Buch lesen: «Stan Lynn: A Boy's Adventures in China», Seite 18

“So do I,” said Stan firmly – “that you’ve been talking twice as much as you ought to do; so now have a rest.”

“Well, I am a bit husky,” said Blunt, “but not like the same man to-day. Humph! Perhaps you are right.”

Chapter Thirty Three
“Wing’s A – Chinaman.”

Several anxious days were passed, during which a sharp lookout was kept for the return of Wing with the ammunition; but still it did not come, and, as Blunt reasonably said, they could not settle down comfortably to invention and forms of defence by schemes until they could feel prepared temporarily for an emergency.

“Once we have two or three cases of cartridges in hand we’ll go to work at our plans. But this waiting takes it out of a man.”

“It is giving you time to get a little stronger,” replied Stan.

“Oh, bother that! I could grow stronger fast enough if my mind were quite at rest I’m beginning to think that poor old Wing has come to grief, and if he doesn’t reach here by to-morrow night I shall make up a little cargo and send Mao with an urgent despatch to the principals. It’s growing serious. Here, come and let us plan what to send.”

“You had better rest patiently,” said Stan. “Who’s to rest patiently with not a dozen rifle-cartridges on the premises?”

“You,” said Stan, smiling.

“What! Do you know the enemy may even now be on their way to make a fresh attack?”

“No, they mayn’t,” replied Stan.

“What! How do you know?”

“By seeing your weather-glass point to fine weather.”

“My weather-glass?”

“Yes – old Mao. He seems to be as satisfied as possible, sitting smoking his opium-pipe and watching his men caulk and varnish the Chee-ho.”

“Well, he does look pretty well content; but it’s weary work waiting, and I feel convinced that the message has never reached the principals.”

“I can see a proof,” cried Stan excitedly, “that you are only looking on the black side of things.”

“What do you mean?” said Blunt, staring at the way in which the lad had sprung to his feet to run to the open window looking down the river.

“Here’s the boat in sight, sir,” cried Lawrence, hurriedly opening the door.

“What! our boat?” cried Blunt excitedly.

“Yes, sir, with Wing showing his signal. Try the glass, sir.”

Blunt snatched the glass offered to him, but before he could get to the window and focus it with his trembling hands, Stan had taken down his own binocular and was leaning out, bringing the matting-sailed boat close into the room, as it were.

“Yes,” he cried, “there’s Wing holding up a little flag so that it blows straight out.”

“A pocket-handkerchief Union-jack?” cried Blunt.

“Yes, that’s it; and there’s some one else on board beside the boatmen. Why – yes – no – yes – no. – Oh, do stand still, whoever you are! I can’t see if you bob about so. – Yes, it is. Look, Mr Blunt – look! Here’s Uncle Jeff come so as to see everything for himself.”

“Right, Lynn, right,” cried the manager; “so it is. Three cheers for him. We’ll give them when he’s close up. Well, hurrah for one thing! We’re not going to show him the ashes of his big warehouse along with our burnt bodies.”

“Ugh!” cried Stan. “What a gruesome idea! Let’s get out and have the flag hoisted on the pole.”

“Ah! and we’ll have every one out too, so as to give him a warm welcome. But are you quite sure it is your uncle?”

“Certain,” cried Stan proudly. “You never saw anybody but Uncle Jeff standing up in that free-and-easy way, just as if he didn’t care a snap of the fingers for the whole world.”

“Yes, that’s Mr Jeffrey,” said Blunt, lowering his glass and drawing in a deep breath; “the very sight of him seems to do a man a power of good. Out with you, Lynn, and send Lawrence to hail the boys. We’ll all turn out and man the edge of the wharf. I want your uncle to see that I haven’t lost a man.”

