“Everything, my boy. If there had been no powder there we should have had no explosion.”
“But it wasn’t gunpowder, uncle,” cried Tom, “it couldn’t be. I know what gunpowder’s made of—nitre, brimstone, and charcoal; and besides, we had no light.”
“No, Tom, but it was a mixture far stronger than gunpowder, and one which will explode with a very slight friction.”
“I know,” cried the Vicar eagerly, “fulminate of silver.”
“Quite right,” said Uncle Richard; “and I feel quite ashamed of my ignorance. A little knowledge is a dangerous thing; and I ought to have known that in this process I was preparing so dangerous a compound.”
“I know,” cried Tom now; “fulminate of silver is what they put in percussion caps, isn’t it, uncle?”
“No; that is a very similar compound, but it is fulminate of mercury.—Well, Maxted, what am I to say to you for trying to kill you?”
“I think you had better say nothing,” said the Vicar quietly. “It seems to me that the less we talk about it the better, and content ourselves with being thankful for our escape.”
“It’s lucky, uncle, that it missed the big speculum, and a lot more stuff being used.”
“Fortunate indeed, Tom. We must be more careful next time.”