Beth Norvell

"Hurry up," spoke Winston, sharply. "Burke's hurt, and they'll need

your car to carry him out in. What's the signal for the cage?"

The boy stood silent, his mouth wide open, staring at him stupidly.

"Do you hear, you lunk-head? I 'm after a doctor; how do you signal

the cage?"

"Twa yanks on the cord, meester," was the grudging reply. "Wha was ye,

onyhow?" But Winston, unheeding the question, was already off, his

only thought the necessity of immediately attaining the surface in

safety, ahead of the spreading of an alarm.

The cage shot speedily upward through the intense darkness, past the

deserted forty-foot gallery, and emerged into the gray light of dawn

flooding the shafthouse. Blinking from those long hours passed in the

darkness below, Winston distinguished dimly a number of strange figures

grouped before him. An instant he paused in uncertainty, his hand

shading his eyes; then, as he stepped almost blindly forward he came

suddenly face to face with Biff Farnham. A second their glances met,

both alike startled, bewildered, doubtful--then the jaw of the gambler

set firm, his hand dropped like lightning toward his hip, and Winston,

every ounce of strength thrown into the swift blow, struck him squarely

between the eyes. The man went over as though shot, yet before he even

hit the floor, the other had leaped across the reeling body, and

dashed, stumbling and falling, down the steep slope of the dump-pile,

crashing head first into the thick underbrush below.