“It’ll be sharp work, my lads, but we must win.”
“And we will,” said Tom, grimly. “Think I can do better with the powder, sir?”
“No; that will be excellent for the purpose,” said Mark. “Now give me the box and lie down.”
“Give you—the box o’ matches, sir?” stammered Tom Fillot.
“Yes. I shall fire the train.”
Tom handed over the box unwillingly.
“Hadn’t I better, sir? You might be burnt.”
“Well, if I am, what then? Ready, my lads?” whispered Mark. “All is quiet now.”
“Ay, ay, sir, ready,” said the men, as they pressed closely to the floor, holding down their heads for the most part; but Tom Fillot with a face full of anxiety watched.
“Then the moment after the explosion spring up and follow me.”