A few minutes later clerks, warehousemen, and coolies were all standing at the edge of the wharf, with the flag fluttering and straining from the halyards, where it had been run up to the head of the signal-pole; while as soon as the boat came within hailing distance Lawrence acted as fugleman and headed three good, hearty, welcoming cheers. These, in spite of the admixture of Chinese squeak from the throats of the coolies – a squeak which ended with a hoarse croak – sounded so pleasant to Uncle Jeff’s anxious ears that he whisked off his sun-helmet, tossed it on high, and gave forth a thoroughly deep, hearty British hurrah, while, not to be outdone, Wing, who stood behind, bared his pig-tailed head to wave his lacquered, shining black hat, and echoed the shout with his alto pipe.

In another minute the sail was being lowered, and the next, as the boat glided up against the wharf, Stan sprang on board, to have his hands grasped by his big, manly relative.

“Why, Stan, boy,” he cried, “we never thought we were going to send you out of the Hai-Hai frying-pan into the Nang Ti fire. But you were not burnt?”

He held the lad back at arm’s-length and uttered a loud puff like a whale getting rid of its confined breath.

“No, I can see you were not. Eyes bright, colour fresh, and hearty as can be. Hah! that’s a comfort. We shouldn’t have sent you if we had known. – Here, Blunt,” he continued, “do you call this management, bringing down all the ruffians of the river to attack the place! Why, hang it, man! you do look as if you have had more than your share of trouble. You’ve lost pounds since I saw you last. Coming round again, though, I can see.”

“Yes; there’s nothing much wrong now,” was the reply as the pair shook hands heartily. “The wound’s healing up nicely, thanks to Wing here. – Well, Wing, how are you?”

“Badly,” was the reply. “Been fletting.”

“Fretting? What about?”

“Misteh Blunt and young Lynn. S’posee pilate come back and Wing not bling ca’tlidge.”

“But you’ve brought them now?” said Blunt eagerly.

“Yes, plenty big box full. Bling Misteh Jeffley too. All leady fightee when pilate come.”

“And a very welcome recruit if needed,” said Blunt, smiling. “But we don’t want any more of that work – at any rate till I get strong again. – You’ve heard, Mr Lynn, how I caved in and left your nephew to fight the battle?”

“Oh yes. I’ve heard all about it from Wing,” said Uncle Jeff dryly. “I gave him a lesson in the use of the revolver before he left home, but I didn’t know he was going to turn out such an awful fire-eater as he has.”

“Don’t you think you had better come in and have something to eat, uncle?” said Stan quietly. “It will do you more good than making fun of me.”

“Fun, Stan, my lad? Oh! I don’t call this fun. Wing says you’ve become quite a general.”

“Wing’s a – Chinaman,” said Stan, with a laugh full of annoyance, which made the two men exchange glances – looks which the lad interpreted to mean, “Hadn’t we better leave off?”

And in this spirit Uncle Jeff clapped his hand upon the boy’s shoulder and said heartily:

“Take me round and show me the damage done by the enemy, my boy.”

“There’s very little to see, uncle, but the chipped stone and the leaden bullets and pieces of iron the enemy poured in.”

“The bullets – eh? What! in the stone?”

“No, no, uncle,” cried the lad. “Stuck in the door-posts and woodwork.”

“What about the windows where the stink-pots came flying in as if all the stars in the sky had broken loose?”

“Oh, they must have been flying across the office, uncle, when Wing was nursing Mr Blunt. We didn’t see those upstairs.”

“But a great many did come in?”

“Yes, uncle, and burned great patches in the floor.”

“Come, that’s something; you must take me up and show me.”

“I can’t show you much, uncle,” was the reply, “for the bales have been stacked in their places again.”

“Oh, come! this is disappointing,” cried Uncle Jeff. “No ruins; no wounds but Mr Blunt’s; no burnt-out warehouses! Why, after such a scare I expected to find the whole place crippled. Where’s Wing?”

“Oh, I must have a word here,” said Blunt. “I dare say Master Wing painted the affair up pretty well, but it was as bad as it could be.”

“Why, I thought you were bowled out at the first ball,” said Uncle Jeff sharply.

“So I was; but the other players had their innings, and told me all about it afterwards. Old Lawrence says it was awful.”

“So it was, uncle,” cried Stan; “nothing could have been worse.”

