closed upon the
crowbar, no sooner had he felt the mass of rock yield to its pressure,
than he found that he was not working single-handed. On the contrary, he
had the feeling of having got right down among the forces of nature and
of finding them ranged on his side. It was gravitation that gave the
rock its weight, but, look there! how some other law, which he did not
know the name of, dwelt in the resisting strength of the iron, worked in
the action of his muscles. His legs trembled, as he braced himself to
the effort; the veins of his neck throbbed hard; but the muscles of his
arms and chest held firm as the crowbar they guided, and slowly,
reluctantly, sullenly, the rock went over on its side. He dropped the
crowbar from his stiffening grasp and drew himself up, flinging his
shoulders back and panting deep and strong.

It was between six and seven o'clock in the morning, a radiant June
morning, which seemed alive with pleasant things. As he stood with his
head thrown back, taking a good draught of the delicious mountain air, a
bluebird shot, like a bit of the sky, in and out among the solemn pines
and delicate aspens. He looked down on the tangle of blossoming vines
and bushes that latticed the borders of the brook, which came dashing
down from the canon, still rioting on its way. The water would soon have
another cause for clamor, in the big stone that had so long cumbered the
road. He should presently have the fun of rolling it over the bank and
seeing it settle with a splash in the bed of the stream where it
belonged by rights. After that there was a fallen tree to be tackled, a
couple of rods farther on, and then he should take a rest with his
shovel and fill in some holes near by.

[Illustration: "THE BROOK, WHICH CAME DASHING DOWN FROM THE CANON, STILL
RIOTING ON ITS WAY."]

He had found a deserted lean-to, half way up the canon, where he had
arranged to camp while the work went on. As he thought of Chittenden and
Allery Jones and the rest, cooped up there in the town, still anxiously
watching the fluctuations of the stock-market, he was filled with
compassion for them, and he determined to have them out now and then and
give them a camp stew.

Of course the exultation of that first hour's work did not last. Before
the day was out, Wakefield had found out what he was "in for." An aching
back and blistered hands were providing him with sensations of a less
exhilarating order than those of the early morning.