In the meantime I was devising another way to overcome that deadly
ventilator shaft. The scheme was so simple that I was shamed in that
it had not occurred to me at the very beginning. The slitted opening
was small. Two sacks of flour, in a wooden frame, suspended by ropes
from the edge of the chart-house roof directly above, would
effectually cover the opening and block all revolver fire.
No sooner thought than done. Tom Spink and Louis were on top the
chart-house with me and preparing to lower the flour, when we heard a
voice issuing from the shaft.
"Who's in there now?" I demanded. "Speak up."
"I'm givin' you a last chance," Bert Rhine answered.
And just then, around the corner of the house, stepped the steward.
In his hand he carried a large galvanized pail, and my casual thought
was that he had come to get rain-water from the barrels. Even as I
thought it, he made a sweeping half-circle with the pail and sloshed
its contents into the ventilator-opening. And even as the liquid
flew through the air I knew it for what it was--undiluted sulphuric
acid, two gallons of it from the carboy.
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