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The people could not understand this. The boys miseries went steadily on, week after week. It is quite likely that the people would have understood if they had known how he was employing his spare time. He slept in an out-cabin near Flints; and there, nights, he nursed his bruises and his humiliations, and studied and studied over a single problemhow he could murder Flint Buckner and not be found out. It was the only joy he had in life; these hours were the only ones in the twenty-four which he looked forward to with eagerness and spent in happiness. He thought of poison. Nothat would not serve; the inquest would reveal where it was procured and who had procured it. He thought of a shot in the back in a lonely place when Flint would be homeward bound at midnighthis unvarying hour for the trip. Nosomebody might be near, and catch him. He thought of stabbing him in his sleep. Nohe might strike an inefficient blow, and Flint would seize him. He examined a hundred different waysnone of them would answer; for in even the very obscurest and secretest of them there was always the fatal defect of a risk, a chance, a possibility that he might be found out. He would have none of that. But he was patient, endlessly patient. There was no hurry, he said to himself. He would never leave Flint till he left him a corpse; there was no hurryhe would find the way. It was somewhere, and he would endure shame and pain and misery until he found it. Yes, somewhere there was a way which would leave not a trace, not even the faintest clew to the murdererthere was no hurryhe would find that way, and thenoh, then, it would just be good to be alive! Meantime he would diligently keep up his reputation for meekness; and also, as always theretofore, he would allow no one to hear him say a resentful or offensive thing about his oppressor. Two days before the before-mentioned October morning Flint had bought some things, and he and Fetlock had brought them home to Flints cabin: a fresh box of candles, which they put in the corner; a tin can of blasting-powder, which they placed upon the candle-box; a keg of blasting-powder, which they placed under Flints bunk; a huge coil of fuse, which they hung on a peg. Fetlock reasoned that Flints mining operations had outgrown the pick, and that blasting was about to begin now. He had seen blasting done, and he had a notion of the process, but he had never helped in it. His conjecture was rightblasting- time had come. In the morning the pair carried fuse, drills, and the powder-can to the shaft; it was now eight feet deep, and to get into it and out of it a short ladder was used. They descended, and by command Fetlock held the drillwithout any instructions as to the right way to hold itand Flint proceeded to strike. The sledge came down; the drill sprang out of Fetlocks hand, almost as a matter of course. You mangy son of a nigger, is that any way to hold a drill? Pick it up! Stand it up! Therehold fast. Dyou! Ill teach you! At the end of an hour the drilling was finished. Now, then, charge it. The boy started to pour in the powder. Idiot! A heavy bat on the jaw laid the lad out. Get up! You cant lie sniveling there. Now, then, stick in the fuse first. Now put in the powder. Hold on, hold on! Are you going to fill the hole all up? Of all the sap-headed milksops IPut in some dirt! Put in some gravel! Tamp it down! Hold on, hold on! Oh, great Scott! get out of the way! He snatched the iron and tamped the charge himself, meantime cursing and blaspheming like a fiend. Then he fired the fuse, climbed out of the shaft, and ran fifty yards away, Fetlock following. They stood waiting a few minutes, then a great volume of smoke and rocks burst high into the air with a thunderous explosion; after a little there was a shower of descending stones; then all was serene again. |
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