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after breakfast, on the next day, we went down-town to see how foundations are sunk to bed-rock in lower New York. The place we wished to investigate was inclosed by a high board fence, but projecting far above it was a confusion of derricks, concrete mixing-machines, bucket elevators, enormous wooden boxes, and curious, cylindrical objects from which, every once in a while, would come the sound of a whistle signal, followed by a loud gasp of escaping air. The lid of dry, white sand would be drawn forth and dumped into a hopper; then the bucket would be swung back into the yawning mouth of the cylinder, and an attendant would swing a lever, closing the lid. Thereafter, there would be a number of toots of the air whistle, and we could see the bucket cable pay out or in, in accordance with the signal.

It all seemed very mysterious, and whetted our curiosity. We sought out Mr. Squires without further delay. He proved to be a very approachable man, the kind that had n’t forgotten that he was once a boy. “If Dick Hotchkiss sent you here, you may have anything you wish.