"Go to it!" said Ambrose, pointing to the machinery. He lit plenty of lanterns, careless now if the fort were aroused. They had to wake up sooner or later. "You can smoke," he said to his men.
Matches were quickly struck, and coals pressed into pipe bowls with guttural grunts of satisfaction.
Greer lit a cigarette, and picked up his oil can and wrench as a matter of course. He set to work, whistling softly between his teeth.
Ambrose, watching him, could not make up his mind whether this was due to pluck or sheer light-headedness. Either way, he was inclined to like the boy.
"I say, Ambrose," Greer said cheekily. "Give us a hand with these bolting frames, will you? Do you want fine flour or coarse?"
"The most in the least time," said Ambrose.
"We'll leave in the middlings then. It's wholesome."
They worked amicably together. Greer in his simplicity explained everything as they went, and Ambrose cannily stored it away.
Fortunately, the mill had lately been operated, grinding the grain from the Crossing, and all was practically in readiness to start. Within an hour after the landing of the party, Tole turned on his steam.
The wheels began to revolve, Greer threw in the clutch, and presently a veritable stream of flour began to issue from the mouth of the machine. Ambrose repressed an inclination to cheer.