“What is it?” said Mr Brymer.
“Do you think there is any more powder below?” I said, as I thought of the possibility of another explosion.
“Indeed I don’t,” said the mate, decisively. “Not a grain. It is all honest fire, my lad, smouldering away in the cargo, and waiting for a little encouragement in the shape of wind to burst out into an unconquerable blaze.”
We had been advancing again through the charred embers and fragments, to stand at last by a large ragged cavity, torn up in the deck. The whole of the hatches and combings were blasted away, and a clean sweep had been made for fully thirty feet onward, and twenty or so across; and everywhere was of a blackish grey, showing the effects of the blasting-powder. Still there was room enough on both sides to walk along by the hole; and as we looked down we could see that, in spite of the destruction, with one exception the great cross-beams which supported the deck were intact.
“She will not sink, Dale,” said the mate, quietly; and as a feeling of confidence on that question made me feel better, the fire suddenly flamed up in one place, burning briskly with a good deal of crackling and sputtering, making me feel doubtful of the ship’s stability on that side.
Mr Brymer gave me a nod, meant for encouragement, as he went on—
“All the force of the powder went upwards, as it usually does. If it had been dynamite, the explosion would have struck down, driving out the bottom, and then of course the ship would have sunk.”
“But the fire!” I said; and the anxiety I felt affected my voice, making it sound husky.
“Oh, the fire,” he said coolly. “We must fight that. It is dangerous, but the explosive spirit has burned out, or been destroyed; the powder has gone, and we have nothing to fear now but the slow working of our friend or enemy, whichever you make it.”
“But it may burst out furiously at any moment.”