“Well, all I can say is,” said Uncle Jeff some time later, “that you have cleared away wonderfully. But there’s one thing I don’t like. It sticks in my memory very tightly, and it seems to me that it is the one weak spot in our armour if we are again attacked.”

“And what’s that, uncle?” asked Stan, for there was a pause.

“The traitor in the camp, my lad. You can’t go on like this. What is the use of making all kinds of preparations when there is an enemy in the midst who is ready to spoil all and, as it were, sell you to the enemy?”

“You mean about the water poured over the ammunition?” said Blunt, speaking rather excitedly.

“Yes – of course. Now whom do you suspect?”

“At first I thought Wing might be the guilty party.”

“Wing!” cried Uncle Jeff, starting. “Ah, to be sure!” he continued after but a few moments’ thought. “He was my informant, and very eager to tell me all about it. Tried hard, I remember now, to make me understand it must have been some one at the hong. Here, Stan, it’s a long time since I was at school; you’ve only just come away. What’s that French proverb about the man who tries to clear himself making matters worse?”

“He who excuses himself accuses himself,” said Stan promptly.

“Humph! Yes. But it sounds better in French. Here, I don’t like to think old Wing guilty; he has been such a true and faithful servant to the ‘foreign devils,’ as they call us. Besides, he is so much one of us, and has been so well paid and treated. You’ve had no quarrel with him, Blunt?”

“Not the slightest. Always the best of friends. Of course, you know my way – short, sharp, and decisive.”

“Yes; you always were a bit of a bully, Blunt.”

“But I’m always just, sir.”

“Perfectly; and I believe the people like you at bottom, even if you have a rough side to your tongue.”

“Oh yes, uncle,” put in Stan eagerly, to be rewarded by a grateful glance. “I’m sure there isn’t a man here who wouldn’t fight to the death for Mr Blunt.”

“I wouldn’t go so far as that, Lynn,” said Blunt, with the hot blood colouring his pallid, sunken cheeks.

“But they’ve proved it,” cried Stan energetically.

“I’m thinking it was more for you, Lynn,” said Blunt quietly.

“Well, let that rest,” cried Uncle Jeff; “and let’s go on with the trial of Master Wing. You have been good friends with him, Blunt?”

“Excellent.”

“No sudden quarrel?”

“Oh no.”

“Given him no cause of offence? These Asiatics are rather fond of nursing up a bit of revenge.”

“Oh no,” repeated Blunt.

“What about the coolies, then? Any knocking down or punishing any of them?”

“Nothing of the kind, sir. I am quite at a loss to think of anything that could have prompted a Chinaman here to retaliate. – You can think of nothing, can you, Lynn, in the short time you have been here?”

Lynn remained silent and looked very conscious, while Uncle Jeff watched him sideways.

“Hah!” he said at last. “Dumb. Now, Stan, lad, what are you thinking of? Out with it.”

The lad tried to clear his throat, but in vain, for his voice sounded husky as he said:

“I was thinking about Wing being on the watch, uncle – about my shooting at him, Mr Blunt, and his tumble.”

“Puss! puss! puss! puss! puss!” said Uncle Jeff softly, and he looked towards the door.

It was the turn of Stan and the manager to stare at him now, and they looked as if they fancied he was going out of his mind.

But he looked back at them with a light that was certainly not that of insanity dancing in his clear, keen eyes, and there was the faint dawning of a smile upon his lips as he saw their puzzled looks.

“What are you staring at, Stan?” he said at last.

“I – I couldn’t make out what you meant, uncle. Do you want the cat? She’s generally in the warehouse, watching for the rats that come out of the river-bank.”

“Oh no; I wasn’t alluding to that one, but to the other.”

“There is no other cat on the premises, sir,” said Blunt, staring in turn.

“Oh yes, there is. I mean the metaphorical cat. She’s out of the bag now, and I was calling her back. Why, hang it, man! there’s the cause of the plot. Tell us all about it.”

The incident was repeated to the end.

