“No, no, Frank,” Katie said, anxiously; “I was only joking. I do hate him, but I would not have you touch him for anything. No, no, dear. Promise me you will keep your temper with him.”
“Yes, Katie; I won’t touch him. I shall probably express my sentiments somewhat forcibly; but, if I know him, when he sees that I am no longer under his thumb, he will know better than to say a word which would give me an excuse for doing it. And now, Katie, it’s half-past nine, and I must go off to bed. Thank God, to-morrow is the last morning. I shall go up to London with the chain the day after to-morrow, pet. I dare not trust it by post.”
Very quickly the next morning’s work passed over Frank. He walked up and down the length of the work, watching the men at work at the various smaller cuttings. He gave a direction here, and asked a question there; but all the time the thought was dancing in his brain, “For the last time, for the last time.” Then he went back to the great cutting. It was a busy sight, with the swarms of men, each working like a part of a great machine, without confusion and without noise, each man knowing what he had to do, and doing it with all his might. The speed with which the long lines of waggons were filled by men below, and men on the bank beside them, and by men wheeling the stuff from points beyond. Sometimes the silence would be broken by the sound of mallets striking upon great wedges, and by a cry of “Look out, lads! she’s moving,” and then down with a crash would come a portion of the face of the high clay wall, previously holed at its foot, as deeply as the men could swing their picks; and then dozens of men would swarm upon the fallen mass and tear it to pieces with picks and spear-headed crowbars, called devils. Sometimes, too, from where the clay was toughest would come a warning cry, and then the dull report of a heavy shot, used instead of the wedges for tearing it asunder.
“It’s jolly work,” Frank said to himself. “With any other master, I should have liked it very much; and, above all, if I were the master myself. Well, I may be some day; who knows?”
It was just twelve o’clock when Fred Bingham was seen coming along the line, on foot, as usual, but with his pretty pony led after him by one of the boys. He looked at everything sharply as he came along, and addressed a few unpleasant remarks to the men at the tip. Then he came on to the entry of the cutting.
“Have the men knocked off?” he asked the ganger.
“Yes, sir; about two minutes since.”
“Hum,” Fred Bingham said, producing his watch. “It wants two minutes to twelve yet by my time.”
“We went to work, sir, by Mr. Maynard’s watch, and we knocked off exactly at twelve.”
“Whether it had been exactly twelve or not, I should have knocked the men off when I did,” said Frank, whom his cousin had not noticed except by a slight nod when he arrived. “I always stop when I have filled a set of waggons, whether it’s five minutes to twelve, or five minutes past.”