fresh box of candles, which they put in the corner; a tin can of
blasting-powder, which they placed upon the candle-box; a keg of
blasting-powder, which they placed under Flint’s bunk; a huge coil of
fuse, which they hung on a peg. Fetlock reasoned that Flint’s mining
operations had outgrown the pick, and that blasting was about to begin
now. He had seen blasting done, and he had a notion of the process, but
he had never helped in it. His conjecture was right–blasting-time had
come. In the morning the pair carried fuse, drills, and the powder-can
to the shaft; it was now eight feet deep, and to get into it and out of
it a short ladder was used. They descended, and by command Fetlock held
the drill–without any instructions as to the right way to hold it–and
Flint proceeded to strike. The sledge came down; the drill sprang out of
Fetlock’s hand, almost as a matter of course.
“You mangy son of a nigger, is that any way to hold a drill? Pick it up!
Stand it up! There–hold fast. D–you! I’ll teach you!”
At the end of an hour the drilling was finished.
“Now, then, charge it.”
The boy started to pour in the powder.
“Idiot!”
A heavy bat on the jaw laid the lad out.
“Get up! You can’t lie sniveling there. Now, then, stick in the fuse
first. Now put in the powder. Hold on, hold on! Are you going to fill
the hole all up? Of all the sap-headed milksops I–Put in some dirt!
Put in some gravel! Tamp it down! Hold on, hold on! Oh, great Scott!
get out of the way!” He snatched the iron and tamped the charge himself,
meantime cursing and blaspheming like a fiend. Then he fired the fuse,
climbed out of the shaft, and ran fifty yards away, Fetlock following.
They stood waiting a few minutes, then a great volume of smoke and rocks
burst high into the air with a thunderous explosion; after a little there
was a shower of descending stones; then all was serene again.
“I wish to God you’d been in it!” remarked the master.
They went down the shaft, cleaned it out, drilled another hole, and put
in another charge.
“Look here! How much fuse are you proposing to waste? Don’t you know
how to time a fuse?”
“No, sir.”
“You don’t! Well, if you don’t beat anything I ever saw!”
He climbed out of the shaft and spoke down:
“Well, idiot, are you going to be all day? Cut the fuse and light it!”
The trembling creature began:
“If you please, sir, I–”
“You talk back to me? Cut it and light it!”
The boy cut and lit.
“Ger-reat Scott! a one-minute fuse! I wish you were in–”
In his rage he snatched the ladder out of the shaft and ran. The boy was
aghast.
“Oh, my God! Help. Help! Oh, save me!” he implored. “Oh, what can I
do! What can I do!”
He backed against the wall as tightly as he could; the sputtering fuse
frightened the voice out of him; his breath stood still; he stood gazing
and impotent; in two seconds, three seconds, four he would be flying
toward the sky torn to fragments. Then he had an inspiration. He sprang
at the fuse; severed the inch of it that was left above ground, and was
saved.
He sank down limp and half lifeless with fright, his strength gone; but
he muttered with a deep joy:
“He has learnt me! I knew there was a way, if I would wait.”
After a matter of five minutes Buckner stole to the shaft, looking
worried and uneasy, and peered down into it. He took in the situation;
he saw what had happened. He lowered the ladder, and the boy dragged
himself weakly up it. He was very white. His appearance added something
to Buckner’s uncomfortable state, and he said, with a show of regret and
sympathy which sat upon him awkwardly from lack of practice:
“It was an accident, you know. Don’t say anything about it to anybody;
I was excited, and didn’t notice what I was doing. You’re not looking