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They decided not to dig any further in the open excavation, and concentrated instead on the narrow shaft. All that hot, still afternoon, the big drill ground away. The shaft had to be lined by 24-in. casing, to prevent a cave-in. It was Saturday, and all afternoon the crowds thickened. By midnight, 12,000 were standing in the chilly spring night—grave, subdued neighbors, sightseers and dating teenagers, men & women in evening dress. In a car a little back from the scene, David Fiscus and his wife sat out their vigil. To sympathetic queries, he said wearily: "Let's not discuss it, please don't."
David Fiscus was district superintendent of the California Water & Telephone Co., which had drilled the well in 1903. He had just returned from testifying before the state legislature for an anti-pollution measure that would require the cementing of all old wells.
Digging by Hand. The drill ran into trouble just short of the 100-ft. mark. In relays, men were lowered by a hoisting bucket to dig the rest of the way by hand. It was grueling work. Dirt and rocks as big as a man's head had to be hoisted up bucket by bucket. Burly Bill Yancey, a 38-year-old sewerage contractor who had been on a wartime underwater demolition team, dug for two hours and 20 minutes before he was hauled out.
"Americans sure are funny people," said one of the workmen. "They'll cut each other's throat for a nickel, but when one of them gets in trouble, they'll sure get out and swamp for him." No one thought of pay. "I haven't heard the word mentioned," growled Raymond Hill, the city engineer who directed the operations.
"Only a Couple of Hours." All over the nation, citizens swamped newspapers with requests for the latest report on "the little girl." Midgets, jockeys and schoolboys volunteered to go down the well pipe after Kathy. David Fiscus refused. The danger of their becoming wedged or badly cut in the well casing was too great.
Again & again, the word would come from somewhere: "Only a couple of hours more now." Again & again, there were fresh delays: Tempers were short; arguments flared over what might have been done. At last diggers, deep in the shaft, began to tunnel laterally toward Kathy's iron prison. Whitey was only a few shovelfuls away from the well pipe, when he was hauled to the surface, his face angry and set. There was water in his boots. Slowly at first, then faster, water poured into the tunnel. Digging stopped.
It was three hours before the shaft could be pumped dry. Whitey went back down. "He deserves a knighthood," said a worker, "but he doesn't even have a job." Others relieved him. The lateral tunnel began to cave in. The low talk of the workmen was carried over the loudspeaker. "It's caving to beat the band," said the voice below. Timbers went down for shoring. The men worked on, regardless of danger, or bone-deep fatigue. Little O. A. Kelly leaned back wearily when he was pulled to the surface, and swore: "I'm going in there and I'm coming out with that little girl in my arms."