Taking it on the chin was sort of a Steele family motto. John Steele had no use for whiners or whimperers, boys who complained that their coach didn’t like them or their teacher was unfair. He had always taught his son to be dogged. “It’s the dogged men who get things done, Sandy,” he would say. “Even if most of the world’s applause often goes to the flash-in-the-pan.”
Remembering this, Sandy lifted his chin and tried to grin. “What do we do now, Dad,” he said, “punt?”
Mr. Steele smiled. “That’s the spirit, son,” he said. “Now, listen. The sun will come up tomorrow just as it always does and by then you may be over this little disappointment. So supposing you two walk around the mines a bit while I finish my work, and then we can have dinner and talk things over.”
“Okay, Dad,” Sandy said.
“Sure thing, Mr. Steele,” said Jerry.
Trying to hold their heads higher than they felt like holding them, the two boys turned and strolled off toward the lake shore. As they walked, they hardly heard the rattle-and-bang of the steam shovels digging ever deeper into the hillsides. Nor were they very much aware of the railroad cars that would receive the ore and then go clattering out on the ore docks to fill the holds of the ships. They were too deeply plunged into gloomy thoughts of the long, dull summer that lay ahead of them back home in Valley View.
CHAPTER THREE
Bull’s-Eye
Suddenly, Sandy Steele stiffened. He grabbed his chum by the arm and pointed in horror toward the lake.
There, not a hundred feet away, an elderly, white-haired, finely dressed gentleman stood gazing at one of the loading boats. He was absolutely unaware of the certain death that traveled toward him in the shape of a wildly swinging ore bucket.
“Down!” Sandy shouted. “Down, sir!”