration, gingerly removing some wires wrapped about the explosive center, while we almost held our breaths lest he touch the wrong thing. Once he smiled, and murmured: "Le capitaine is right—it was made on the Orchid!" Yet he did not stop work for this, and soon brought to view two half sticks of dynamite, one of them ingeniously capped. Leaning above this now, with his elbows on the table and his head in his hands, he sank into a profound study, then startled us by giving a snort and springing up, jostling the table so violently that the dynamite slid gracefully toward the edge. Most happily Tommy grabbed it in time.