"'Tis life, of which our nerves are scant, O life, not death, for which we pant, More life and fuller that we want."
Yes, that was it. He wanted life, wanted it eagerly, wanted it thirstily, wanted it desperately. Never before had it seemed so sweet. An hour earlier it had stretched before him, full of promise. The blood ran warm and riotous through every vein. He had everything to live for—health, strength, home and friends. And now the ending of all his dreams and hopes and plans was—what?
A shadow fell across him. He looked up. It was the vulture, circling lower now, as though its instinct told it of a coming feast. Dick shuddered. The air seemed suddenly to have grown deadly chill.
CHAPTER II
THE PURSUIT
Down at the ravine, stretched out at full length beneath the shade of a great tree, Bert and Tom were watching the progress of the work, as it slowly neared completion. There was more to do than was at first thought, but after making allowance for this, it seemed to drag on endlessly.
"Not much genius in that crowd, I imagine," said Bert.
"What do you mean?" asked Tom, looking up in surprise.
"Why," returned Bert, "I forget what philosopher it was—Carlyle, I think—who says in one of his books that 'genius is only an infinite capacity for hard work.' You don't see much of it straying around loose here, do you?"
"Well no," laughed Tom, "not so that you would notice it. I've just been looking at that fellow over there with a hammer. I'll bet I could take a nap in the time it takes him to drive a nail."