“When do they get home?”asked Tom. “Have you heard from them since they left?”
“Why!”I cried, suddenly remembering the letter Yetmore had brought up from San Remo the previous evening. “I have a letter from my father in my pocket now. I’d forgotten all about it.”
Quickly tearing it open, I read it through. It was very short, being written mainly with the object of informing me that he was delayed and would not be home until the afternoon of the following Wednesday. This was Friday.
“Joe!”I shouted; and Joe, who was in the stable, came running at the call. “Joe,”I cried, “we have till Wednesday afternoon to turn that stream. Four full days. Tom is going to help us. Peter will take the chores. Can we make it?”
“Good!”cried Joe. “Great! Make it? I should think so. We’ll do it if we have to work night and day. My! But this is fine!”
He rubbed his hands in anticipation of the task ahead of him. I never did know a fellow who took such delight in tackling a job which had every appearance of being just a little too big for him.
We did not waste any time, you may be sure. Having picked out the necessary tools, we went off at once, taking our dinners with us, and arriving at the foot of the “bubble,”we carried up into the crater the drills, hammers and other munitions of war we had brought with us.
“I thought you said there was a driblet of water running out at the crevice,”remarked Tom. “I don’t see it.”
“There was yesterday,”I replied, “but it seems to have stopped. I wonder why.”
“That’s easily accounted for,”said Joe. “It was those sacks lying in the channel which backed up the water and made it overflow, and when Long John cleared the course by pulling out the sacks it didn’t overflow any more.”