“Oh, I say, come up. Be quick. What a while you have been!” said Bob. “Got it?”
“Oh, it’s all very well to talk,” panted Bigley wiping his forehead, “sitting down there so quietly. It’s hot.”
“Never mind about it’s being so hot,” cried Bob. “Have you got it?”
“Got what?”
“Did you ever hear such a chap?” cried Bob. “The powder.”
“Why, of course I have. Didn’t I go on purpose to get it?”
We both thought that the intention was not always followed by the deed, but we said nothing in our anxiety to get the material for our experiment; and as Bigley had come to a halt, we had to go down about a hundred feet to help him climb up the rest of the way, when he drew out a pint tin can full of powder, the flint and steel, and a piece of rag, which he had taken the precaution to damp in the stream and then wring out before starting back.
We set to work at once making the damp rag into a fuse by rubbing it well with the coarse-grained gunpowder, and then, it being decided that we could not do better than leave the powder in the tin canister, whose opening answered admirably for the insertion of the rag fuse, Bob set to work to enlarge the hole he had made till it was big enough to admit the charge.
Then with great care the end of the rag was thrust into the powder, and held there with a piece of slaty chip, sufficient length of the rag being left to reach out beyond the side of the stone.
Next Bob took the tin and thrust it into its place far under the rock, and the only remaining thing to do was to light the fuse and get well out of the way.