"Seven is supposed to be a lucky number," spoke Phil, "and I think it will prove so with us."
After which Emu Bill went back to slumber, and Phil went down to labour in the shaft. "You've got tae mind," instructed Mac, who manipulated his descent, "when you want the bucket jist lift up yer voice tae that effeck, and I'll drap it doon gently on the end o' the rope."
Phil promised, and was speedily lowered into the darkness, and Mac, neglecting his post at once, came round into the tent, where Stewart and myself were trying hard to find a half-hour's oblivion in the realms of dreamland, and the myriad flies buzzing everywhere were trying equally hard, and with greater success, to prevent our succumbing to the soft influence. Mac's entrance at this moment was particularly distasteful to his comrade, who was just on the verge of sweet unconsciousness, and whose essayed snores were beginning to alarm the flies besieging his face.
"Go awa' oot this meenit, Mac," said he, opening his eyes, "and tak' yer big feet aff ma stummick at aince."
Just then a far-away cry of "Bucket" was vaguely heard, and calmly ignored by the new-comer. "Stewart, ma man," he began, sitting down on a portion of the weary one's anatomy, "I wis wantin' tae get yer idees on one or twa maitters o' scienteefic interest."
"Get out, Mac!" I ordered. But he seemed not to hear, and another hoarse call for "Bucket" passed unobserved.
"I wis wantin', for instance," he continued earnestly, "tae speak wi' ye ser'usly on metapheesical quest-shuns——"
"Let me alane!" Stewart howled, writhing in torment. But his visitor was not to be shaken off.
Five minutes later a stentorian yell from the shaft intimated that Phil's patience was being unduly strained, and Mac reluctantly desisted from expounding further the intricacies of science, and rose to go. As may be understood, the bottom of a narrow and deep pit is not the most pleasant of places in which to idle away the time, and Phil, after digging as much as the limited area of operations would allow, was filled with wrath at the neglect of his associate, and cursed that worthy gentleman with fervour between his shouts. "Bucket!" he roared, for the twentieth time, and Mac, who was then scrambling towards the windlass, inwardly commented on the unusual savageness of the voice. "He's a wee bit annoyed," he murmured. "I'll better try an' propeetiate him." So he leaned his head over the shaft mouth and whispered in winning tones, "Are ye vera faur doon, Pheel-up?"