In the morning they went over to look at it, and found the hollow only extended about four feet. It was afloat and fastened with a rope, just as John had secured it in the spring. They towed it home without attracting notice, as they considered it very important to keep the matter secret till the craft was completed.
“Then,” said Charlie, “if we should spoil the log, and don’t make a boat, there will be nobody to laugh at us.”
Putting down skids, they hauled it up on to the grass ground with the oxen, and, with a cross-cut saw, made it the right length. As all above the middle of the log had to be cut away, and was of no use to them, it was evident, that if they could split it in halves, the other half would make a canoe, clapboards, or shingles.
“This is a beautiful log,” said Charlie. “It is too bad to cut half of it into chips. It is straight-grained and clear of knots; we will split it.”
“Split it!” said John; “‘twould take a week!”
“No, it won’t. We can split it with powder.”
“I never thought of that.”
They bored holes in the log at intervals of three feet, filled them part full of powder, and drove in a plug with a score cut in the side of it. Into this they poured powder, to communicate with that in the hole. They then laid a train, and touched them all at once, when the log flew apart in an instant, splitting as straight as the two halves of an acorn.
“I’ll take the half you don’t want, boys,” said Ben, who, unnoticed, had watched their proceedings; “it will make splendid clapboards.”