Having assured himself of the Chinaman’s skill, Mr. Keith soon shouted to him, “Call me as soon as the hole is three feet deep,” and followed by the boys walked away for a drink of cool water from the Mexican olla on the veranda.
“It will take the man two hours at the least,” he remarked, as he reached for the gourd, “and perhaps half a day. There is nothing yet for Mateo to do.”
In about two hours and a half they were summoned by the sharp voice of Sing Wung. He had finished the drilling and awaited further instructions.
“The next thing to do, Sing Wung, is to fit one of those percussion caps to the end of the fuse,” cried Mr. Keith, when he had reached the surface of the well.
“Yah!” growled Sing Wung, like an imprisoned bear beneath.
“Well, now tie the fuse into the paper wrapped around the stick of powder. Do you hear?”
“Yah!” louder than before.
“A half stick of the giant powder will be enough. Then drop the powder, cap, and fuse into the hole, and press down with a lot of dry earth. Do you understand?”
“No tellee! Makee holee all samee,” muttered the Chinaman sulkily. Had he not blasted hard pan before?
“Then cut off the fuse about four feet from the hole, Sing Wung.”