The complete lack of spirit evinced by the men irritated Toppy. Was Reivers right after all? Were they nothing but clods, undeserving of fair and intelligent treatment?
“Hey! Wake up there! You look like a bunch of corpses. Show some life!” cried Toppy, in whom the bitter morning air was sending the red blood tingling.
The men did not raise their heads. They quickened their stumbling steps a little, as a heavy horse shambles forward a little under the whip. One or two looked back, beyond where Toppy was walking at the side of the line. Treplin with curiosity followed their glances. A grim-lipped shotgun guard with a hideous hawk nose had emerged from the darkness, and with his short-barrelled weapon in the crook of his arm was following the line at a distance of fifty or sixty feet. Toppy halted abruptly. So did the guard.
“What’s the idea?” demanded Toppy. “Reivers send you?”
“Yes,” said the guard gruffly.
“Does it take two of us to make this gang work?” Toppy was irritated. Reivers, he knew, would have handled the gang alone.
“The boss sent me,” said the guard, with a finality that indicated that for him that ended the discussion.
The daylight now came wanly up the gap made in the forest by the brawling river, and the men stood irresolute before the quarry and peered up anxiously at the roof of the pit.
“Grab your tools,” said Toppy. “Get in there and get to it.”
The men, some of them taking picks and crowbars, some wheelbarrows, were soon ready to begin the day’s work. But there was a hitch somewhere. They stood at the entrance to the pit and did not go in. They looked up at the threatening roof; then they looked anxiously, pleadingly, at Toppy. But Toppy was thinking savagely of how Reivers would have handled the gang alone and he paid no attention.