"Hard rock!" muttered Reade. "The blast didn't make much of a dent. Hand me a pick, one of you."
Then Tom swung it with all the force and skill of which he was possessed.
Some of the miners, who thought themselves strong men, looked on admiringly as Tom swung the pick again and again.
Clack! clack! clack!
"Some muscle there," proclaimed Tim Walsh. "I didn't think it was in a slim fellow like you."
"I haven't so much muscle," Tom informed him, "but I have a tremendous amount at stake here. One of you shovelmen come forward and get this stuff back."
Reade went tirelessly on with his pick. Some of the big fellows came forward with their tools and worked beside him. Tom still led.
For half an hour all hands worked blithely. Then Tom, halting, called them off.
"No use to go any further, boys, until we get some dynamite," he declared. "We're striking into harder and harder rock every minute. We are dulling our tools without making any headway."
"Dynamite?" asked Jim Ferrers, who had been looking over the shoveled back rook with Harry. "Where are we going to get any?"