“Well, you are a cool chap,” said Ratcliffe. “I’d have run.”
“And broke your leg, maybe. There’s no danger unless a spark got at the powder. The durned thing was sparkin’ and spittin’ like all possessed when I left it. I reckon that’s why Sellers got cold feet. We’re out far enough now.” He ceased rowing, and they hung drifting.
Ratcliffe looked round. The other boats were much farther out. The tepid wind had almost died off, so that the flags on the Juan and Natchez hung in wisps. They could hear the wash of the water on the reef and the occasional lamentation of a gull. No other sound broke the silence of the blue and gorgeous afternoon.
“Seems like as if everything was listenin’, don’t it?” said Satan, wiping his forehead. “The bust ought to have come by this. Wonder if the durned thing has fizzled out?”
A gull made derisive answer and across the satin smooth swell a hail came from the Juan.
“That’s Cark,” said Satan, “makin’ kind inquiries, blister him!”
“There she goes!” cried Ratcliffe.
A jet of flame and a column of smoke sprang from the reef, followed by a clap of thunder that could have been heard at Rum Cay.
Flying filth and deck planking filled the air, and on top of all came the yelling of a thousand gulls.
The dinghy jumped as though from the blow of a great fist—then silence, and over the reef a filthy dun-colored cloud of smoke curling upward like a djin.