As they started down the passage under such different auspices to those under which they had made their way up it, Frank suddenly stopped and with his knife cut off about six inches of the trailing rawhide rope. He sliced this length up again into four pieces, kept one himself and handed one to each of his three companions. Long afterward they were to remember those souvenirs and treasure them as among their choicest possessions.
Frank had contrived a sort of sling, out of blankets, in which the heavy keg of powder was slung. Through the loop that this formed a long branch with a hooked end was thrust. This was to grapple the chain with, after the explosion from which they hoped so much had taken place. It was a short time later that they reached a spot about half-a-mile from the White Serpents’ Chasm, and here the keg was left after Ben had selected a couple of long brownish sticks from it. These he tipped with fulminate of mercury caps, which were later in their turn to be attached to the five hundred feet of sparking wires of the battery.
At this moment Frank recollected something that sent a thrill of disappointment through him.
“How old is your battery?” he asked anxiously of Ben.
“All of five years,” responded the prospector, “why?”
“Because I’m afraid it’s too old to be any good,” was the reply that sent a shock of bitter disappointment through them all.
Anxiously they watched while Frank made a test. His fear was only too true. No encouraging blue spark responded, when the detonating key was pressed down. In the first feeling of dumb despair nobody found words. Billy was the first to speak:
“Hold on there,” he cried, “you fellows have got electric light torches in your pockets?”
“By Jove,” cried Frank happily, “what a dumb idiot I am—thank you, Billy. I never thought of that.”
To the boys’ delight the batteries from their torches, which luckily they had had made of extra power and efficiency, answered perfectly. When they were connected up to the wires a good “fat” spark was shown.