Beth Norvell

The fellow thus directly addressed drew his hand across his mouth,

straightening up slightly to answer.

"Eet iss not sumtings dot I know, Meester Burke. He seems not here."

"Not here; no, I should say not, ye cross-oied Swade. But Oi 'm dommed

if he did n't come down in the cage wid' us, for Oi counted the lot o'

yez. Don't any o' you lads know whut 's become o' the drunken lout?"

There was a universal shaking of heads, causing the lights to dance

dizzily, forming weird shadows in the gloom, and the irritated foreman

swore aloud, his eyes wandering back down the tunnel.

"No doubt he's dhrunk yet, an' laid down to slape back beyant in the

passage," he growled savagely. "Be all the powers, but Oi 'll tache

that humpin' fool a lesson this day he 'll not be apt to fergit fer a

while. I will that, or me name 's not Jack Burke. Here you, Peterson,

hand me over that pick-helve." He struck the tough hickory handle

sharply against the wall to test its strength, his ugly red moustache

bristling. "Lave the falsework sthandin' where it is till I git back,"

he ordered, with an authoritative wave of the hand; "an' you fellers go

in beyant, an' help out on Number Wan till Oi call ye. Dom me sowl,

but Oi'll make that Swanson think the whole dom mounting has slid down

on top o' him--the lazy, dhrunken Swade."

The heavy pick-handle swinging in his hand his grim, red face glowing

angrily beneath the sputtering flame of the lamp stuck in his hat, the

irate Burke strode swiftly back into the gloomy passage, muttering

gruffly.