Joe Wilson and His Mates [64]
then he sewed a covering of two thicknesses of canvas over it,
and bound the thing from end to end with stout fishing-line. Dave's schemes
were elaborate, and he often worked his inventions out to nothing.
The cartridge was rigid and solid enough now -- a formidable bomb;
but Andy and Dave wanted to be sure. Andy sewed on another layer of canvas,
dipped the cartridge in melted tallow, twisted a length of fencing-wire
round it as an afterthought, dipped it in tallow again,
and stood it carefully against a tent-peg, where he'd know where to find it,
and wound the fuse loosely round it. Then he went to the camp-fire
to try some potatoes which were boiling in their jackets in a billy,
and to see about frying some chops for dinner. Dave and Jim were at work
in the claim that morning.
They had a big black young retriever dog -- or rather an overgrown pup,
a big, foolish, four-footed mate, who was always slobbering round them
and lashing their legs with his heavy tail that swung round like a stock-whip.
Most of his head was usually a red, idiotic, slobbering grin of appreciation
of his own silliness. He seemed to take life, the world,
his two-legged mates, and his own instinct as a huge joke.
He'd retrieve anything: he carted back most of the camp rubbish
that Andy threw away. They had a cat that died in hot weather,
and Andy threw it a good distance away in the scrub; and early one morning
the dog found the cat, after it had been dead a week or so,
and carried it back to camp, and laid it just inside the tent-flaps,
where it could best make its presence known when the mates should rise
and begin to sniff suspiciously in the sickly smothering atmosphere
of the summer sunrise. He used to retrieve them when they went in swimming;
he'd jump in after them, and take their hands in his mouth,
and try to swim out with them, and scratch their naked bodies with his paws.
They loved him for his good-heartedness and his foolishness,
but when they wished to enjoy a swim they had to tie him up in camp.
He watched Andy with great interest all the morning making the cartridge,
and hindered him considerably, trying to help; but about noon
he went off to the claim to see how Dave and Jim were getting on,
and to come home to dinner with them. Andy saw them coming,
and put a panful of mutton-chops on the fire. Andy was cook to-day;
Dave and Jim stood with their backs to the fire, as Bushmen do
in all weathers, waiting till dinner should be ready.
The retriever went nosing round after something he seemed to have missed.
Andy's brain still worked on the cartridge; his eye was caught
by the glare of an empty kerosene-tin lying in the bushes,
and it struck him that it wouldn't be a bad idea to sink the cartridge
packed with clay, sand, or stones in the tin, to increase
the force of the explosion. He may have been all out,
from a scientific point of view, but the notion looked all right to him.
Jim Bently, by the way, wasn't interested in their `damned silliness'.
Andy noticed an empty treacle-tin -- the sort with the little
tin neck or spout soldered on to the top for the convenience of pouring out
the treacle -- and it struck him that this would have made
the best kind of cartridge-case: he would only have had
to pour in the powder, stick the fuse in through the neck,
and cork and seal it with bees'-wax. He was turning to suggest this to Dave,
when Dave glanced over his shoulder to see how the chops were doing --
and bolted. He explained afterwards that he thought he heard the pan
spluttering extra, and looked to see if the chops were burning.
Jim Bently looked behind and bolted after Dave. Andy stood stock-still,
staring after them.
`Run, Andy! run!' they shouted back at him. `Run!!! Look behind you,
you fool!' Andy turned slowly and looked, and there, close behind him,
was the retriever with the cartridge in his mouth -- wedged into
his broadest and silliest grin. And that wasn't all.
The dog had come round the fire to Andy, and the loose end of the fuse
had trailed