“Seaweed,” said Hank. “Look, they are shoving it into a sack on the mule.”
“Well, come on,” said Tommie. She jumped into the sand pit and began to dig, Bud and the Chink following her. Hank rolling a cigarette, sat down and watched the seaweed gatherers.
The tide was half out and they were following it, walking along the extreme edge of the water. Then he saw them stop and take something from the mule’s back.
“Shovels,” said Hank to himself. As chief engineer of the business, Hank, from the first, had been impressed by the fact that the deeper they went the harder the work would be, simply because the sand had to be flung out of the pit. The first few feet in depth it was easy enough, but the depth already gained was beginning to tell, and the banks of excavated stuff to north and south made matters worse by increasing the height over which the sand had to be flung.
“B. C.!” suddenly cried Hank, springing to his feet. “Shovels!”
Candon, who was lying on his back with his hat over his face, resting for a moment, sat up.
Hank was gone, running full speed and whooping as he ran.
He reached the sea edge and caught up with the beach-combers who were digging for huge clams just when a bank of sand and mud touched the true sand. Close to them now, they showed up as three tanned, lean, hard-bitten individuals, carrying big satisfactory heart-shaped Mexican shovels, and looking all nerves and sinews, with faces expressionless as the face of the mule that stood by with its two sacks bulging, one evidently with provender, the other with gathered sea-weed.
“Hi, you jossers,” cried Hank, “want a job, hey? Mucho plenty dollars, dig for Americanos.” He made movements as of digging and pointed towards the sand hole.
“No intende,” replied the tallest of the three.