“But it’s too dangerous.”
“No, it isn’t. You keep quiet, and make that light shine well on the key-hole.”
As he spoke the young man took a pound canister of fine gun-powder from the portmanteau pushing the latter afterwards outside into the passage. Then with a small funnel, also provided in the portmanteau, and fitted with a curved piece of pipe, to fill the interior of the lock with the fine black dust, which ran away down the funnel and pipe as easily as sand from one side to another of an hour-glass.
“This is the way,” said Arthur, eagerly. “I shall get pretty well half a pound in.”
It seemed quite probable, for the powder ran trickling on, every stoppage being overcome by a shake or a tap or two, till at last, no matter how the door was rapped, no more would go down.
“Doesn’t matter; there’s plenty,” said the young man, quietly, thrusting in a piece of ready prepared slow match, which hung down the front of the door and half a yard over the floor, where the powder sprinkled about was carefully dusted away.
Then by means of a wedge some scraps of rag were driven in tightly to fill up the key-hole, and the young man rose up.
“There we are, old chap,” he said. “All we’ve got to do is to open the lantern, touch the end of that slow match in the light, let it go down—stop a minute, let’s blow away a little more of the powder—then there’ll be plenty of time to shut and lock the door, wait for the blow-out of the lock, and go in after and pick up the best pieces, fill our Gladstones as we like and be off.”
He went down on his knees, and, trembling violently, Roach held up the lantern, as he stood quiet outside now.
“Here! How am I to see?” cried his companion, angrily.