“A great pity,” said Uncle Jeff gravely.

“Yes, sir, it was,” said Blunt. “I acted on the impulse of the moment, and of course I alone was to blame, for in my sharp, overbearing manner I insisted upon your nephew firing. Of course, I only meant, in my annoyance at his dozing off at such a time, to give him a startler. But I’ve felt sorry ever since.”

“I am sorry too,” said Uncle Jeff.

“And I too, uncle.”

“You are, I know, Stan. Well, it’s of no use to cry over spilt milk. The thing’s done and can’t be undone. But there’s the motive, and now the poor weak fellow has gratified his revengeful bit of spite let us hope he is satisfied and that all will go smoothly. Still, it is a painful thought that we have had a traitor in the camp.”

“I don’t care,” said Stan firmly.

“It is of no use to care, my lad; but if we have the enemy back I should certainly lock Master Wing where he could do no mischief.”

“You misunderstand me, uncle,” said Stan. “I didn’t finish what I meant to say.”

“Let’s have it, then, boy.”

“I meant to say, I don’t care; I don’t believe Wing would do such a thing.”

“Neither do I,” said Blunt warmly. “The poor fellow is too true. He was quite affectionate to me in attending to my wounds, and nothing could have been better than the plucky way in which he ran all risks through the fight, and afterwards undertook the commission to go and fetch the cartridges. No; I say Wing was not the guilty party.”

“Well,” said Uncle Jeff, “I want to be with you, for I like old Wing. There’s a something about him that puts me in mind of a faithful dog. We’ll agree that it was not he, and that drives us to suspect the coolies.”

“Yes,” said Blunt; “and I don’t like suspecting them, for a better set of fellows never lived.”

“There couldn’t be,” said Stan. “They almost worship Mr Blunt, uncle.”

“Hah!” said the latter. “It’s a puzzle, then, and I can’t help thinking that the best way will be to drop the matter and be watchful. If we begin investigating we may not find out the guilty, but we’re bound to upset the innocent by our suspicions. I say, Blunt, I wouldn’t wake up sleeping Chinese again with the rifle.”

“You may depend upon it I shall not, sir,” said Blunt frankly. “And now, if I may change the subject, I want to be put out of my misery.”

“With a rifle, Blunt?” said Uncle Jeff dryly.

“No, no; not in that way, though I do want it done with cartridges. I shall be in misery till we get those ashore and in the magazine.”

“Quite right; we’ll have them seen to at once. We must be ready if the enemy do come.”

“I say, uncle,” cried Stan merrily, “how you keep on weing! Any one would think you meant to stop.”

“I do mean to stop, my boy,” said Uncle Jeff sharply. – “No, no, no, no, Blunt; don’t take it like that,” he continued as he saw the change in the manager’s countenance. “I have not come to supersede you, only as a humble recruit, ready if wanted, which I fervently hope I shall not be. I should have brought half-a-dozen good fighting-men with me, only there are none in stock at Hai-Hai. It is getting to be every man for himself, too, and we shall be very unsettled until our Government makes a move and puts a few men-of-war on the station for the protection of the mercantile folk. My brother and several more are bestirring themselves, however, and I hope something will be done before long.”

“But you will take the lead, sir, while you stay, of course,” said Blunt rather coldly. “As you see, I am weak.”

“I shall do nothing of the kind, Blunt. My brother and I are only too well satisfied with your management. I have come here to help to take care of Nephew Stanley, and when the care is not necessary I am going to have a rest, fishing, botanising, and shooting – in other words, to have a spell of idleness, for I don’t think you will be attacked again after the taste you have given the miscreants of our quality here at the hong. Now then, Blunt,” he added, “are you satisfied?”

The manager hesitated and still looked doubtful, but the look that accompanied Uncle Jeff’s outstretched hand was sufficient, and he brightened up at once.

“Yes, sir,” he said warmly – “quite.”

Chapter Thirty Four
“Wait till the Wretches come.”

