And all the time he chatted away, coolly enough, the pick was wielded so dexterously, every blow being given to such purpose, that he cut out large pieces of the compressed snow and hooked them out of the rapidly growing hole.
It was the work of a man who had toiled for years amongst the granite deep down in the bowels of the earth, and experience had taught him the value of striking so as to save labour; but all the same the task was a long one, and it grew more difficult the deeper down he went.
“’Bliged to make the hole bigger, my son,” he said; “but you hold up; I sha’n’t be long now. I say, how deep down do you go? Are you a six-footer?”
“No, I’m only about five feet eight,” said Abel, whose face looked terribly pained and drawn.
“Aren’t you now?” said the man coolly. “I should ha’ thought by the look of your head and chest that you were taller. Been a longer job with me. I’m over six foot three, and good measure. There, now that arm’s clear, aren’t it? Can you lift it out?”
Abel shook his head sadly.
“There is no use in it,” he said faintly.
“Might ha’ knowed it. Bit numb like with the cold. But you keep a good heart, and I’ll have you out. It’s only a bit o’ work, and no fear of caving in on us. Just child’s play like. There’s one arm clear, and a bit of your side, and the rest’ll soon follow.”
The man paused in the act of getting the the top off the spirit-flask, and shouted to his companions, “Hoi! Here, quick, lads, and help me here. My one’s going out.”
For a ghastly look crossed Abel’s face, his eyes grew fixed, as they half-closed, and his head fell over on one side.