Then out came a coil of fuse, to be cut to its regular lengths and inserted in the copper-covered caps of fulminate of mercury, Harry showing his contempt for the dangerous things by crimping them about the fuse with his teeth, while Fairchild, sitting on a small pile of muck near by, begged for caution.

But Harry only grinned behind his big mustache and went on.
Out came his pocketknife again as he slit the waxed paper of the gelatinous sticks, then inserted the cap in the dynamite.

One after another the charges were shoved into the holes, Harry tamping them into place with a steel rod, instead of with the usual wooden affair, his mustache brushing his shoulder as he turned to explain the virtues of dynamite when handled by an expert.
"It's all in the wye you do it," he announced.

"If you don't strike fire with a steel rod, it's fine." "But if you do ?" "Oh, then!" Harry laughed.

"Then it's flowers and a funeral--after they 've finished picking you up." One after another he pressed the dynamite charges tight into the drill holes and tamped them with muck wrapped in a newspaper that he dragged from his hip pocket.