Andy’s brain still worked on the cartridge； his eye was caughtby the glare of an empty kerosene-tin lying in the bushes， andit struck him that it wouldn’t be a bad idea to sink the cartridgepacked with clay， sand， or stones in the tin， to increase the forceof the explosion. He may have been all out， from a scientificpoint of view， but the notion looked all right to him. Jim Bently，by the way， wasn’t interested in their ‘damned silliness’. Andynoticed an empty treacle-tin—the sort with the little tin neckor spout soldered on to the top for the convenience of pouringout the treacle—and it struck him that this would have madethe best kind of cartridge-case： he would only have had to pourin the powder， stick the fuse in through the neck， and cork andseal it with bees’-wax. He was turning to suggest this to Dave，when Dave glanced over his shoulder to see how the chops weredoing—and bolted. He explained afterwards that he thought heheard the pan spluttering extra， and looked to see if the chopswere burning. Jim Bently looked behind and bolted after Dave.
Andy stood stock-still， staring after them.
‘Run， Andy！ run！’ they shouted back at him. ‘Run！！！ Lookbehind you， you fool！’ Andy turned slowly and looked， andthere， close behind him， was the retriever with the cartridge inhis mouth—wedged into his broadest and silliest grin. And thatwasn’t all. The dog had come round the fire to Andy， and theloose end of the fuse had trailed and waggled over the burningsticks into the blaze； Andy had slit and nicked the firing end ofthe fuse well， and now it was hissing and spitting properly.
Andy’s legs started with a jolt； his legs started before hisbrain did， and he made after Dave and Jim. And the dogfollowed Andy.
Dave and Jim were good runners—Jim the best—for a shortdistance； Andy was slow and heavy， but he had the strengthand the wind and could last. The dog leapt and caperedround him， delighted as a dog could be to find his mates，as he thought， on for a frolic. Dave and Jim kept shoutingback， ‘Don’t foller us！ don’t foller us， you coloured fool！’ butAndy kept on， no matter how they dodged. They could neverexplain， any more than the dog， why they followed each other，but so they ran， Dave keeping in Jim’s track in all its turnings，Andy after Dave， and the dog circling round Andy—the livefuse swishing in all directions and hissing and spluttering andstinking. Jim yelling to Dave not to follow him， Dave shoutingto Andy to go in another direction—to ‘spread out’， and Andyroaring at the dog to go home. Then Andy’s brain began towork， stimulated by the crisis： he tried to get a running kick atthe dog， but the dog dodged； he snatched up sticks and stonesand threw them at the dog and ran on again. The retrieversaw that he’d made a mistake about Andy， and left him andbounded after Dave. Dave， who had the presence of mind tothink that the fuse’s time wasn’t up yet， made a dive and a grabfor the dog， caught him by the tail， and as he swung roundsnatched the cartridge out of his mouth and flung it as far as hecould： the dog immediately bounded after it and retrieved it.
Dave roared and cursed at the dog， who seeing that Dave wasoffended， left him and went after Jim， who was well ahead.
Jim swung to a sapling and went up it like a native bear； itwas a young sapling， and Jim couldn’t safely get more thanten or twelve feet from the ground. The dog laid the cartridge，as carefully as if it was a kitten， at the foot of the sapling， andcapered and leaped and whooped joyously round under Jim.
The big pup reckoned that this was part of the lark—he wasall right now—it was Jim who was out for a spree. The fusesounded as if it were going a mile a minute. Jim tried to climbhigher and the sapling bent and cracked. Jim fell on his feetand ran. The dog swooped on the cartridge and followed. Itall took but a very few moments. Jim ran to a digger’s hole，about ten feet deep， and dropped down into it—landing on softmud—and was safe. The dog grinned sardonically down onhim， over the edge， for a moment， as if he thought it would bea good lark to drop the cartridge down on Jim.
‘Go away， Tommy，’ said Jim feebly， ‘go away.’
The dog bounded off after Dave， who was the only one insight now； Andy had dropped behind a log， where he lay flaton his face， having suddenly remembered a picture of theRusso-Turkish war with a circle of Turks lying flat on theirfaces （as if they were ashamed） round a newly-arrived shell.
There was a small hotel or shanty on the creek， on the mainroad， not far from the claim. Dave was desperate， the time flewmuch faster in his stimulated imagination than it did in reality，so he made for the shanty. There were several casual Bushmenon the verandah and in the bar； Dave rushed into the bar，banging the door to behind him. ‘My dog！’ he gasped， in replyto the astonished stare of the publican， ‘the blanky retriever—he’s got a live cartridge in his mouth—’