Now, right across the glen, not more than three-quarters of a mile distant, rose a rounded, but somewhat cliffy hill. There was a tantalizing piece of glacier, part ice, part snow, hanging over one cliff, in the shape of a waterfall, though it did not reach quite to the bottom.
Mac was itching to blast it, and lay open a portion at least of the hillside.
And so one day he set to work, and busy picks and shovels soon excavated a hole big enough to admit and bury the explosive.
It was to be fired by electricity from a safe distance, and all hands were there to look on.
It was great fun for the boys. They both liked Mac, and when, with a kindly twinkle in his blue eyes, he turned round and said, “Now, which of you boys will touch the button and fire the mine?” both said “Oh!” and their faces beamed.
“I won’t,” said Charlie, “because Walt is six weeks younger.”
“Brave boy. Well, Walt, you.”
And Walt took the thing in hand at once. The explosion that followed was a terrible one; the sky was filled with smoke, and dust, and débris, and the dull roar seemed to shake the hills on every side.