"How long, Rudie, how long ?" He smothered a groan.

"Too long, or too short, spoils everything.

Oh, well--here goes." The blade moved.
"Now lie across," he ordered, "and shield the tandstickor." With a sudden fuff, the match blazed up to show his gray eyes bright and dancing, his face glossy with sweat; below, on the golden clay, the twisted, lumpy tail of the fuse, like the end of a dusty vine.

Darkness followed, quick and blinding.

A rosy, fitful coal sputtered, darting out short capillary lines and needles of fire.
"Cut sticks--go like the devil! If it blows up, and caves the earth on us--" Heywood ran on hands and knees, as if that were his natural way of going.