The landing and stowing away of the cases of ammunition did not last long, for every one joined in it, four men without orders taking charge of a box that one could have carried with ease. In fact, they looked more like a party of schoolboys bringing boxes of fireworks for a fête than stern, energetic men fighting for the privilege of either carrying or simply watching the little chests, the possession of which turned them from helpless, unprotected beings, at the mercy of the next piratical crew that came down the river, to strong, vigorous folk ready for a fleet of junks and eager to fight to any desperate end.

The last case was placed in the little magazine, the trap-door shut down and locked, and then there was a burst of cheering which sounded stifled in the great stack-filled store.

“Why, I thought at one time,” said Uncle Jeff merrily when the whole party had filed out and the speaker was seated in Blunt’s private room, “that they were all going to break out in a triumphal war-dance.”

Stan coloured and laughed.

“Well, uncle,” he said, “the men were so excited that I don’t see that I, a boy, need mind owning how I felt. It was something like what one used to experience when one had a present years and years ago.”

“What! – ready to jump for joy, Stan?”

“Yes, uncle.”

“I know the feeling,” said Uncle Jeff, chuckling. “I remember just as well as if it was yesterday. Ready to jump for joy; just, too, when I was so weak from some fever that if I had been out of bed my legs wouldn’t have borne me, let alone jumped. I remember it was fine summer weather, and my father had come down from London and brought me a new fishing-rod – a perfect marvel to my young eyes – reddish-yellow bamboo, with brass ferrules, and having one joint fitting beautifully into the other so as to form a walking-stick; and in addition, just as he had brought them and had them bundled up together in a parcel, there was quite a heap of treasures tangled up together on the big sheet of paper spread out upon the white counterpane, while I sat up with two pillows to support my weak back. Oh, it was grand!

“Ha, ha, ha!” chuckled the great stalwart fellow, with his eyes lighting up. “Didn’t I have the window opened so that I could pull joint out from joint and put them together, making the rod grow till I sat holding it out through the drawn-up sash. All the time I was seeing in imagination the great pond sheltered by the willows where the water-lilies grew and the carp and tench sailed about underneath, every now and then lifting a broad dark-green leaf or thrusting a stem aside, with the glistening beetles gliding about on the surface as if they were playing at engine-turning and describing beautiful geometric figures as the big dragon-flies rustled their gauzy wings and darted here and there in chase of flies.

“Then, too, I remember that I cried out against the window being shut, because three parts of my rod stood out in the open while I was busy examining a hank of Indian twist, beautiful steel-blue hooks of all sizes, from tiny ones on gut to big, quaintly shaped large ones, loose, but with eyes for attachment to the whipcord-like eel-line.”

Uncle Jeff stopped short and turned with a droll look at his nephew.

“Here, Stan,” he said, “you had better stop me or I shall go on with my rigmarole about that line with the blue-and-white cork float and the other with a quill, besides the one with the sharp-pointed porcupine which stuck through the bedclothes into my leg. Then there was the box of split shot with the lid which stuck, and when I got it off the contents jumped out, to go everywhere, over the bed, into it, under it, rattling between the jug and basin, and had to be hunted out. Then there was that lovely landing-net that was so rarely required for a big fish, but did splendidly to catch butterflies. And the fishing-creel, too, and – Here, Blunt, my dear fellow, where’s your box of Manilla cigars? – Stan, get me a light. I must put something in my mouth or I shall begin to tell you both about that little pike that I didn’t catch and that big carp that I did – I mean the one that seemed to my boyish eyes as if he wore a suit of armour made of young half-sovereigns overlapping one another from tail to head. Ah, Stan!” cried Uncle Jeff, “you’re a lucky young dog to be a boy, though you don’t know it, and never will till you grow up to be a man.”

“Why, uncle,” cried Stan, “haven’t I just had to play at being a man and handle the rifle?”

“I’m sorry to say yes, my lad, and I’d a great deal rather have heard that you had spent your time wandering on the banks of this splendid river, catching nothing, perhaps, but filling your young mind with things to remember when you grow old. Ah! life’s a very lovely thing if human beings would not spoil it as they do.”

