“Confidence—mutual confidence in each other!” Mr. Wagg walked away. When he came back past Vaniman, patrolling, he snapped: “No more talk! No more need of talk. Never can tell when talk may trip us. From now on, sit tight!”
After that, though days passed, Wagg had not one word for the amelioration of the convict's impatience. Then, one day, Wagg changed his job again. Vaniman was kept at the same work, if work it could be called. He caught glimpses of Wagg. The guard was busy on the opposite side of the big pit. He had two or three convict helpers. They began to operate drills in the side of a rocky hillock which towered considerably above the level of the yard.
News circulates inside prison walls despite the inhibition on communications between the inmates. Vaniman got information piecemeal from convicts who stopped near him on the pretense of spitting on their hands to get a new grip on their barrow handles. He learned that the plan was to mine the hillock and rig a blast that would tip it into the pit for filling. The barrow work was proving too slow an operation and the prison commissioners wanted the outside men put back into the shops where they could earn money for the state.
It was evident that Guard Wagg was having a great deal of trouble with his helpers. He was continually bawling them out with a violence whose volume reached the ears of Vaniman.
One day Wagg perceived the warden inspecting the work from the edge of the pit near Vaniman; the guard came trotting around.
“Warden, I'm an expert on quarry work, as you know,” he panted. “I'm doing my best to show you that I haven't forgotten what I learned over at Stoneport, and to back up what I promised you and the commissioners after I gave you the tip as to what could be done with that hill. Much obliged to you for allowing me all the dynamite I need. But, demmit! I haven't got anybody with brains to help me handle it. It's notional stuff, sir. It hates a blasted fool.” He pointed a finger at the men across the pit. Their striped suits suggested the nomenclature he used “Those potato bugs will do something to blow us to blazes sure'n there's air in a doughnut hole!”
The warden showed his concern. “Don't you know of some man who is used to dynamite?”
“That ain't it, sir. A fool gets used to it, till he's too cussed familiar. I want a man with brains enough to be polite to it.”
The warden, making a general survey of the scene, beheld Vaniman. “A man who knows enough to be a bank cashier ought to have brains, Wagg. How about Number Two-Seven-Nine?”
Mr. Wagg contemplated Vaniman and took plenty of time for thought. “I'll try him,” he said, without enthusiasm. “I hadn't thought of him—but I'll try him.”