“Pannell!” I cried; “you are not hurt?”
“Nay, not much,” he said sourly. “Got the cinder and stuff in my eyes, but they missed me this time.”
“What! Was it not an accident?”
“Oh, ay!” he replied, “reg’lar accident. Powder got into my little forge, and when I started her wi’ some hot coal from t’other one she blew up.”
“But you are not hurt?”
“Nay, lad, I weer stooping down, and were half behind the forge, so I didn’t ketch it that time.”
The smoke was by this time pretty well cleared away, and we walked into the smithy to see what mischief had befallen us.
Fortunately no harm had been done to the structure of the building, and there being no glass in the windows there was of course none to blow out. The coal ashes and cinders had been scattered far and wide, and the iron funnel-shaped chimney knocked out of place, while some of the smiths’ tools, and the rods of steel upon which Pannell had been working, were thrown upon the floor.
The walls, forge, and pieces of iron about told tales for themselves without the odour of the explosive, for everything had been covered with a film of a greyish-white, such as gunpowder gives to iron or brickwork when it is fired.
“Where was the powder?” cried Uncle Jack, after satisfying himself that Pannell had not the slightest burn even upon his beard.