“Pullee! Pullee!”
He had just ignited the fuse, and as the flame crept slowly along its tube the gunpowder interwoven in its fibres gave out a quick succession of snapping sounds.
“Hold on, Sing Wung, we’ll pull you out in no time!” Mr. Keith shouted back; and he and Kirke turned the crank with a will.
But, alas! at the second revolution of the windlass the rope broke, dropping the bucket and its living freight back into the well!
Half-crazed by the accident, Sing Wung struggled to his knees with a piercing cry, and glared at the fire which drew every moment nearer, hissing and crackling.
“Step on it! Put it out, man! Quick, quick! are you crazy?” shrieked Mr. Keith, leaning down into the well at the risk of losing his balance.
The unfortunate wretch was so paralyzed with fright that he seemed powerless to obey. He could only cower upon the rocks below, muttering and mumbling.
“Good heavens, Kirke, he’ll be blown to inch-pieces! Where are his wits?” ejaculated Mr. Keith, rushing to the porch for the olla in the frantic hope of quenching the spark with water. To his dismay the jar was empty.
Kirke, left to his own devices, roared to Sing Wung, “Try to catch hold of the rope! Hang on to it! I’ll draw you up!”
But the frenzied creature never raised his eyes from that fascinating spark creeping, creeping toward the little mine of powder.