In the Track of the Troops | Page 7

to rise from its bed. All the earth under it was blown out, and the roots
were torn up and broken, with the exception of four of the largest,
which were fully ten inches in diameter. A small charge of dynamite
inserted under each of these completed the work, and the old giant,
slowly bowing forward, laid his venerable head upon the ground.
Another charge was next placed in the soil under some loose and
decayed roots, which were easily broken to pieces, so as to permit of
their removal. Thus, in a short time and at little cost, were trees and
roots and boulders torn up and shattered.
"But is dynamite not very dangerous, Mr Jones?" asked my mother, as
we walked slowly homeward.
"Not at all dangerous,--at least not worth speaking of," replied the
manager; "nitro-glycerine by itself is indeed very dangerous, being
easily exploded by concussion or mere vibration; but when mixed with
infusorial earth and thus converted into dynamite, it is one of the safest
explosives in existence--not quite so safe, indeed, as gun-cotton, but
much more so than gunpowder. Any sort of fire will explode
gunpowder, but any sort of fire will not explode dynamite; it will only
cause it to burn. It requires a detonator to explode it with violence.
Without its detonator, dynamite is a sleeping giant."

"Ay, mother," said I, taking up the subject, "the case stands thus:
gunpowder is a big athlete, who slumbers lightly; any spark can wake
him to violent action: but dynamite is a bigger athlete, who sleeps so
soundly that a spark or flame can only rouse him to moderate rage; it
requires a special shake to make him wide-awake, but when thus
roused his fury is terrific, as you have just seen. And now," I added, as
we drew near the house, "we will change the subject, because I have
this morning received two letters, which demand the united
consideration of our whole party. I will therefore call up Bella and
Nicholas, who have fallen behind, as usual. Mr Jones will excuse my
talking of family matters for a few minutes, as replies must be sent by
return of post."
I then explained that one of the letters was an invitation to me and my
mother and sister, with any friends who might chance to be visiting us,
to go to Portsmouth to witness a variety of interesting experiments with
torpedoes and such warlike things; while the other letter was an offer
by a friend, of a schooner-built yacht for a moderate sum.
"Now, Nicholas," said I, apologetically, "I'm sorry to give you such an
explosive reception, but it cannot be helped. If you don't care about
torpedoes, you may remain here with my mother and Bella; but if you
would like to go, I shall be happy to introduce you to one or two of my
naval friends. For myself, I must go, because--"
"We will all go, Jeff," interrupted Bella; "nothing could be more
appropriate as a sequel to this morning's experiments. A day among the
torpedoes will be most interesting, won't it?"
She looked up at Nicholas, on whose arm she leaned. He looked down
with that peculiar smile of his which seemed to lie more in his eyes
than on his lips, and muttered something about a day anywhere being,
etcetera, etcetera.
My mother remarked that she did not understand exactly what a
torpedo was, and looked at me for an explanation. I confess that her
remark surprised me, for during the course of my investigations and
inventions, I had frequently mentioned the subject of torpedoes to her,

and once or twice had given her a particular description of the
destructive machine. However, as she had evidently forgotten all about
it, and as I cannot resist the temptation to elucidate complex subjects
when opportunity offers, I began:--
"It is a machine, mother, which--"
"Which bursts," interrupted Bella, with a little laugh.
"But that is no explanation, dear," returned my mother; "at least not a
distinctive one, for guns burst sometimes, and soap-bubbles burst, and
eggs burst occasionally."
"Bella," said Nicholas, who spoke English perfectly, though with a
slightly foreign accent, "never interrupt a philosopher. Allow Jeff to
proceed with his definition."
"Well, a torpedo," said I, "is an infernal machine--"
"Jeff," said my mother, seriously, "don't--"
"Mother, I use the word advisedly and dispassionately. It is a term
frequently given to such engines, because of their horrible nature,
which suggests the idea that they were originated in the region of
Satanic influence. A torpedo, then, is a pretty large case, or box, or cask,
or reservoir, of one form or another, filled with gunpowder, or
gun-cotton, or dynamite, which is used chiefly under water, for
blowing-up purposes. Sometimes men use torpedoes to blow up