“No.” Bee opened and closed his hand experimentally. “That’s funny, isn’t it? I suppose my hands are pretty soft.”
“Probably,” said Jack. “Where do you want to dig this?”
“I thought we’d dig a trench about two and a half feet deep right along here. I’ll just tie a handkerchief around this and help you in a minute.”
“You sit down and tend your wounds,” said Hal. “I’ll take the shovel a while. I guess my hands are as soft as yours, though.”
“I’ve heard rosin was good for them,” said Bee.
“If you hold the shovel loosely, Hal, and stop when you feel the blisters coming you’ll be all right. As soon as I get out of the way you can come along behind with your shovel.”
“Just like a couple of Italians digging a trench for gas pipes,” murmured Hal. “I never thought I’d live to see this day!”
Bee washed his sore hand with sea water and wrapped a handkerchief about it. Hal fell in behind Jack and shoveled aside the sod and dirt loosened by the pick. With coats off and sleeves rolled up the two boys labored valiantly and at the end of half an hour had a trench some eight feet long and a foot deep. The soil was a thin, dusty brown loam, with streaks of coarse gray sand which Jack said was disintegrated granite. Hal, wiping his forehead, said he was quite ready to believe it, and didn’t Jack want to swap implements awhile? Bee said they were getting on finely and thought there were fewer stones than higher up.
“Maybe there won’t be any in the next trench,” he said hopefully.