“Have you found the pencil?” asked Tom, in a steady voice, turning from his work with the chalk and coming toward the professor.
The next instant he felt a sharp chilling of his senses. The professor’s mind had undoubtedly given way under the strain of the terrible situation.
He was creeping toward Tom, holding something with the utmost care between his long fingers. He was regarding this object, which, Tom thought from its shape, must be a pencil, with smiles of what seemed insane delight and foolish, meaningless gibberings.
“What’s the matter, professor?” asked Tom, stepping briskly toward him and adopting a tone like one would use toward a child. “Come, brace up, sir. Don’t give way!”
For the professor was now giggling hysterically. The Kanakas, sullenly crouched by the lamp in a far corner, regarded him curiously. Monday tapped his forehead significantly.
“Tom, my boy,” breathed the professor, laying a bony hand on the boy’s shoulder—“Tom, I’m not crazy! Listen to me.” Then evidently making a strong effort to control himself, he sank his voice into a hard, level tone: “We have a chance of escape!”
Tom gave an amazed gasp. Words—he had none to fit this staggering statement.
“Do you see this little tube?” the professor went on.
He held up the long, thin, cylindrical object which Tom had mistaken for a pencil. He now saw that it was a glass tube about ten inches long and filled with a yellow, pasty-looking substance.
“In that tube are four ounces of my explosive,” whispered the professor, his eyes burning.