Mat had now time to examine the remaining stores, which had not as yet been interfered with. At the bottom of his sea-chest he found his books, amongst them his beloved “Crusoe;” and what was of far greater importance, he discovered in a water-tight barrel, a tin of gunpowder stowed away amongst a quantity of rice.
The brothers had many a talk over this powder, as they surmised that if they proved to the natives that they possessed the power of dealing instantaneous death, it would cause them to be respected by all in the district. So they resolved to show the power of the weapon.
Mat set to work to clean and burnish up the gun thoroughly, whilst Tim cut up some slugs from the lead.
The black fellows had looked at this gun, smelt it, and could not make it out.
Said Tim,—
“I was talking with our good old doctor, whom we buried the other day—about the blacks, and he said as they thinks a thing’s a kind of spirit if you go into a lot of fooling over it; so now do you shoot a bird, but afore you fire we’ll have a game round the old gun.”
There happened, on this day of the conversation, to be several hawks, which were fully gorged with odds and ends thrown out of the camp, placidly blinking on the branches of the trees high overhead.
Having made their arrangements, the brothers collected their friends and pointed to a particular bird, which was sitting on a branch by himself, some forty yards above their gunyah.
“Old Joe” was then brought out, Mat bringing it along with mock humility, as he crawled on his knees; the weapon was then placed on the ground at a spot which Tim had been carefully dusting and removing twigs from, burying this rubbish with the greatest care. Then, with a great appearance of solemnity, Tim knelt at the muzzle, Mat at the stock, as the gun was placed carefully on the sacred spot. This was all done so far in perfect silence. The natives remaining awe-struck at these proceedings, commenced to whisper.
“Hush-sh!” said both brothers, putting their fingers to their lips.