“Bravo! Man of genius,” said Uncle Jack; and he drew out the plug of fuse that went through the bottom of the canister.
As he did this over a sheet of paper a quantity of black grains like very coarse dry sand began to trickle out and run on to the paper, forming quite a heap, and as the powder ran Uncle Jack looked round at his brother and smiled sadly.
“Not done to frighten us, eh, Bob!” he said. “If that stuff had been fired the furnace-house and chimney would have been levelled.”
“Why, Cob,” said Uncle Dick, laying his hand affectionately upon my shoulder. “You must be a brave fellow to have hauled that away from the furnace.”
“I did not feel very brave just now,” I said bitterly. “When Uncle Jack began to handle that tin I felt as if I must run away.”
“But you didn’t,” said Uncle Bob, smiling at me.
“Is that gunpowder?” I said hastily, so as to change the conversation.
“No doubt of it, my lad,” said Uncle Jack, scooping it up in his hand, so that it might trickle through his fingers. “Strong blasting powder. Shall I fire some and try?”
“If you like,” I said sulkily, for it was, I knew, said to tease me.
“Well, what’s to be done, boys?” said Uncle Jack. “Are we going to lay this before the police? It is a desperate business!”