"I don't believe it's killed one." "They're coming back, Dummy," cried Mark, "and the gate's broken away from the hinges." "Then they shall have it this time," cried the lad, and cutting a hole with his knife in one corner of the powder-bag, he held it down at one side behind the massive wall of the little tower, and striding his legs, walked slowly forward till he reached the middle of the bridge, where he plumped the powder-bag down, after leaving a little train of the black grains behind him where he walked.
Then carefully avoiding it, he stepped quickly back to where Mark was standing, and took out and handed him the flint and steel.
"You do it this time," he said.

"We shall be in shelter here.

I'll watch and say when." Mark took the rough implements, and knelt down by the commencement of the train.
"Hold it close down, quite steady, and give one good nick, and it will set the powder off." "Come on, you cowardly dogs," cried a now familiar voice.

"There's everything that's good in there, and the place will be ours, I tell you.
What, going to be scared by a puff of smoke?
The place is our own now.
All here ?" "Ay," came in a growl.
"Form in good order, three abreast, and charge right across and into the yard.

Halt! Steady! To think of running for a flash in the pan!" "You ran too," growled a voice.
"You won't be happy till you're strung up, Hez Bingham," cried the captain.