“Oh, but you must be—you had better rest yourself a little.”
“Thank you, but I’m not the least tired.”
Another five minutes.—“Well, Mr Prose, I really give you great credit for your perseverance. Let me see how deep you are,” said Macallan, who could find no other excuse for being the first to abandon his task.
But Prose, who was not exactly a fool, determined not to lose his credit with the doctor—pushing aside the native, he took the crowbar from him, and before the doctor had walked round, was again hard at work.
“Upon my honour I give you great credit,” observed the panting Macallan, as he witnessed the effects of the labour.
“But,” observed Prose, “why should we work this way when there are a parcel of black fellows doing nothing? here, I say, you chap, come and punch here,” continued he, pointing the crowbar to the native, who immediately resumed his labour. “You call another, Mr Macallan, and make him work for you.”
“Well thought of; Mr Prose,” answered the doctor, and another native being put in requisition, in less than an hour the rock was perforated to the depth required, without the least appearance of fatigue, or even heat upon the skins of the temperate Hindoos. In the meantime the tent was erected, the mats and carpets spread, the fires lighted, and the repast preparing by the cooks who were in attendance. The doctor, who was absorbed in his views, heeded it not, and had just finished the charging and priming of the rock when the cavalcade returned from their excursion.
“Well, doctor, how do you get on?” inquired Courtenay.
“Oh, I’m all ready, and you had better remove to a little distance, as I’m about to fire my trains.”
“Fire your trains!—Why, what have you been about?”