“It’ll be more fun, though, when they strike hard pan, for then they’ll begin to blast.”
It was not Paul who said this, but Mr. Keith. He and Captain Bradstreet had now joined the boys and were standing with them near the well. “When they begin to blast, Kirke, you must come down here and make us a little visit,” added Mr. Keith.
Kirke accepted the invitation eagerly, for, like most boys of thirteen, he revelled in the explosion of gunpowder.
“Let’s see, can’t you come Saturday, bright and early? I’ve promised to let Sing Wung go home Friday, and Paul will drive out for him Saturday morning, and could bring you back with him as well as not.”
“O Mr. Keith, I hope I can come,” said Kirke joyously, as he and the captain took their departure.
But in repassing the olive-orchard the youth’s happy face clouded. In the distance he caught a glimpse of Sing Wung in the very act of flinging a stone at little Shot, who, forgetful of the recent repulse, had frisked again into his neighborhood.
“If that old Chinaman wasn’t so far off I’d give him ‘Hail Columbia!’” muttered he. “Mean creature! Wouldn’t I like to dump him into that new well?”
“No; you certainly wouldn’t,” said the captain with an indulgent smile. “On the contrary, I’ll wager that if he should fall in, you’d be the first to help pull him out.”
Kirke was indignantly protesting that he “should do no such thing,” when suddenly the horse, Pizarro, stumbled upon a rolling stone and turned a half-somersault down the hill.
In an instant Captain Bradstreet and Kirke had leaped to the ground.