“Yes, an’ it’s de furnaces dem debbils has built dere fo’ make dere blow up stuff, drat ’em,” was Quatty’s response.
They were then at last within sighting distance of the mysterious forces that had succeeded in filching the formula of the United States’ most deadly explosive and kidnapping one of the bravest and most popular young officers in the Navy.
“Pole ahead, till I tell you to stop,” commanded Frank, resuming his seat.
“W-w-w-what,” stuttered Quatty, “yo’ goin’ on, Marse Frank?”
“Certainly,” was the quiet reply.
“B-b-b-but we may git shot or blowed up wid de debbil powder,” protested the frightened black.
“You will certainly get shot if you don’t obey commands,” was Frank’s stern rejoinder, “pole ahead!”
Something in the young leader’s voice, decided Quatty that it was best to obey and with chattering teeth he started the canoe moving nearer and nearer to the red glow. As they approached its source, the light it cast grew brighter and the boys were enabled to see each other’s faces.
“Stop,” commanded Frank suddenly.
Quatty breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps now they were going to go back. But no. After a few seconds’ reconnoitering, Frank gave the order to go ahead and the trembling Quatty, with his eyes on the boys gleaming revolver, obeyed. Frank stood up in the boat when he took his brief survey without much fear of being seen by the men on the island, as in the bright light shed by the furnaces with which they were manufacturing the explosive they would hardly be able to penetrate the surrounding blackness.