Argosy All-Story Weekly, February 4, 1922 — page 87: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

THE NIGHT SHIFT. place, and swung again. Griffith, ducking, hunched into the former position of his mate. Steady as the ticking of a clock, the beat of the clanging hammer fell, with- out the loss of a single stroke. It was a beautiful change, and smoothly executed—a howling cheer burst from the crowd. One or two blows only to get the “ feel ” of the jack in his hand—then, second by second, Sissek increased the swiftness of the measure, faster and faster until the flying sledge appeared to be a circle of whirling steel about his head. The clank, clank, clank of the repeated impacts rang like the drumfire of a great barrage. His skin glowed from pink to red; he seemed not to watch the drill at all, putting every ounce of flaming energy into those tremendous blows. Sissek’s breathing was like a sob deep in his throat; his great blond head rolled from side to side. Griffith, as he turned drill, poured more water down into the hole; the muddy spray, loaded with powdered quartz, sprang like a geyser from about the steel. ‘¢ Six minutes!”’ Sissek grabbed the sledge that Griffith had dropped down and leaned it against the stone ready for Griffith’s hand again. Griffith snatched the old steel from the hole; grasped the spoon, and with half a dozen dexterous strokes cleaned the hole of accumulated slush. Sissek dropped the new steel instantaneously into place, and once again Griffith took the jack. Steel leaped at ringing steel. There were disputatious comments in the audience. ‘“‘ Looks like sixteen at the six-minute pass!”’ ‘‘ Nearer eighteen—did ye see that spoon?” “By God, that Hunkie, Sissek—he throws steel! We'll have to go some to hold the cup to-day!”’ “ Eight minutes!” The drillers changed again. Griffith had been but two minutes at the jack, and already showed some signs of fatigue. His face was drawn; his ribs strained outward from his heaving sides. But the brown and knotted hands that clutched the drill. had lost no measure of strength or cunning. It was the intention of the team to save the strength of the older man. “Ten minutes!” Once again they 397 cleaned the hole. Now Griffith would pound steel two minutes more, then Sissek would take the last three minutes of the heat. The last drill used was more than a yard in length—before the final change two- thirds of it had been buried in the quartz. “Twelve minutes!” Griffith almost fell beside the rock, sobbing with the deep in- take of each breath. The labor of Sissek was terrible. He struck like some old half- human god or a wild demon of the ele- ments, a youthful Hercules or Berserk Thor with his hammer of lightnings whirling about his head. Stroke by stroke, inch by inch, the steel bit deep, seeming to melt into the adamantine quartz. Sissek’s face had aged, grown hard as the rock itself, the face of tortured Greek Laocoon, or of a runner in the Marathon. ‘“ Time!” called the judge. On the stroke, Sissek dropped the sledge, staggered back and fell upon the bench, his head dropped into his hands; he labored, groaning, to fill his straining lungs. Sweat ran in streams upon his burning back. Griffith, still panting from his own last heat, dumped a bucket of water over him, and Sissek looked up, trying hard to smile. A tumult of comment leaped upward from the audience as the judge dropped a meas- uring rod into the hole. He read the meas- urement deliberately, and stepped forward, holding up his hand, unnecessarily, to com- mand attention. “ Sissek and Griffith drill forty-two and seven-eighth inches; three-eighths better than the champion’s record for last year. There will be five minutes’ interval. Davies and McGregor will then pound steel!” There was a wild burst of cheering; ex- pectant flowing of the masses below the platform; craning of necks to see better. Hugh looked at Davies with significance. The two men rose together and laid their Jumpers on the bench. Davies spoke to Griffith, also a “ cousin-jack,” his country- man, more broadly, perhaps, than he would have spoken ordinarily. ‘“ Ye din domn well—ee’l na be simple t’ best ye, Griffith, mon—Ah’ll gi’ ye thot!” “Na hart thots, gin ye do, tha’ Ah’d like th’ coop,” Griffith answered heartily. Here were two very worthy Cornishmen. COmiclbooks.com