He led the way to a low building with a dull red roof. It was windowless, but had a door that swung at the will of the wind. This erection was lined inside with matchboarding, and it contained a board of regulations that prohibited all metal within the shed. Even a nail in a boot was unlawful.
“’Tis Case House No. 4.—used once for storing powder,” said Richard Daccombe; “that’s a pile of sulphur in the corner.”
“Ess, but theer’s mor’n you can see, Dick. Look here. Another floor lies under this, though nobody minded that, I reckon, else they’d have took what’s theer.”
Davey moved two boards, and beneath them—dry and sound as when there deposited—he revealed some tons of black blasting powder. His brother started, swore in sudden concern, hastened from the building, and, taking his pipe out of his mouth, carefully extinguished it. Then he returned and accosted Davey.
“Why didn’t you tell me about this before, you little fool?”
“Why for should I? ’Twas my gert secret. But you’ll not let it out, will you, Dick? If chaps comed to hear, they’d steal every atom.”
This Richard knew very well.
“I’ll be dumb, and mind that you are,” he said. “And no more playing games with gunpowder. You might have blowed the whole countryside to glory. Keep away in future. If I catch you within a hunderd yards of this place, I’ll lather you.”
“Finding be keeping,” answered Davey, indignantly.
“Perhaps ’tis; an’ might be right. You’ve heard me. That powder’s mine henceforth.”