the building, he seemed to look upon it as his duty to see that all went on steadily and well.
The sixth day had come round, and the gardener reiterated with a grin, as he stared grimly at Glyn, “Ah, we shan’t be done yet. It’s my opinion that it will take a month; and that’s what the ganger thinks too.”
“The ganger?” said Glyn. “Who’s he?”
“Him,” said Wrench, with a sidewise nod in the direction of his feline favourite, who was crouched together in the spot he had selected for looking on.
“Oh, nonsense!” cried Glyn.
“Ah, you may call it nonsense; but you know, Mr Severn, I shouldn’t be at all surprised if that cat thinks. It’s my opinion that he knows there’s holes somewhere down below, just above where the water used to be, and that sooner or later if he waits patiently he will see some of them as lives there come up in the empty bucket for him to hunt.”
“And what are they that live down there?” said Glyn.
“Rats, sir—rats.”
There was some colour given to Slegge’s assertion that Glyn was there to keep the juniors from tumbling down; for the slow, steady lowering and drawing up of the big buckets had a peculiar fascination for some of the youngest boys, notably the little set whose playtime was nearly all monopolised by hard work—to wit, the bowling and fielding for Slegge. Their anxiety was wonderful. If Glyn was not constantly on the watch, one or other would be getting in the men’s way, to peer down into the darkness or rush to where the full buckets were emptied into a drain.
On commencing work upon the sixth morning the water was found to be so lowered that the big buckets had to be removed from rope and chains, for they would not descend far enough to fill. So they were replaced by small ordinary pails; and, the work becoming much lighter, they were wound up and down at a much more rapid rate.