Ross stared at him stupidly. "Who is there to take it?"
"Some one," panted Sandy with an oath, "must have come up the trail Sunday and taken the stuff, thinkin’ that it ’ud storm right off and shut up the trail so none of us ’ud be such fools as t’ go over t’ Camp after more. That’s the way I’ve figured it out, and I lay ye I’m right."
"When did you find out the sticks were gone?" asked Ross with an interest which did not as yet reach beyond Sandy.
"A few minutes ago," gasped Sandy. "I come as fast as I could to see if your––"
Ross cut him short with a loud exclamation, and without waiting to hear the end of the sentence turned and plunged up over the dump, ploughing and fighting his way through the snow as though it were a thing of life.
Sandy picked up the wooden shovel which the boy had cast away, and followed out of breath, but still talking.
"You know we kept the sticks in a box under a hemlock right above the hole, and––"
Ross, unheeding, floundered across the dump, and began to dig wildly at the tool-house door, only the upper part of which was visible. With set teeth he dug, forgetting Sandy, forgetting the shovel, his common sense swallowed up in a panic of fear.
Weimer had always kept the dynamite sticks in a box, a large double boarded and heavily lidded affair which was set in the corner of the tool chest furthest from the door.
At first Ross had raised the lid of this box with chills creeping down his spine. His hair had stirred under his cap when he first saw Weimer stuff the sticks carelessly into his pocket and enter the tunnel. But familiarity with the use of the sticks had robbed them of their terror, although Ross was always cautious in the handling.