"I will be frank with you, and entrust some of the precious powder into your keeping, and, lest ye think that I am a common charlatan, I'll absent myself from your company for a while. But, mark well these directions. Gold, of necessity, takes longer to produce than silver; therefore, when the powder is sprinkled on yonder tankard, and fire applied, count from one up to three hundred, exercising faith and patience in the counting thereof. I'll stand just without the door, and await your summons."
Bowing gravely, Master Cutler left the room, closing the door carefully behind him.
"He seems fair and above board," remarked the colonel. "Come on, let's to work."
The tankard was placed in the centre of the table, and Colonel Firestone proceeded to scatter the grains of powder on its broad rim, and on the bottom of the bowl.
"Forty good ounces of solid gold will not be amiss," he said meditatively. "By my faith, I see no reason why, considering the good cause, our waggon-load of silver should not reach His Majesty in the form of virgin gold."
I applied a light to the powder, and, as it spluttered, flared up, and smoked villainously, the colonel counted in a slow, sonorous voice.
Before he had finished fifty the room was full of dense, choking vapour, and the powder was nearly consumed, yet there were no signs of the expected change.
At a hundred the flame had died out, leaving only the candlelight shining dimly through a dense yellow fog, so that we could not see whether the silver was in a state of transition or not.
At three hundred the colonel was well-nigh stifled, an his voice reduced to a mere croak. Lifting up the tankard, he bore it close to the candelabra and examined it carefully. Then he burst into a loud, hearty laugh.
"Come in, Master Cutler; come in, and see the result of our handiwork," he shouted. "Your powder has played ye false this time!"