Beth Norvell

He lingered for a moment behind the protection of that angle of rock

wall, struck a safety match, and held the tiny flame down close against

the face of his pocket compass. Exactly; this new advance extended

southeast by east. He snuffed out the glowing splinter between his

fingers, crossed over to the opposite side, and watchfully rounded the

corner to where he could again perceive the twinkling lights ahead.

His foot met some obstacle along the floor, and he bent down, feeling

for it with his fingers in the dark; it proved to be a rude scrap-iron

rail, evidence that they carried out their ore by means of mules and a

tram-car. A few yards farther this new tunnel began to ascend

slightly, and he again mysteriously lost his view of the miners' lamps,

and was compelled to grope his way more slowly, yet ever carefully

counting his steps. The roof sank with the advance until it became so

low he was compelled to stoop. The sound of picks smiting the rock was

borne to him, made faint by distance, but constantly growing clearer.

There he came to another curve in the tunnel.

He crouched upon one knee, peering cautiously around the edge in an

effort to discover what was taking place in front. The scattered

lights on the hats of the miners rendered the whole weird scene fairly

visible. There were two narrow entries branching off from the main

gallery not more than thirty feet from where he lay. One ran, as

nearly as he could judge, considerably to the east of south, but the

second had its trend directly to the eastward. Along the first of

these tunnels there was no attempt at concealment, a revealing twinkle

of light showing where numerous miners were already at work. But the

second was dark, and would have remained unnoticed entirely had not

several men been grouped before the entrance, their flaring lamps

reflected over the rock wall. Winston's eyes sparkled, his pulse

leaped, as he marked the nature of their task--they were laboriously

removing a heavy mask, built of wood and canvas, which had been snugly

fitted over the hole, making it resemble a portion of the solid rock

wall.

There were four workmen employed at this task, while the foreman, a

broad-jawed, profane-spoken Irishman, his moustache a bristling red

stubble, stood a little back, noisily directing operations, the yellow

light flickering over him. The remainder of the fellows composing the

party had largely disappeared farther down, although the sound of their

busy picks was clearly audible.

"Where the hell is Swanson?" blurted out the foreman suddenly. "He

belongs in this gang. Here you, Ole, what 's become o' Nelse Swanson?"