  After a while, despite the thrilling novelty of the scene and the significant interest it held for the four American lads, the dust, the heat, the noise and the confusion and bustle became wearisome, and they began looking about, boy like, for something new. A white man in a duck uniform and pith helmet hastened by in company with a colored man who looked different from any negro the boys had yet seen. The man had straight black hair, long and glossy. He wore a small sort of skull cap and white clothes with odd velvet shoes not unlike those affected by Chinese. “Hullo, Raynor!” shouted Mr. Mainwaring to the white man, as the pair hustled by along the rampart-like heights of the big dam, “where are you bound for?” The dark man and his companion came to a halt, the former standing in a respectful attitude and saluting Mr. Mainwaring. “We’re going to shoot a test hole,” was the reply. “Do you mind taking these lads along? As you see, they are Boy Scouts, and anxious to see all that they can.” “I’ll be delighted to. I’ve a kid brother at home whose letters are full of the doings of his patrol. Come along, young men. I’ll show you something that will make your eyes open.” “I’ll meet you here in time for dinner,” said Mr. Mainwaring. “We’ll be here,” rejoined Tubby, whose eyes had brightened at the mention of a meal. Although he had devoured the milk and creamy meat of two huge cocoanuts, the stout youth was still ready for another chance at edibles. Mr. Raynor hastened on, beckoning to the boys to follow him. “What is a test hole?” asked Rob, as the boys trudged along the top of the dam beside him. “It is a hole blown in the ground so that we can tell what sort of foundation we are working on,” was the reply. “Blown in the ground?” asked Tubby with round inquiring eyes. “Yes. Dynamited, perhaps I should have said. Ram Chunda there,” he motioned back at the dark man who was trotting along behind, “is the boss dynamiter. He’s going to shoot the hole.” “Oh, he’s a Hindoo?” exclaimed Rob as he heard the name of the dark satellite. “We thought he was a negro.” “Oh, no. We couldn’t trust negroes with dynamite. Almost all the dynamite men on the canal are Hindoos. They are not fit for the heavy work; but we find them reliable and trust-worthy around explosives.” “What’s that?” asked Merritt presently, indicating a small hut painted a bright red. “That’s a dynamite hut. See, there are several workmen waiting to have explosives served out to them.” “Can anybody get the stuff who wants it?” asked Merritt. “No, indeed. That would never do. They have to bring an order signed by the boss on their particular section.” Ram Chunda, however, appeared to have his supply of explosives elsewhere for they did not stop at the dynamite hut but passed on. “How much dynamite is stored there?” asked Rob, as they hurried along. “Oh, enough to blow the whole dam up, I guess,” was the careless reply, to which the boys did not attach much significance at the time, although they were to recollect those words with peculiar vividness later. Before long they reached a place where ladders were stretched from the ground to the top of the dam. “We’ll go down these,” announced Mr. Raynor, halting. “Ram, you go first. You boys can follow. All got steady heads, I hope?” “I think so,” murmured Fred, with a vivid recollection in his mind of the scene on the ruined tower of St. Augustin, “two of us have, anyhow.” The engineer did not, of course, understand the allusion nor, to the joy of Rob and Merritt, did he ask any explanation. Neither boy liked to recall those awful moments when they hung suspended in mid-air between life and death. The ladders were long and steep, but the descent was made without incident. At the base of the dam, however, was a steep sort of embankment of loose sand and gravel. Tubby, who was behind Ram Chunda, looked down and saw this, which appeared to offer a secure “jumping off” place. With a whoop he jumped from the last ladder while still several feet above the top of the bank. His feet struck it with a scrunch. But the loose, shaly stuff was treacherous. With an alarmed yell the fat boy, the cocoanuts round his belt rattling like castanets, rolled down the bank, revolving like a barrel. The others looked on in some alarm. Suddenly Tubby struck the bottom of the bank and simultaneously there came a series of sounds like a volley of musketry. Pop! pop! pop! pop! “Gracious, it’s Tubby,” cried Rob, tracing the source of the sounds. “Is he blowing up?” demanded Fred Mainwaring in genuine alarm. “Sounds like it!” exclaimed Merritt apprehensively. The engineer and the Hindoo looked on in amazement. The fat boy continued to pop loudly. Suddenly, still popping spasmodically, he struggled to his feet. What a sight he presented! He was covered from head to foot with a milky fluid which was flowing down him and on which the gravel had stuck and plastered him with yellow mud. “Tubby, are you hurt?” yelled Merritt. “Bob,” shrilled Rob, for once, in his alarm, giving Tubby his real first name, “what’s the trouble? Are you injured?” “No, but those cocoanuts have blown up!” shouted Tubby angrily. “One after another they busted! I thought I was in a battle for a minute.” “Well, you look as if you’d been through a hard siege,” declared Rob, who, now that his apprehension was over, joined the others in a hearty laugh and a scramble down the gravel bank. “What made ’em bust?” demanded Tubby, ruefully, surveying his drenched uniform and brushing himself off as best he could. As soon as he could speak for laughing the engineer explained. Cocoanuts in their natural state are shielded by great masses of leaves which keep their milky contents cool. Tubby, in his greed, had girded himself about with the succulent nuts and then spent a long morning in the hot sun. This, combined with his activities, had caused the milk to heat up and ferment. If the fat boy had not taken his tumble down the bank it is not likely that the nuts would have exploded. But the fall was what proved too much for the already fermented milk. Like so much gunpowder it had expanded and blown the “eyes,” or thin parts, out of each cocoanut, spraying the unfortunate Tubby with milk, and making the sharp series of reports that had so alarmed them. Even Ram Chunda’s immobile face bore the trace of a smile at Tubby’s disaster. In fact, the boy got no sympathy from anyone. “I’ll pack no more cocoanuts with me,” he was heard to mutter, “they are as dangerous as Anarchists’ bombs and a whole lot messier. Gee, my uniform’s a sight!” But as the unanimous verdict seemed to be “Serves you right,” Tubby had few remarks on his disaster to offer for the public benefit. |
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