“Oh, is it?” said Satan, handling the thing. “And where’s your guarantee? S’posin’ it only takes a minute? And five minutes is none too much for the man that fires it to get clear of the reef and put out.”
“That’s true,” said Sellers, “and one of you will have to do the firin’ business, seein’ I’m lame.”
“What’s lamed you?”
“Fell on the deck this mornin’ over a slush tub one of them damn dagoes left lyin’ in the dark. Near put my knee out.”
“Then Cleary will do the trick,” said Satan.
Cleary laughed. “Not me! I’m not lame, but it ain’t my job. Runnin’ over rocks don’t suit me, and I reckon the man that lays a light to that thing will want to be a boundin’ kangaroo.”
“Instead of a damned ass like y’self,” said Satan. “Come on. I’ll light it, I’m not afeard.”
They clambered over the rocks, crossed the rock bridge, and gained the wreck.
The little barrel had been well and truly laid, the top almost flush with the level of the stuff covering the deck.
“We got right through the deck plankin’,” said Sellers, “or to a crossbeam. Wood’s most dry-rotted, and it’ll be a nacheral mercy if the powder don’t blow the whole coffee shop to blazes right down to the reef. Here’s the hole for the fuse.”