"What do you know about that?" queried Jack. "What was it?"
"An earthquake," suggested Charley, "or a volcano."
"Volcano nothing," stoutly corrected Arnold. "That was the dynamite that
Wyckoff planted on the Fortuna in Pascagoula and Jack stumbled over it
and brought it here and we planted it a moment ago."
"I shouldn't wonder if you're right," agreed Harrison. "It must be that
one of the negroes struck it just right with his shovel."
"But where are the negroes?" asked Frank.
"I can't see a one. How many were there in the first place?"
"Six," answered Tom. "I counted 'em. One was put out of the way by the
villain Lopez. That left five in the pit."
"I wonder where they are now," speculated Harry. "They have gone out of
sight anyhow. Maybe they're all killed."
"If they are, I wonder just how much we'll be at fault," Jack mused
soberly. "I think we should have warned them that we had put the
dynamite there," he added thoughtfully.
His words had a depressing effect upon the whole party. They felt keenly
the possible responsibility for the death of the five men who had been
striving to earn an honest dollar by hard work. Seeing the effect his
expression was having upon his comrades, Jack endeavored to correct it,
but the boys were all very sober.
Rowdy, who had been trying to make himself very small indeed, now
emerged from his hiding place again to join the watchers.
"I wonder if the explosion has enlarged the hole any," Tom ventured.
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