“Well, an hour if you like, or two if they prefer it,” I returned; “at all events, they will want a walk before luncheon, and I shall take the opportunity to show them some experiments, which prove the power of the singular compound about which you questioned me just now.”
“The explosive?”
“Yes. Its name is dynamite.”
“And what may that be, Jeff? Something very awful, I daresay,” remarked my mother, with a look of interest, as she sipped her tea.
“Very awful, indeed,” said I; “at least its effects are sometimes tremendous.”
“What! worse than gunpowder?”
“Ay, much worse, though I should prefer to say better than gunpowder.”
“Dear me!” rejoined my mother, lifting her eyebrows a little, in surprise.
“Yes, much better,” I continued; “gunpowder only bursts things—”
“Pretty well that, Jeff, in the way of violence, isn’t it?”