“Ay, Mas’r Harry, that’s just what it is, ’specially when you gets ladling out the soup and pouring it into the moulds. Fine rich soup, ain’t it?” he said with a grin.
“The richest of the rich, Tom.”
“Ah! it is, Mas’r Harry; but it is hot work, and no mistake, and it sets me thinking a deal.”
“Well, Tom, what of?” I asked, for we were waiting for the melting.
“’Bout setting up soap-boiling out here, Mas’r Harry,” he said, grinning.
“Well, what about it, Tom?”
“’Twouldn’t do, Mas’r Harry,” said Tom. “First of all, the work would be a deal too hot; second of all, the trade wouldn’t pay, ’cause the people look as if they never washed. No, Mas’r Harry, I don’t think the folks here are fond of soap.”
Two months of hard toil did we spend over that melting down. For first of all, there was the preparation of the furnace; and a very hard task that was, there being such difficulty in getting proper materials. Stone seemed to go first into scales, and then into powder. The bricks we obtained cracked; and it was not until my uncle had mixed up some clay in a peculiar manner, and beaten it up into bricks of a big, rough shape, that we managed to get on. These bricks we built up into the furnace, and then slowly dried by leaving in a small fire; and this we increased till it was hot enough to burn the rough bricks, which, as we increased the fire to a furious pitch, seemed to fuse the whole together into a solid mass.
Then we had our hiding-place to dig out; and all this work had to be done in such a secret way that it used to make me think of Baron Trenck in prison, so careful and watchful were we in all we did.
Industry mastered it all though at last; and, weary as Tom must have been of his job, he began to feel at last that the gold was worth working for.