“Squintum the grinder. What’s his name—Griggs. Yes, I shouldn’t be a bit surprised if that scoundrel had a hand—”
“Both hands,” put in Uncle Bob.
“Well, both hands in this ugly business.”
“But couldn’t you prove it against him?” I said.
“No, my lad,” said Uncle Jack; “and I don’t know that we want to. Wretched misguided lumps of ignorance. I don’t want to help to transport the villains.”
We had drawn back from the window to where there was still a little heap of powder on the desk as well as the fuse.
“Come, Bob,” said Uncle Jack; “you may not be quite convinced yet, so I’ll show you an experiment.”
He took about a teaspoonful of the powder, and placed it in a short piece of iron pipe which he laid on the window-sill, and then taking the rest of the explosive, he gave it a jerk and scattered it over the water.
Then taking about a yard of the black soft cord that he said was fuse, he tucked one end in the pipe so that it should rest upon the powder, laid the rest along the window-sill, and asked me to get the matches.
“Now,” he said, “if that’s what I think—cleverly made fuse, and good strong powder—we shall soon see on a small scale what it would have done on a large. Strike a match, Cob.”