The Bungalow Boys in the Great Northwest

“Do you think that any one will ever find our – our – bodies in this dreadful place?” said Tom, as the professor, abandoning his search with a sigh, rejoined the boy.

“I am afraid not,” said the scientist gloomily. “Why, what did you have in mind, my boy?”

“Why, I have a bit of chalk here,” said Tom. “I thought we might scrawl up our names and the date and what happened on the walls of the cave. It would be a record in case – in case – ” his voice shook, but he controlled it bravely – “they ever found us,” he concluded.

“At any rate, it will be something to do,” agreed the professor, falling in with the idea heartily. “But why not leave a more complete message – an account of our strange captivity, and so on? I have a pencil somewhere, and a tablet for making scientific notes.”

“Good!” rejoined Tom. “You write the lengthy account while I chalk up a shorter record on the rocks.”

He turned toward the wall, looking about for a smooth place to letter their last message upon, while the professor began fumbling in his pockets for his pencil. The implement did not seem to be handy. At any rate, the man of science explored all his outside pockets without result. Then he began on his inside ones.

Suddenly, while he was feeling about inside his coat, he gave a cry that echoed oddly through the silences of the sealed cave. So sharp and so peculiar was the tone that Chillingworth looked up from between his hands.

“Have you found the pencil?” asked Tom, in a steady voice, turning from his work with the chalk and coming toward the professor.

The next instant he felt a sharp chilling of his senses. The professor’s mind had undoubtedly given way under the strain of the terrible situation.

He was creeping toward Tom, holding something with the utmost care between his long fingers. He was regarding this object, which, Tom thought from its shape, must be a pencil, with smiles of what seemed insane delight and foolish, meaningless gibberings.

“What’s the matter, professor?” asked Tom, stepping briskly toward him and adopting a tone like one would use toward a child. “Come, brace up, sir. Don’t give way!”

For the professor was now giggling hysterically. The Kanakas, sullenly crouched by the lamp in a far corner, regarded him curiously. Monday tapped his forehead significantly.

“Tom, my boy,” breathed the professor, laying a bony hand on the boy’s shoulder – “Tom, I’m not crazy! Listen to me.” Then evidently making a strong effort to control himself, he sank his voice into a hard, level tone: “We have a chance of escape!”

Tom gave an amazed gasp. Words – he had none to fit this staggering statement.

“Do you see this little tube?” the professor went on.

He held up the long, thin, cylindrical object which Tom had mistaken for a pencil. He now saw that it was a glass tube about ten inches long and filled with a yellow, pasty-looking substance.

“In that tube are four ounces of my explosive,” whispered the professor, his eyes burning.

“The same stuff that blew Mrs. Bijur’s roof up?” gasped Tom, but without a hint of laughter in his voice or on his face. He began to see what was in the wind now.

“Yes,” was the rejoinder; “at least what exploded there was not more than a hundredth part of this tube, and it was not of anything like similar strength, being diluted. I had this explosive with me on the yawl, thinking that I might use it in geological work – diluted, of course. When the collision came I recollect seizing up this tube of my invention and thrusting it into my coat. In this rush of recent events I had forgotten it till this moment, when, in my search for a pencil, I encountered it.”

“What do you mean to do with it?” asked Tom, in the same breathless tones. Without knowing it, he was clutching the professor in the intensity of his excitement and eager hope.

“I mean to attempt to blow up the rock that blocks the entrance of this cave,” was the calm reply. “We have tools – a drill, and we can use that long stick I cut as a walking staff, for a tampon to drive the charge home.”

“But how are we to fire it?” asked Tom. “We have no fuse and no means of getting one.”

