“If I should miss fire again, and this book or any part of it should be found in the pile, it would blow the whole thing upon us.”
“Tear out a lot of the leaves; and they will be sure to be burnt, if you light them with the match.”
As no other paper could be obtained, Bill consented to tear out some of the leaves of the book, and use them for his incendiary purpose. Bark declared that what was left of it would soon be in ashes, and there was nothing to fear as to its being a telltale against them. Once more Bill descended into the hold; and, as he had made every thing ready during his last visit, he was absent only long enough to light the paper, and thrust it into the pile of combustibles he had gathered. He had placed several small sticks of pine, which had been split to kindle the fire in the galley, on the heap of rubbish, in order to give more body to the fire when it was lighted. He paused an instant to see the flame rise from the pile, and then fled up the ladder.
“Hurry up!” whispered Bark at the scuttle. “I hear Salter moving about in the cabin.”
But the trap-door was returned to its place before the chief steward appeared; and he only looked into the steerage.
“The job is done this time, you may bet your life!” exclaimed Bill, as he seated himself on his stool, and tried to look calm and self-possessed.
“I saw the blaze,” added Bark. “Let’s look down, and see if it is going good.”
“No, no!” protested Bill earnestly. “We don’t want to run a risk for nothing.”
Both of the young villains waited with throbbing hearts for the bursting out of the flames, which they thought would run up the ceiling of the vessel, and communicate the fire to the berths on the starboard side of the steerage. Five minutes—ten minutes—a quarter of an hour, they waited for the catastrophe; but no smoke, no flame, appeared. Bill Stout could not understand it again. Another quarter of an hour they waited, but less confidently than before.
“No fire yet, Bill,” said Bark, with a smile.