“Oh, we’ll soon prove that,” cried Uncle Jack, taking out his knife.
“Uncle! Take care!” I cried in agony, for I seemed to see sparks flying from his knife, and the powder exploding and blowing us to atoms.
“If you are afraid, Cob, you had better go back home,” he said rather gruffly, as he cut the fuse through and tore it off, to lie in a little heap as soon as he had freed it from the wire.
Then the string followed, and the canister stood upright before us on the desk.
“Looks as harmless as if it were full of arrow-root or mustard,” said Uncle Bob coolly. “Perhaps, after all, it is a scare.”
I stood there with my teeth closed tightly, determined not to show fear, even if the horrible stuff did blow up. For though there was no light in the room, and the matches were in a cupboard, I could not get out of my head the idea that the stuff might explode, and it seemed terrible to me for such a dangerous machine to be handled in what appeared to be so reckless a way.
“Lid fits pretty tight,” said Uncle Jack, trying to screw it off.
“Don’t do that, old fellow,” said Uncle Dick. “It would be grinding some of the dust round, and the friction might fire it.”
“Well, yes, it might,” replied Uncle Jack. “Not likely though, and I want to examine the powder.”
“That’s easily done, my boy. Pull that bit of fuse out of the hole, and let some of the powder trickle out.”