g drill had a seven-eighths bit,
which would just cut a one-inch hole. They were the best that money
could buy and a famous tool-sharpener in Miami had tempered their edges
to perfection. Denver picked up his starter, all the officials left the
platform, and Owen raised his hammer.

"Are the drillers ready?" challenged the umpire. "Then _go_!" he
shouted, and the double-jack descended with a smash. For thirty seconds
while the drill leapt and bounded, Denver held it firmly in its place,
and at the call of "Change!" he chucked it over his shoulder and swung
his own hammer in the air. Owen popped in a new drill, the hammer struck
it squarely and the crowd set up a cheer. Denver was working hard,
striking faster than his partner; and in every stroke there was a
smashing enthusiasm, a romping joy in the work, that won the hearts of
the miners. He was what they had been before drink and bad air had
sapped the first freshness of their strength, or dust and hot stopes had
broken their wind, or accidents had crippled them up--he was a miner,
young and hardy, putting his body behind each blow yet striking like a
tireless automaton.

"Change!" cried the coach, his voice ringing with pride; and as the
drill came flying back he shouted out the depth which was better than
three inches for the minute. At five minutes it was sixteen, at ten,
thirty-three; but at eleven the pace slackened off and at twelve they
had lost an inch. Tom Owen was weakening, in spite of his nerve, in
spite of his dogged persistence; he struck the same, but his blows had
lost their drive, the drill did not bite so deep. At every stroke, as
Denver twisted the long drill loose and turned it by so much in the
hole, he raised it up and struck it against the bottom, to add to the
weight of the blows. The mud and muck from the hole splashed up into his
face and painted his body a dull gray, but at thirteen minutes they had
lost their lead and Tom Owen was striking wild. Then he missed the steel
and a great voice rose up in mocking, stentorian laughter.

"Ho! Ho!" it roared, and Denver knew it well--it was Slogger Meacham,
exulting.

"Here--you turn!" he said flinging out his drill, and as Owen sank down
on his knees by the hole Denver caught up his double-jack and struck.
For a half minute, a minute, he flailed away at the steel; while Owen,
his shoulders heaving, turned the drill like clock-work and gasped to
win back his strength.

"Thirteen and a half!" an