The prisoners worked on in silence. Each stroke that Chester took he felt sure would be his last. But he gritted his teeth and stuck to it, and some way he always found the strength for one more blow.
Harding nodded approvingly.
“They’ll do,” he muttered.
Strange as it may seem, after another half hour’s work Hal felt his strength returning to him. It took less effort to wield his pick. The lad was hungry and he felt an uncomfortable gnawing within, but the dizziness had left him.
Chester also began to feel better. The faintness left and color returned to his cheeks.
“Six months of this work,” he whispered to Hal, “and I’ll be able to lick your marine friend, Bowers, without exerting myself.”
Hal smiled slightly, but he drew a breath of relief. When Chester talked like that he was not badly hurt.
“What time do we quit?” Hal asked of Harding in a low voice.
“Usually about two o’clock,” was the reply.
“What! Don’t we knock off to eat?”