“I’m jiggered!” he ejaculated, gazing at Ernest Wilton from the tip of his boots to the top of his head. “You air a screamer, an’ no mistake!”
Even Mr Rawlings, generally so sedate of demeanour, in contrast to Seth Allport, who usually went into extremes, became enthusiastic.
“My dear boy,” said he, grasping both of Ernest’s hands and shaking them with much heartiness, “you’ll be the making of us all.”
“I shall try to be,” said the young engineer; “for I certainly don’t intend to be content with merely clearing the mine of water. You don’t know half the value of your property yet; why, that quartz there,” waving his hand towards a heap of the débris that had been extracted from the shaft and cast aside as waste, “if passed through a crushing mill would yield a handsome premium.”
“I know,” said Mr Rawlings sadly. “But I couldn’t afford the machinery.”
“We’ll soon manufacture it, with a little help from the nearest town, where we can get some of the articles we can’t make,” said Ernest Wilton sanguinely; “we’ve got the power to drive the machinery, and that’s the main thing, my dear sir. We’ll soon manage the rest.”
“I’m sure I hope so,” replied Mr Rawlings; but he had received such a chock from the mine already, on account of its turning out so differently to his expectations, that he could not feel sanguine all at once, like the young engineer who had not experienced those weary months of waiting and hope deferred, as he had.
Not so Seth, however. His tone of mind was very opposite to that of Mr Rawlings.
The ex-mate was as confident of their success now as when they had started from Boston, before he or the rest knew the perils and arduous toil they would have to undergo. All those trials vanished as if by magic from his memory, as quickly as the winter snow was now melting away from the landscape around them, and he thought he could see the golden future right in front of his mental gaze, all obstacles being cleared away in a moment by Ernest Wilton’s hopeful words.
“Hooray, Rawlings!” he exclaimed excitedly, twirling his “cheese-cutter” cap round his head, and executing a sort of hop, skip, and jump of delight. “The Britisher’s the boy for us! I guess we’ll strike ile now, and no flies, you bet, sirree!”