“Heap muchee! Pullee! Pullee!”
Kirke sprang to the windlass, crying, “Lend a hand, Paul. You and I together can hoist the bucket.”
“You’re very kind, boys,” said Mr. Keith gratefully, as he assisted them in emptying the dirt. “We’ll take turns at this business for a little while, if you’re willing. Yeck Wo may soon be here. He’s worth two Mateos.”
For a half hour the work went on briskly, Sing Wung in the depths below filling the bucket, and Mr. Keith and his young aids above ground hauling it to the surface and there dumping its contents.
Then suddenly was heard a sharp, metallic sound,—the scraping of the Chinaman’s spade against a rock.
“He’s struck hard pan,” shouted the excited lads in a breath. “Hurrah! Hurrah! Sing Wung has struck hard pan.”
“You’re right, boys, I believe you’re right,” cried Mr. Keith, hardly less excited than they. “Next thing we may come to water.”
“Are you going to blast now, Mr. Keith? Shall I bring you the drills and hammer?” asked Paul eagerly.
“Yes, Paul, if you please, and a stick of giant powder and the caps and that coil of fuse.”
After these articles had been dropped into the well, Sing Wung began the process of drilling, using the shortest drill first, and longer and longer ones as he pierced farther and farther into the hard pan. He worked quickly, turning the pointed steel instrument a little with his left hand each time he struck its blunt top with the hammer.