A second muddy man came running from the tunnel, dodging behind the ore bank, yelling "Look out!" A volley of stones came flying out after him; a dull explosion shook the hillside.
"All right?" called the second muddy man, now eagerly examining the fragments just thrown out. "I'll be with you, Blackguard, in a jiffy."
Mr. Ramsay had picked up a yellow object from the bench beside him, something which might have been a very big stick of barley sugar, yet felt rather like wax.
"Give that to me," said the Blackguard; then, seeing that the other resented his tone of command, he made a rapid grab at the stick.
Indignant because of the treatment he received at the hands of a man who had unconsciously flattered him into a feeling of equality and friendship, the Tenderfoot swung the yellow stick over his head with a rapid aim at the squirrel.
"Take care," said the Blackguard,—"that's dynamite."
It was too late. The stick had already flown from the youngster's hand, was swirling across the smithy. Then a red flower seemed to bud in the air, which became a gigantic blossom growing— filling all the world, scorching hot.
* * * * * *
The Blackguard opened one eye, then the other, lazily observant of the two prospectors, who were lifting away the ruins of their smithy.
"How's that Tenderfoot? Is he dead?"