With us two close at his heels, he led the way to the spot where Yetmore’s empty house had stood. Not a vestige of it remained, except the upper part of the chimney, which lay prone in the great hole dug out by the violence of the explosion.
“Boys,”said Tom, in a tone of unusual gravity, “if you live a hundred years you’ll never have a narrower squeak than you’ve had to-night. If Long John did this—and I’m pretty sure he did—he meant to blow up my house, but being misled by those two windows, he has blown up Yetmore’s house instead. You never did, and I doubt if you ever will do, a better stroke of work in your lives than when you put in my second window!”
CHAPTER XIII
The Ore-theft
At half past five next morning Joe and I slipped out of bed, leaving Tom Connor, who had to go to work again at seven, still fast asleep. While Joe quietly prepared breakfast, I went out to examine by daylight the scene of last night’s explosion.
The first discovery I made was the imprint in the mud of footsteps, half obliterated by the rain. The tracks were very large and very far apart, proving that the owner of the boots that made them was a big man, and that he had gone off at a great pace; a discovery which tended to confirm in my mind Tom’s guess that it was indeed Long John who had done the mischief.
At this moment the tenant of the house next to the east came out—Hughy Hughes was his name; a Welshman—and as he walked towards me I saw him stoop to pick up something.
“That was a rascally piece of work, wasn’t it?”said he, as he joined me. “Scared us ’most to death, it did. See, here’s the fuse he used. I just picked it up; fifteen feet of it. Wonder who the fellow was. Pretty state of things when folks take to blowing up each other’s houses. Like enough Yetmore has his enemies, but it’s a pretty mean enemy as ’d try to get even by any such scalawag trick as this.”