The Republican. [volume] (Oakland, Md.) 1877-current, 1898-01-20

this was the excuse which his father
had to offer to defend him from the
charge of untruthfulness!
He stumbled onward and upward aim
lessly through the forest until he came
out on the brink of deep cutting
running straight up the talus of the
mountain. 1t was the grade for the
new incline railway, and Phil sat down
on the edge of the cutting, and tossed
idle pebbles into the big rift.
Il wish I'd died before l did ill., he
bewailed, in a fresh upheaval of misery.
But me die! I'd be afraid to die a
born coward father said, and it's just
what l am. wonder why? Sometimes,
when I've heard them tell how Grandpa
Chisholm went out in hailstorm of
bullets on this very mountain, and
dragged that wounded soldier back into
the trenches, I've felt as if could do
can't take licking. Seems as if I'd
sooner drop down and die, and l reckon
l did worse'n that to-day"
fresh wave of shame went to his
cheeks. He got up and loosened small
| bowlder with his foot. 1t clattered
down into the ravine, striking sparks
from stones in its fight, and as if the
small commotion had been signal, the
echo of a blast, then a second and
third, rolled down the mountain.
They We're working night shifts on
the rock cutting through the cliff at the
summit, and Phil listened for the pat
tering of the stones higher up on the
slope. When silence succeeded, to be
broken presently by the clinking of
drills, he turned his face homeward.
AT the foot of the slope he stopped
in the shadow of a great beech, opened
his pocket knife, and cut rude outline
of skull and cross-bones in the smooth
bark by the last glimmering of the day
light. He had made VOW and recorded
it.
II don't know what it'll be, and don't
care" he said, desperately. But the
very next time I feel it coming, I'm 60
ing to remember what father said. and
stand up TO it if it kills me-
The next day but one was holiday,
and Phil with half a dozen of the BOYS
climbed to the mountain top to watch
the blasting at the summit. Phil was
always in demand for range field.
No boy of them all knew more about the
plants and flowers on the mountain,
and none was better woodsman or
cliff climber.
They went roundabout way and APP
preached the rock cutting from the top.
The quarrymen were working up
through the cliff on a series of benches
which looked like gigantic flight of
stairs, and the narrow, artificial gorge
was a scene of busy activity. All up
and down the cut the pick and shovel
men were at work removing the loose
rock, and on one of the lower benches
three stalwart negroes were sinking a
huge churn drill, one sitting on an
empty powder can and the others stand
ing.
The men sang at their work. and the
hollow slunch of the big drill alternat-
ed with the ringing blows of the ham
mers swung by the strikers on the
lodges above. The men were all black
N''' CiANs wv S''ilE bOSS7, W lIC was Nlltli
ing the blasts in the finished holes
drilled in the topmost bench. Dave
Llewellyn carried the only watch in
the crowd, and he pulled it out
"Hooray!" he cried. "They're load
ing up for the - o'clock blasts, and
We'll be here to see 'em go off. That's
great"
The boys sat down on the cliff edge to
watch the loading. There were three
holes, two of them very deep, and the
third quite shallow. The foreman
charged the deep holes first, pouring in
can after can of black powder until il
seemed as if he would never stop
My! but that must be a deep one!"
said little Pete Timmins. And will
you just look at that
The man had tossed the last empty
powder can aside. and was slipping
stick upon stick of giant powder into
the hole. Then the firing piece with the
fuse and cap imbedded was sent down,
and the helper began to lamp the
charge.
First he threw in a little dry earth,
and then he rammed down layer after
layer of damp red clay, working each
handful down to bearing with the
wooden rammer, and tamping it gin
gerly with an iron bar. mindful of the
fact that a 40-pound blow is all that
is required to fire the percussion cap on
a dynamite fuse.
The second deep hole was loaded like
the first, and the clink-clank of the ham
mers on the Lodges below kept time to
the tapping of the tamper's rammer.
Two of the strikers were singing
negro chant, beating time with their
sledges, and breaking the rhythm of the
song at the impact of the blow with
queer little falsetto cry like staccato
Huh"
The two men on the upper bench had
just finished drilling the shallow hole
between the two deep ones, and were
cleaning it out ready for the charge
with spoon" made of a hickory withe
pounded into fibers at the larger end.
What makes 'em put little hole in
between the two big ones?" queried
Tommy Heflin. 81 shouldn't think that
would do any good"
h. l.