Much to my surprise, I found that neither Nicholas Naranovitsch nor
Bella nor my mother would consent to witness my experiments with
dynamite that day.
As my old chum approached to greet me on the lawn before breakfast the
day following, I could not help admiring his fine, tall, athletic
figure. I don't know how it is, but I have always felt, somehow, as if
I looked up at him, although we were both exactly the same height--six
feet one without our boots. I suppose it must have been owing to his
standing so erect, while I slouched a little. Perhaps my looking up to
him mentally had something to do with it.
"You'll come to-day, won't you?" I said, referring to the experiments.
"Of course I will, old boy; but," he added, with a smile, "only on one
condition."
"What may that be?"
"That you don't bother Bella with minute details."
Of course I promised not to say a word unless asked for explanations,
and after breakfast we all went to a part of the grounds which I wished
to bring under cultivation. It was at that time encumbered with several
large trees, old roots, and a number of boulders.
"Come along with us, Lancey," I said to the groom, who was also my
laboratory assistant, and whom I met in the stable-yard, the scene of
his memorable blowing-up. "I am about to try the effect of an
explosive, and wish you to understand the details."
"Yes, sir," replied Lancey, with a respectful touch of his cap; "I must
say, sir, if you'll allow me, I never knowed any one like you, sir, for
goin' into details except one, and that one--"
"Ah, yes, I know, that was your friend the Scotch boy," said I,
interrupting; but Lancey was a privileged servant, and would not be
interrupted.
"Yes, sir," he resumed, "the Scotch boy Sandy. We was at school
together in Edinburgh, where I got the most o' my edication, and I never
did see such a boy, sir, for goin' into--"
"Yes, yes, Lancey, I know; but I haven't time to talk about him just
now. We are going to the bit of waste ground in the hollow; follow us
there."
I was obliged to cut him short, because this Scotch hero of his was a
subject on which he could not resist dilating on the slightest
encouragement.
Arrived at the waste ground, we met the manager of a neighbouring mine,
who was deeply learned in everything connected with blasting.
"I have brought my mother and sister, you see, Mr Jones," said I, as we
approached. "They don't quite believe in the giant-power which is under
your control; they seem to think that it is only a little stronger than
gunpowder."
"We can soon change their views on that point," said the manager, with a
slight bow to the ladies, while I introduced Nicholas as an officer of
the Russian army.
"This is one of the stones you wish to blast, is it not?" said Mr
Jones, laying his hand on an enormous boulder that weighed probably
several tons.
"It is," I answered.
The manager was a man of action--grave of countenance and of few words.
He drew a flask from his pocket and emptied its contents, a large
quantity of gunpowder, on the boulder. Asking us to stand a little
back, he applied a slow match to the heap, and retired several paces.
In a few seconds the powder went off with a violent puff and a vast
cloud of smoke. The result was a little shriek of alarm from my mother,
and an exclamation from Bella.
"Not much effect from that, you see," said the manager, pointing to the
blackened stone, yet it was a large quantity of powder, which, if fired
in a cavity inside the stone, would have blown it to pieces. "Here,
now, is a small quantity of dynamite." (He produced a cartridge about
two inches in length, similar to that which I had shown to my mother at
breakfast.) "Into this cartridge I shall insert a detonator cap, which
is fastened to the end of a Pickford fuse--thus."
As he spoke, he inserted into the cartridge the end of the fuse, to
which was attached a small cap filled with fulminate of mercury, and
tied it tightly up. This done, he laid the cartridge on the top of the
boulder, placed two or three similar cartridges beside it, and covered
all with a small quantity of sand, leaving the other end of the fuse
projecting.
"Why the sand?" asked Bella.
"Because a slight amount of confinement is advantageous," replied Mr
Jones. "If I were to bore a short hole in the stone, and put the
dynamite therein, the result would be still more effective; but the
covering I have put on it will suffice, and will serve all the better to
show the great difference between this explosive and gunpowder."
"But," said my mother, who had a tendency to become suddenly interested
in things when she began to have a faint understanding of them; "but,
Mr Jones, you did not give the powder fair play. If you had covered
_it_ with sand, would not its effect have been more powerful?"
"Not on the stone, madam; it would only have blown off its covering with
violence, that would have been all. Now, ladies and gentlemen, if you
will retire behind the shelter of that old beech-tree, I will light the
fuse."
We did as we were desired. The manager lighted the fuse, and followed
us. In a few moments there occurred an explosion so violent that the
huge boulder was shattered into several pieces, which were quite small
enough to be lifted and carted away.
"Most amazing!" exclaimed Bella, with enthusiasm.
It was quite obvious that she had no anticipation of such a thorough
result. Nicholas, too, who I may mention had no natural turn of taste
for such matters, was roused to a state of inquiry.
To a question put by him, Mr Jones explained that, taking its powers
into consideration, dynamite was cheaper than gunpowder, and that it
saved much labour, as it would have taken two men a considerable time to
have bored an ordinary blasthole in the boulder he had just broken up.
I now led the way to another part of the ground on which grew a large
beech-tree, whose giant roots took a firm grasp of the ground. It was a
hundred years old at least; about twelve feet in circumference, and
sixty feet high. One similar tree I had had cut down; but the labour
had been very great, and the removal of the stump excessively
troublesome as well as costly.
Mr Jones now went to work at the forest-giant. In the ground
underneath the tree he ordered Lancey to make a hole with a crowbar.
Into this he pressed some cartridges of dynamite with a wooden rammer.
