“That’s what I should guess,” said Joe. “But there’s another thing, Phil, a good deal queerer than a mere crack in the ground. Lie down and put your ear over the hole and listen.”
I did as directed, and then at length I understood where the “queerness” came in. I could distinctly hear the rush of water down below!
Rising to my knees, I stared at Joe, who, kneeling also, stared back at me, both keeping silence for a few seconds. At length:
“Where does it come from, Joe?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” Joe replied. “Mount Lincoln, perhaps. But I do know where it goes to.”
“You do? Where?”
“Down to ‘the forty rods,’ of course.”
“That’s it!” I cried, thumping my fist into the palm of the other hand. “That’s certainly it! Look here, Joe. I’ll tell you what we’ll do. We’ll quit hauling rock for this morning, go and get a long rope, climb down into this crack, see how much water there is, and find out if we can where it goes to.”
“All right,” said Joe. “Your father won’t object, I’m sure.”