Water was beginning to trickle over the top of the gate.
In a short time progress became difficult, almost impossible, The
men worked up to their knees in swift water. They could not see,
and the strokes of axe or pick lost much of their force against the
liquid. Dusk fell. The fringe of the forest became mysterious in
its velvet dark. Silver streaks, of a supernal calm, suggested the
reaches of the pond. Above, the sky's day surface unfolded and
receded and dissolved and melted away until, through the pale
afterglow, one saw beyond into the infinities. Down by the sluice a
dozen lanterns flickered and blinked yellow against the blue-
blackness of the night.
After some time Orde called his crew off and opened the sluice-
gates. The water had become too deep for effective work, and a half
hour's flow would reduce the pressure. The time was occupied in
eating and in drying off about the huge fire the second cookee had
built close at hand.
"Water cold, boys?" asked Orde.
"Some," was his reply.
"Want to quit?" he inquired, with mock solicitude.
"Nary quit."
Orde's shout of laughter broke the night silence of the whispering
breeze and the rushing water.
"We'll stick to 'em like death to a dead nigger," was his comment.
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