“Almost half-past ten,” replied Jack. Bee’s face fell.
“Really? Well, it took me longer than I thought then.” He sat down on the side of the bank and reflectively examined four big purple blisters that decorated the palms of his hands.
“They’ll break pretty soon,” said Hal cheerfully. “Then you won’t be able to shovel. How long have you been at it?”
“An hour, or a little more.”
“And that’s all you’ve done!”
“It’s hard in places. Look at the rocks.”
“There’s no use digging where the ground has never been disturbed before,” said Jack, who was examining the rusty nail, “and that ground never has. See the way those stones fit against each other. You’re at the foot of a ledge, I guess; that stuff looks like rotten granite.” He tossed the nail aside and Bee quickly rescued it and dropped it into his pocket.
“I’ll try farther down,” he murmured. He climbed out of the hole, measured off two feet on the slope and began again with the pick. But it was evident that Bee’s enthusiasm was suffering a temporary eclipse. The half-dozen blows he struck were weak and uncertain. Suddenly he put the pick down and looked at the palm of his right hand.
“Has it broken?” asked Hal eagerly. Bee nodded and reached for his handkerchief to tie around it. But Jack interposed.
“Here,” he said, “give me that pick. I’ll dig for awhile. You rest. And you’d better wash that blister and keep the dirt out of it. Haven’t an old pair of gloves with you, have you?”