The next minute, headed by their chief, a line of men, like ants from a disturbed hill, were seen staggering beneath their burdens up the rugged steps to the top of the dam.
“Phew! This here’s a heavy one!” panted the north-country man as they reached the top. “Say, maister, it’ll be dangerous to be safe for us if the wall goes now.”
The words were uttered in such a cheery tone, that, in spite of their peril, a hearty laugh rose from the party, and, as Mr Willows paused for a moment to gaze downward and see how on both the steep sides of the valley his commands were being carried out, a grim smile for a moment relaxed his tightened lips.
“Now,” he cried, “do as I do,” as he bent himself to his task, and stepping to the end of the wall where the whirlpool seen first by Will had begun to look more worthy of its name—for it was three times as swift and mighty as at its birth—he leaned forward and softly dropped in the great stone he carried, and stood back to let the others follow suit.
“It seems a mere nothing,” he said, as the last stone was cast, “but it is all that we can do, and we must keep on.”
“Ahoy, there!” came from the opposite end just then. “What’s the matter, Mr Willows?” and the burly figure of the artist came hurrying across the dam. “Not safe?”
There was another hail, and the Vicar came hurrying down the path, preceded by his son.
“Why, Willows,” he cried, breathlessly, “surely the dam is not giving way?”
“Oh, father!” faltered Josh. “It must be that—that—”
“What do you mean, boy? Speak!”