Then the cartridge, with the detonator inside of it; and the fuse,
extending from its mouth, was placed in contact with the charge under
the tree. The hole was next closed up with some earth, leaving about a
foot of the fuse outside. The light was then applied, and we retired to
a safe distance. In a few moments the charge exploded. The tree seemed
to rise from its bed. All the earth under it was blown out, and the
roots were torn up and broken, with the exception of four of the
largest, which were fully ten inches in diameter. A small charge of
dynamite inserted under each of these completed the work, and the old
giant, slowly bowing forward, laid his venerable head upon the ground.
Another charge was next placed in the soil under some loose and decayed
roots, which were easily broken to pieces, so as to permit of their
removal. Thus, in a short time and at little cost, were trees and roots
and boulders torn up and shattered.
"But is dynamite not very dangerous, Mr Jones?" asked my mother, as we
walked slowly homeward.
"Not at all dangerous,--at least not worth speaking of," replied the
manager; "nitro-glycerine by itself is indeed very dangerous, being
easily exploded by concussion or mere vibration; but when mixed with
infusorial earth and thus converted into dynamite, it is one of the
safest explosives in existence--not quite so safe, indeed, as
gun-cotton, but much more so than gunpowder. Any sort of fire will
explode gunpowder, but any sort of fire will not explode dynamite; it
will only cause it to burn. It requires a detonator to explode it with
violence. Without its detonator, dynamite is a sleeping giant."
"Ay, mother," said I, taking up the subject, "the case stands thus:
gunpowder is a big athlete, who slumbers lightly; any spark can wake him
to violent action: but dynamite is a bigger athlete, who sleeps so
soundly that a spark or flame can only rouse him to moderate rage; it
requires a special shake to make him wide-awake, but when thus roused
his fury is terrific, as you have just seen. And now," I added, as we
drew near the house, "we will change the subject, because I have this
morning received two letters, which demand the united consideration of
our whole party. I will therefore call up Bella and Nicholas, who have
fallen behind, as usual. Mr Jones will excuse my talking of family
matters for a few minutes, as replies must be sent by return of post."
I then explained that one of the letters was an invitation to me and my
mother and sister, with any friends who might chance to be visiting us,
to go to Portsmouth to witness a variety of interesting experiments with
torpedoes and such warlike things; while the other letter was an offer
by a friend, of a schooner-built yacht for a moderate sum.
"Now, Nicholas," said I, apologetically, "I'm sorry to give you such an
explosive reception, but it cannot be helped. If you don't care about
torpedoes, you may remain here with my mother and Bella; but if you
would like to go, I shall be happy to introduce you to one or two of my
naval friends. For myself, I must go, because--"
"We will all go, Jeff," interrupted Bella; "nothing could be more
appropriate as a sequel to this morning's experiments. A day among the
torpedoes will be most interesting, won't it?"
She looked up at Nicholas, on whose arm she leaned. He looked down with
that peculiar smile of his which seemed to lie more in his eyes than on
his lips, and muttered something about a day anywhere being, etcetera,
etcetera.
My mother remarked that she did not understand exactly what a torpedo
was, and looked at me for an explanation. I confess that her remark
surprised me, for during the course of my investigations and inventions,
I had frequently mentioned the subject of torpedoes to her, and once or
twice had given her a particular description of the destructive machine.
However, as she had evidently forgotten all about it, and as I cannot
resist the temptation to elucidate complex subjects when opportunity
offers, I began:--
"It is a machine, mother, which--"
"Which bursts," interrupted Bella, with a little laugh.
"But that is no explanation, dear," returned my mother; "at least not a
distinctive one, for guns burst sometimes, and soap-bubbles burst, and
eggs burst occasionally."
"Bella," said Nicholas, who spoke English perfectly, though with a
slightly foreign accent, "never interrupt a philosopher. Allow Jeff to
proceed with his definition."
"Well, a torpedo," said I, "is an infernal machine--"
"Jeff," said my mother, seriously, "don't--"
"Mother, I use the word advisedly and dispassionately. It is a term
frequently given to such engines, because of their horrible nature,
which suggests the idea that they were originated in the region of
Satanic influence. A torpedo, then, is a pretty large case, or box, or
cask, or reservoir, of one form or another, filled with gunpowder, or
gun-cotton, or dynamite, which is used chiefly under water, for
blowing-up purposes. Sometimes men use torpedoes to blow up rocks, and
sunken wrecks; and sometimes, I grieve to say it, they blow up ships and
sailors."
"Dreadful! my dear," said my mother; "nevertheless I should like to go
with you on this excursion, and see what devices men invent for the
purpose of killing each other."
"Very well, that's settled," said I. "Now, as to the other letter about
the yacht. I will buy it, mother, and go on a cruise to the
Mediterranean, on one condition, namely, that you and Nicholas and Bella
go with me."
"Impossible!" exclaimed my mother, firmly; "I never could bear the sea."
"But you've had little experience of it," said I.
"Well, not much--but I cannot bear it."
"Now, mother," said I, coaxingly, "here is Bella dying to go to sea, I
know. Nicholas has loads of time, and cannot be left behind, and I wish
very much to go; but all will fall to the ground if you refuse to
accompany us. We cannot leave you in this house alone. The sea air
will certainly do you good, and if it does not, we can land, you know,
at Lisbon, Gibraltar, Nice,--anywhere, and return home overland."
"Well, then, I will go," returned my pliant mother.
"That's right," said I, sitting down to write. "Now, then, all of you
get ready to go to London this afternoon. We shall spend a day or two
there, because, before leaving, I must see the first Lord of the
Admiralty on particular business. Afterwards we shall run down to
Portsmouth by the afternoon express, spend the night there, and so be
ready to face the torpedoes in the morning."