“Confound it!” exclaimed the professor, his hopes dashed to the lowest ebb once more. “What a fellow I am to forget details. What are we to do? Here we have the means of escape within our grasp almost, only to see them snatched away by such an unlucky chance as this. In any event, an ordinary fuse would do us no good. My explosive only ignites by detonation – in other words, by being dealt a hard blow. If only we had a fulminate of mercury cap – ”

“Might as well wish that the stone hadn’t fallen,” said Tom briskly. “I tell you what, Professor, let us start those Kanakas drilling a hole in the rock where it seems thinnest. While they are doing it we, perhaps, can think of some plan to explode the charge.”

It is a striking example of the effect of action on men that the Kanakas, once they were set to work, became far less gloomy. They tapped the rock eagerly to ascertain, while the professor listened to see, where it sounded the least solid. He finally selected a place and ordered the two South Sea natives to commence their bore there. They at once set to work at the task, while Mr. Chillingworth, who had been roused from his lethargy by even this remote chance of gaining freedom, talked over eagerly with the others the possibility of hitting upon a way to explode the charge and shatter the stone without using a detonator. The rancher had had considerable experience with dynamite and giant powder on his ranch, where he had blown up scores of big tree roots, so that his contributions to the discussion were intelligent ones.

At last he sprang to his feet with a sharp cry: “I’ve got it. I know how we can explode that stuff.”

The others looked eagerly.

“How?” asked the professor bluntly.

“By hitting it with a bullet.”

“What?”

“I mean what I say. We have a pistol and two of us at least are good shots. We will place that explosive in the hole in the rock when it is drilled and then fire it by striking it with a bullet from the revolver, Tom secured when Lake dropped it.”

“That is a good idea,” said the professor dryly, “but when the explosion comes what is to become of us?”

Chillingworth’s enthusiasm vanished like the effervescence of a wet rocket.

“I didn’t think of that,” he said. “There is a chance that we might be blown to pieces by the same explosion that rends the rock.”

“Perfectly correct,” agreed the professor, with a curious ring in his voice, “but not necessary. The force of my explosive, when confined, is invariably downward and inward. That is to say, in this case if we bore a hole at a steep angle into the rock, we may be able to shatter part of it without hurting ourselves.”

The Kanakas were at once set to work boring another hole slanting in the proposed direction. When this was accomplished, the professor gingerly placed the tube of high explosive within the aperture and announced that, so far as he was concerned, all was ready.

“Hold on a minute,” exclaimed Tom, as a sudden idea struck him.

Drawing out his chalk, he marked a ring round the mouth of the bore.

“There,” he exclaimed, “that makes a good target and the hole containing the explosive is the bull’s-eye.”

“Hitting which in this case may mean annihilation, swift and terrible,” said the professor dryly.

“We must make up our minds to take that chance,” said Mr. Chillingworth firmly, and Tom was rejoiced to see that the rancher’s nerve had come back.

“Will you take the first shot?” he asked, handing the pistol to the rancher.

The Kanakas gazed on curiously. They had been told of the daring attempt that was to be made, and had no objection. A shrug of the shoulders was their way of saying:

“As well death one way as another.”

Mr. Chillingworth accepted the pistol and weighed it curiously to ascertain its balance.

“A nice little weapon,” he said, in a calm voice.

“I think we had all better shake hands,” said the professor, “before we retire to the rear of the cave.”

Seriously the trio imprisoned in the living tomb shook hands and then started back to the extreme end of the cavern. Just before they did this, the lantern had been placed where its light would fall on the target. This left the rear part of the cave in blackness. Perhaps they each were glad of this. Tom knew he had no wish to look at the others’ faces, although he hoped that no trace of fear showed on his own.

Packing themselves as compactly as possible against the rear wall of the place, they fell into silence as Chillingworth made ready to fire. Only by a constant wetting of his lips with the tip of his tongue did the rancher betray his excitement. Tom could feel his pulses pounding and his heart beating till it seemed it would burst his ribs. The sweat rolled off his face. He wondered how the professor felt. Would Chillingworth never stop his everlasting balancing of the pistol and aiming of it at the target? What would Jack – ?

“Now!”