Splinter spoke. "I say, master, don't you smell gunpowder?"
"Yes, I do," said the little master, "or something deuced like it."
To explain the particular comfort of our position, it may be right to
mention that the magazine of a brig sloop is exactly under the gunroom.
Three of the American skippers had been quartered on the gunroom mess,
and they were all at table. Snuff, snuff, smelled one, and another
sniffled,--"Gunpowder, I guess, and in a state of ignition."
"Will you not send for the gunner, sir?" said the third. Splinter did
not like it, I saw, and this quailed me.
The captain's bell rang. "What smell of brimstone is that, steward?"
"I really can't tell," said the man, trembling from head to foot; "Mr.
Splinter has sent for the gunner, sir."
"The devil!" said Deadeye, as he hurried on deck. We all followed. A
search was made.
"Some matches have caught in the magazine," said one.
"We shall be up and away like sky-rockets," said another.
Several of the American masters ran out on the jib-boom, coveting the
temporary security of being so far removed from the seat of the
expected explosion, and all was alarm and confusion, until it was
ascertained that two of the boys, little sky-larking vagabonds, had
stolen some pistol cartridges, and had been making lightning, as it is
called, by holding a lighted candle between the fingers, and putting
some loose powder into the palm of the hand, then chucking it up into
the flame.
Pages:
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103