I followed him into the tent and watched him unload. First there was
the old powder-horn that always hangs over the hall mantelpiece. Then
there was a big, wide-necked bottle, a large, clean handkerchief, and
a spool of thread. "You see this, Dago?" he said to me. "Now you watch
and see what happens."

He tore the hem off the handkerchief, poured a lot of powder into the
middle of the square that was left, and then drew the corners together
in one hand. With the other hand he squeezed the powder into a ball
in the middle of the handkerchief, and wrapped the thread around and
around above it to keep the wad in place.

"Now I'll put the wad of powder into the bottle," he said, "and leave
the ends of the cloth sticking out for a fuse. See?"

I didn't know anything about gunpowder then, so I put my head close to
his as he squatted there in the tent, talking as he worked. "Come on,
Dago," he said, when it was ready, "I'll light this at the camp-fire
and hold the bottle straight out in the air, so it won't hurt
anything. It'll go off like a pistol--bim!--and make the boys jump out
of their boots." I thought it would be better for me to get out of the
way if a racket like that was coming, so I scuttled up to the top of
the tent-pole.

Phil stooped down by the bonfire, held the rag to the coals until it
began to smoulder, and swung around to point it at the fence. There
was no sound. Evidently the bottle did not make as good a pistol as he
thought it would. "The light's gone out," he muttered, bringing the
bottle cautiously around to look at it. Then he blew it, either to
see if he could rekindle it, or to make sure that the last spark was