“There,” said Uncle Jack after a careful inspection, “we can do no more. If the ruffians come and blow us up it will be pretty well ruin.”
“While if they burn us we are handsomely insured,” said Uncle Dick.
“By all means then let us be burned,” said Uncle Bob laughing. “There, don’t let’s make mountains of molehills. We shall not be hurt.”
“Well,” said Uncle Dick, “I feel as if we ought to take every possible precaution; but, that done, I do not feel much fear of anything taking place. If the scoundrels had really meant mischief they would have done something before now.”
“Don’t halloa till you are out of the wood,” said Uncle Jack. “I smell danger.”
“Where, uncle?” I cried.
“In the air, boy. How the wind blows! Quite a gale. Brings the smell of naphtha from those works half a mile away. Shows how a scent like that will travel.”
“I say, boys,” said Uncle Bob, “what a trade that would be to carry on—that or powder-mills. The scoundrels would regularly hold one at their mercy.”
“Wind’s rising, and the water seems pretty lively,” said Uncle Dick as we sat together in the office, listening to the noises of the night.
We were quite in the dark, and from time to time we had a look round about the yard and wall and that side of the building, the broad dam on the other side being our protection.