Plunging, scooping, the sound of dirt sliding off each shovel as it’s tossed to the side. Another plunge, another scoop, more shoosh – the pile grows larger, the hole surrounding their boots deeper, the men more weary. The scent of dry dirt giving way to the earthy aroma of moist, dark soil.
Removing his cap and scratching his head, he asks, “‘Ere, guv, don’t you think this looks more than a bit odd?”
The other spits, digs, then replies. “Blood well is, son.”
Digging deeper, the dirt turning firmer, becoming more dense. Each shovel still plunging; a foot braced on the back lending force to the spade as it slides into hardened ground. Loose dirt scooped upon the belly of the trowel tossed above as it slips off the metal edge – the hole growing with each effort.
Removing his cap, wiping sweat from his brow, he asks, “Take a…