“Oh, go on, then,” cried Mark.
Bob Bacon set to work the next minute tamping a hole diagonally down from where the large piece of cement had been taken out.
The doctor had been under the expectation that they were nearly through the cement floor, but the iron bar was driven down lower and lower, re-pounding the granite into dust, which was fished out by means of a cleaning rod, till the hole was about eighteen inches deep, measuring from the surface of the floor. Then gunpowder was put in and rammed down pretty hard, and the question arose, What was to be done for a fuse?
“Here, I can soon manage that, gentlemen,” said Dan the handy. “I want a drop of water.”
“I have some in my flask,” said the doctor.
“Bit of string,” continued Dan; and he fished out a piece directly from his trousers’ pocket, and after the doctor had poured a little water into the cup of his flask the little sailor thrust in a piece of string, let it soak for a few minutes, and then drew it through his fingers to squeeze out as much of the water as he could and send it well through the partly untwisted fibres.
“Now, Mr Mark, sir, got a blank cartridge?”
“No, but I can soon take the ball out of one.”
This the boy did, and after removing the wad he poured a little of the dry powder into Dan’s palm. The piece of string was roughly rolled up, laid upon the pinch or two of powder, and then the little sailor placed his palms together and gave them a circular, millstone-like movement one over the other till all the powder was absorbed and his hands as black as ink.
“There, gentlemen,” he said, passing the string two or three times through his fingers, “that’s nearly dry now, and if it’s shoved down the hole, one end left out, and the hole stopped with a bit of clay—”