"Suppose the lightning struck us," suggested Putt, and Beer scanned the sky.
"Can't without a Bible miracle; an', good or bad, the size of this job be too small for that. What harm falls will most surely fall 'pon master, not us."
"If I thought Miss Grace would suffer, I'd see the stone rot to dust afore I'd touch it," declared Putt.
"Whether or no, we've got to pull down Childe's Tomb, an' make a bridge; an' my conscience, an' my wages, an' my common sense all point the same way, so here goes," summed up Mr. Beer.
"I'm with you," said Bickford.
"An' me too," added Putt; "an' come Judgment Day, if there's a sharp word said to me, I shall name your name, Dick Beer."
"An' you, Harvey?"
For answer Mr. Woodman turned to the sledge that his son had brought up. From this he took a rope and some long irons.
"Come on! Let's get it over. Once the cross be down, our minds will grow easier. 'Tis the shape, I tell you, as makes us so weak for a moment."
"God forgive you, souls!" cried Smallridge; "an' mind, when you'm wading waist-deep in trouble, that it weren't no fault of mine. Bide till I be out of sight, that's all. Then you an' this here crooked old Apollyon can go to your wicked work."