Stan smiled at his uncle’s words, but he did not see life in the same light after his experiences at Hai-Hai and at the hong; though he was quite ready to agree as to the way in which men spoil the world, and he did say this, very tersely, later on:

“Especially Chinese pirates, uncle.”

“Just so, my boy. But really it is all so beautiful here,” said Uncle Jeff, “that now I have been refreshed and feel rested, it is more than ever hard to believe what a desperate fight you have had. I wish I had been here.”

“So do I, uncle,” said Stan merrily; but he turned serious the next moment. “No, I do not, uncle. It was very horrible, and you might have been shot.”

“Oh, I don’t know, Stan. You and your men escaped pretty well. However, matters were best as they were – eh, Blunt?”

“Certainly,” said the manager. “The defence could not have been in better hands.”

“Oh, don’t!” cried Stan, speaking like a pettish girl. “Now you are both sneering at me.”

This was of course denied, but the lad was only half-convinced, and too glad to hear the conversation take a different turn.

“We must achieve some better means of defence, Blunt,” said Uncle Jeff. “You ought to have a good little piece of artillery here – something that would tell well on a junk – sink her if it was necessary.”

“That’s what we were planning, uncle,” cried Stan; “only we had some rather peculiar notions.”

The natural result of this remark was that the lad had to explain and give a full account of his ideas, which was received with a grunt.

“There’s a lot in it that sounds well, Stan,” said Uncle Jeff after listening for some time in silence, “but too much of the toy-shop and Fifth of November about the rest. That kite-flying would never do.”

“Why, it would be so simple, uncle!”

“Very simple indeed, my boy – Simple Simony. Why, Stan, how do you think you are going to fly kites with the enemy in front?”

“But they’re only to raise burning things like the pirates’ stink-pots.”

“I should have a deal more faith in something of that sort. But how would you guide your kite with a fiery tail over the junk you meant to destroy?”

“By means of the string. I could easily manage one, by pulling in and letting out till it was just over a junk; and then I should pull the second string, for of course there would be two; and then I should let one go, and down would fall the fiery shell right upon the junk’s deck.”

“If it didn’t go down splash into the river – eh?”

“Oh, I should manage it better than that,” said the lad confidently.

“So I suppose,” said Uncle Jeff sarcastically; “and of course the wind would be setting in the right direction – that is to say, straight from you and over the enemy’s junks.”

“Of course, uncle,” said Stan confidently.

“Of course! Why, you too sanguine young enthusiast, the chances would be five-and-twenty to one that the wind would not be right on the day the enemy came. Won’t do, Stan. Try again.”

“Oh, I can’t if you go on like that, uncle,” said the lad in an aggrieved tone. “You’re not half such a good listener as Mr Blunt. He thinks a good deal of my ideas.”

“Then it was quite time I came. He’d spoil you. I will not, you may depend. Now then, let’s have a better idea than that.”

“Well, uncle,” said the boy rather grumpily, “I did think something of having a boat always moored among the reeds – one filled with dangerous combustibles – that I could steal up to after the junks had stopped to kill and plunder us, apply a match, and, after lashing the rudder, cause it to float down with the stream right amongst the junks and set them on fire.”

“Splendid idea!” cried Uncle Jeff, clapping his hands.

“You like that, then?” said Stan, brightening up.

“I think the idea would be glorious. Deadly in the extreme to the enemy, but – ”

“Oh uncle! don’t say but,” cried the lad, growing crestfallen again.

“Very well, my boy; I will not if you do not wish it. All the same, however, there’s a defect in it that would be fatal.”

“What’s that?” said the boy rather dismally.

“The Chinese are very weak-minded, but they’re not idiots.”

“No – of course not; but tell me what you mean.”

“Pooh! Can’t you see for yourself? The enemy would see that the fire-boat was coming, and of course they’d either heave anchor or cast their cables and slip away, if they didn’t send your fire-boat to the bottom with a shot from one of their swivel-guns. Try again.”

