Beth Norvell

"How deep are we down?"

"Between sixty an' siventy fate, countin' it at the shaft."

"And this tunnel--how long do you make it?"

"Wan hundred an' forty-six fate, from the rock yonder."

Winston's gray eyes, grave with thought, were upon the man's face, but

the other kept his own concealed, lowered to the rock floor.

"Who laid out this work, do you know? Who did the engineering?"

"Oi think ut was the ould man hisself. Annyhow, that 's how thim

Swades tell ut."

Winston drew a deep breath.

"Well, he knew his business, all right; it's a neat job," he admitted,

a sudden note of admiration in his voice. His glance wandered toward

the dull sparkle of the exposed ore. "I suppose you know who all this

rightly belongs to, don 't you, Burke?"

The foreman spat reflectively into the dark, a grim smile bristling his

red moustache.

"Well, sorr, Oi 'm not mooch given up to thinkin'," he replied calmly.

"If it's them ide's yer afther, maybe it wud be Farnham ye'd betther

interview, sure, an he 's the lad whut 'tinds to that end o' it for

this outfit. Oi 'm jist bossin' me gang durin' workin' hours, an'

slapin' the rist o' the toime in the bunk-house. Oi 'm dommed if Oi

care who owns the rock."

The two men sat in silence. Burke indifferently chewing on his quid.

Winston shifted the revolver into his left hand, and began slowly

tracing lines, and marking distances, on the back of an old envelope.

The motionless foreman steadily watched him through cautiously lowered

lashes, holding the lamp in his hat perfectly steady. Slowly, with no

other muscle moving, both his hands stole upward along his body; inch

by inch attaining to a higher position without awakening suspicion.

His half-concealed eyes, as watchful as those of a cat, gleamed

feverishly beneath his hat-brim, never deserting Winston's partially

lowered face. Then suddenly his two palms came together, the

sputtering flame of the lamp between them.