"Yes. I'll let you know in a minute."
The surveyor came in. "Forty one minutes is my best guess."
"From when?"
"From the time the pump failed."
"That was four minutes ago—nearer five. And five more before we can start cutting. Forty one less ten is thirty one. Thirty one into sixty nine point two goes...."
"Two point two three feet per minute, my slip-stick says."
"Thanks. Wright, what would you say is the biggest sag we can cut in this kind of rock at two and a quarter feet a minute?"
"Um ... m ... m". The miner scratched his whiskery chin. "That's a tough one, boss. You'll hafta figure damn close to a hundred pounds of air to the foot on plain cuttin'—that's two hundred and a quarter. But without a burley to pimp for 'er, a rotary can't take that kind of air—she'll foul herself to a standstill before she cuts a foot. An' with a burley riggin' she's got to make damn near a double cut—seven foot inside figger—so any way you look at it you ain't goin' to cut no two foot to the minute."
"I was hoping you wouldn't check my figures, but you do. So we'll cut five feet. Saw your timbers accordingly. We'll hold that burley by hand."
Wright shook his head dubiously. "We don't want to die down here any more than you do, boss, so we'll do our damndest—but how in hell do you figure you can hold her to her work?"