went the picks; down and up, down and up, went the shovels, tossing the shining clouds of sand.
The heads of the delvers were below sea level now, and water was seeping around their boots.
"It's a fake lead, Ben," said the bosun, "we've gone eight feet now."
Ben vaulted to the level again. The captain was coming towards them, a bit restless after the holiday, and eager to see the wind belly the sails of his ship once more.
"No luck, Ben?" he asked, his middle finger tamping the olive shavings, mixed with black speckles of perique in the bowl of his pipe.
"It's nothing but a fool yarn after all. We were crazy to even half believe it," replied the boy. He surveyed the area around them, which, with its dozens of trenches, looked as if it had been sown all over with little sticks of dynamite and impatiently discharged by some seeker for the gold.
"That handsome friend of yours, Sally, was joshin' you."
"Not at all, Mr. Benjamin Boltwood, I believe him."
"You'd better not," the Captain interrupted. "Anyway, our spree is over."
"You promised three days. Wait till tonight," she pleaded. "You men make me tired, if you want to know the truth. Ben give me that pick."
Into the ditch she leaped, not caring at all that the water soaked the black ties, and struggled with the pick, while Ben laughed at the height she raised the heavy implement in the air.
