"We 're nearing the end, Boy. Tackle the foot wall."
They said no more. Fairchild withdrew his drill from the "swimmer" or straightforward powder hole and turned far to the other side of the chamber, where the sloping foot wall showed for a few feet before it dived under the muck and refuse. There, gad in hand, he pecked about the surface, seeking a spot where the rock had splintered, thereby affording a softer entrance for the biting surface of the drill. Spot after spot he prospected, suddenly to stop and bend forward. At last came an exclamation, surprised, wondering:
"Harry!"
"Yeh."
"Come here."
The Cornishman left his work and walked to Fairchild's side. The younger man pointed.
"Do you ever fill up drill holes with cement?" he asked.
"Not as I know of. Why?"
"There 's one." Fairchild raised his gad and chipped away the softer surface of the rock, leaving a tubular protuberance of cement extending. Harry stared.
"What the bloody 'ell?" he conjectured. "D' you suppose—" Then, with a sudden resolution: "Drill there! Gad a 'ole off to one side a bit and drill there. It seems to me Sissie Larsen put a 'ole there or something—I can't remember. But drill. It can't do any 'arm."