“Oh, it’s of no use to try, uncle.”

“Yes, it is. You’ve got gumption enough to make a pot without a hole in the bottom. You’re last idea is manageable; the kite-flying was not. Now then, you’ve got a better idea than that up your sleeve or in that noddle of yours, I’m sure. – Hasn’t he, Blunt?”

“Yes – a far better one.”

“I thought so. – Now then, boy, let’s have it.”

Stan stood looking gloomy and silent.

“Well, why don’t you go on?” said Uncle Jeff.

“Because I feel as if you are laughing at me for trying to invent something.”

“I am not, Stan – honour bright!” cried Uncle Jeff. “But even if I was laughing, what right have you to kick against it? Every inventor gets laughed at if he brings out something new, and then stupid people who grinned because they had never seen anything like it before are the first to praise. There! out with it, Stan; the third shot must be a good one.”

The gloom passed off the lad’s countenance, and he laid bare his idea of contriving a kind of torpedo to sink off the wharf and connect by means of a wire with an electric battery in the office, ready for firing as soon as one of the junks was well over it.

“Ah! that sounds better,” cried Uncle Jeff eagerly; “but could it be done?”

“Oh yes,” said Blunt. “I think the idea is capital.”

“So do I,” said Uncle Jeff; “but there’s an old proverb about the engineer being hoist with his own petard, and however willing I might be to blow up a junk full of murderous pirates, I shouldn’t like to go up with them.”

“Oh, that would be easy enough, uncle,” said Stan. “We should have to fill a big, perfectly waterproof canister with powder or some other combustible, make a hole in the side or top, and pass a copper wire through so that it is right in the powder, then solder up the hole, and after the canister has been sunk, bring the wire ashore ready.”

“Yes, and what then? I must confess that I know nothing about electricity.”

“I’ll tell you,” said Stan. “You fetch the copper wire ashore and bring it in, say, through that window. There! like this piece of string,” continued the lad, illustrating his plans with a string-box which he took from the office table, and after drawing out a sufficiency of the twine, he dropped the string-box outside the window. “Now, uncle,” he said, “that thing represents the canister of blasting-powder, and the string is the wire. You see, I shut down the window to hold the wire fast, and bring the end here on to the office table.”

“I see,” said Uncle Jeff; “but what next?”

“I’ll show you directly,” continued Stan, with his forehead puckered up in lines as if it were a mental Clapham Junction. “Now then, this stationery-case is my battery of cells, each charged with acid and stuff.”

“We don’t want to put a dangerous battery on Mr Blunt’s table to blow him up,” said Uncle Jeff. “He’s too useful.”

“Of course he is, uncle; but we couldn’t blow him up, because the battery isn’t dangerous.”

“Then what’s the good of it?”

“Ah! you don’t see yet; you will directly,” cried the boy. “There’s no danger at all till it is connected with the wire; and the wire, you know, is connected with the canister of explosive, uncle. And don’t you see that it will be sunk right away there off the wharf? When we connect the wire with the battery, it is not that which goes off, but the powder in the canister under the junk.”

“Oh, I see!” said Uncle Jeff. “Good; but when it is connected what does it do?”

“Sends a current of electricity along the wire.”

“Of course; I do understand that. Sends an electric spark through the powder and blows it up.”

“That’s right, uncle; only, instead of sending a spark along the wire, it sends a current to the end of the wire, and that end begins to glow till it turns white-hot. But long before that it has set the powder off, and if all goes right we should have a great junk blown all to pieces.”

“Bravo!” cried Uncle Jeff. “Three cheers for our inventor, Blunt!”

“Nonsense, uncle! I didn’t invent that. It’s only what one has read in books on electricity. Now you can see, of course, that there is no danger at the battery end of the wire.”

“If you tell me there is no danger, Stan, of course I am bound to believe it; but I don’t quite see why the wire should not carry us the message of the blow-up, and blow us up into the bargain.”

“Ah! but that would be outside the bargain, uncle,” said Stan, laughing. “It would be a good bargain for us.”