In the middle of the stream stood a coffer-dam in course of
building, and near it another that had collapsed. These frameworks
almost hid the tip of the middle pier, which had evidently slid over
and was sinking on its side. There was no telling what had been sunk
in that hole. All the surroundings--the tons of stone, cut and
uncut, the piles of muddy lumber, the platforms and rafts, the
crevices in the worn shores up and down both sides--all attested to
the long weeks of fruitless labor and to the engulfing mystery of
that shallow, murmuring stream.
Neale returned thoughtfully to camp. Blake and Coffee were sitting
under the fly in company with a stalwart Irishman.
"Fine sink-hole you picked out for Number Ten, don't you think?"
queried Blake.
Neale eyed his interrogator with somewhat of a penetrating glance.
Blake did not meet that gaze frankly.
"Yes, it's a sink-hole, all right, and--no mistake," replied Neale.
"It's just what I calculated when I ran the plans.... Did you follow
those plans?"
Blake appeared about to reply when Coffee cut him short "Certainly
we did," he snapped.
"Then where are the breakwaters?" asked Neale, sharply.
"Breakwaters?" ejaculated Coffee. His surprise was sincere.
"Yes, breakwaters," retorted Neale. "I drew plans for breakwaters to
be built up-stream so that in high water the rapid current would be
directed equally between the piers, and not against them.
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