With muscles tense and legs spread wide apart, Bob Bainbridge found himself crouching in the middle of the office shanty. It was yet dark, and in his ears still seemed to sound the dull, rumbling detonation which had made him leap from the bunk before he was even half awake. For a second the stillness was absolute. Then from the other side of the small room came a hoarse, shaking whisper:
“Bobby! What the dickens was that?”
The young man drew a long breath, and an instant later the flame of a match split the darkness.
“Don’t know, John,” he answered, hastily lighting a candle. “It sounded a lot like—dynamite!”
He set the candle down on a rough table, and, reaching for one high, spiked shoe, began swiftly to drag it on. From the bunk across the room came a stifled gasp of dismay, and a short, stout, middle-aged man with a heavy, square face and deep-set blue eyes rolled forth into the uncertain, wavering light, and sat for an instant staring at his companion.
