"Is Dutton dead?" gasped Paul.
"Not dead—and not hurt much, I hope," answered Dick. "He was overcome by the powder fumes—there was a little explosion almost as soon as he got inside—some sparks must have blown in the window. But he saved Grit."
"And you saved him."
"Come on, we'd better get farther back!" cried the young millionaire as Paul hesitated, and was about to lay Dutton down. "The force of it will——"
His voice was drowned in a detonating report, and the darkness of the night was lighted by an intense glare. The powder house had blown up, and the wind of the concussion knocked down Paul and Dick in a heap with the unconscious Dutton. Other cadets who had not run far enough back were also bowled over.
Then came intense blackness, following the bright flash and this was succeeded by the patter of small missiles tossed into the air by the force of the powder.
"Jove, I hope none of the chunks of concrete come this way!" cried Paul as he got up. "Are you hurt, Dick?"
"Not a bit of it. Look at Dutton though."
"He doesn't seem to be," answered Paul, as he looked at the unconscious cadet as well as he could in the dim light that came from a few scattered and burning embers blown here and there by the explosion.
"Oh—I'm—I'm all right," gasped Dutton, as he slowly sat up. "What happened?"