"I have some in my flask," said the doctor. "Bit of string," continued Dan; and he fished out a piece directly from his trousers' pocket, and after the doctor had poured a little water into the cup of his flask the little sailor thrust in a piece of string, let it soak for a few minutes, and then drew it through his fingers to squeeze out as much of the water as he could and send it well through the partly untwisted fibres. "Now, Mr Mark, sir, got a blank cartridge?" "No, but I can soon take the ball out of one." This the boy did, and after removing the wad he poured a little of the dry powder into Dan's palm. The piece of string was roughly rolled up, laid upon the pinch or two of powder, and then the little sailor placed his palms together and gave them a circular, millstone-like movement one over the other till all the powder was absorbed and his hands as black as ink. "There, gentlemen," he said, passing the string two or three times through his fingers, "that's nearly dry now, and if it's shoved down the hole, one end left out, and the hole stopped with a bit of clay--" "Where are you going to get your clay, mate?" said Bob Bacon. "Oh, I don't know," said the man. "Never mind the clay. You can make baskets." "What's that got to do with it?" growled Bob. "Not much, but pull out your knife and find a good soft bit of wood that you can turn into a peg." This was soon done, and laying the string fuse a little way along the cement floor, Dan declared the mine to be ready. "Only wants everybody to stand clear, gentlemen," said the little fellow, "and somebody to go down with a match, and then run. Then up she goes; and that's my job." "Oh, I'll do that," cried Mark, and he pulled out a little silver box of matches that he had in his pocket. "Steady, Mr Mark, sir--steady!" cried the little fellow. "Clear out, everybody!" cried Mark. The doctor opened his lips to speak angrily, but on second thoughts he followed those who were in the hole and had begun making for a safe distance from the explosion that was to come. "Spring out the moment you have lit the fuse," he shouted. "All right," cried Mark impetuously, as, bending down, he rapidly struck a wax match and held it to the string fuse; and then--he could not have explained why--stood over it as if affected by some nightmare-like feeling, watching the tiny sparkling of the damp powder as it began to run along the string towards the hole. "Mr Mark!" shouted the little sailor. "Run--run!" The boy started violently, turned to look at the speaker, then back at the faint sparkling of the fuse, and then stared helplessly again after those who were now standing some little distance away. "Yah! Run!" yelled Buck Denham, and as he shouted he snatched off Dean's hat and sent it skimming like a boomerang right away over the bushes, though, unlike a boomerang, it did not come back.