“I’ve got to save the mercury anyhow.”
Banule lingered.
“Say,” he hesitated—obviously he found the confession embarrassing or else he hated to lay the final straw upon the camel’s back—“just before you told me to shut down, the motor on the small pump started sparkin’ pretty bad.”
“Yes?” Bruce knew that if Banule admitted it was “pretty bad” it was bad indeed.
“I’ll look it over if we can stop awhile.”
Bruce shook his head.
“There’s not an hour to lose. It’s going to storm; I must get done.”
“I ’spose we can start.” Banule looked dubious. “I’ll try it, but I think we’ll have to quit.”
Was there anything more that could happen? Bruce asked himself in dumb misery as he picked up his scoop and brush and mechanically went to work when the pumps started and the water came.
His feet and hands were soon like ice but he was scarcely conscious of the pain for his heart-ache was so much greater. As he pursued the elusive quicksilver and worked the sand and gravel to the end of the box all he could see was the stack of receipted bills which the work and plant had cost, in shocking contrast to that tiny ball of amalgam lying in the chamois-skin on the rock. He had spent all of $40,000 and he doubted if he would take $20 from the entire clean-up as it now looked.