Beth Norvell

Almost mechanically he picked up his revolver where it lay glittering

upon the floor, and stood staring at that recumbent form, slowly

maturing a plan of action. Little by little it assumed shape within

his mind. Swanson was the name of the missing miner, the one Burke had

gone back to seek,--a Swede beyond doubt, and, from what slight glimpse

he had of the fellow before Brown grappled with him in the path above,

a sturdily built fellow, awkwardly galled. In all probability such a

person would have a deep voice, gruff from the dampness of long working

hours below. Well, he might not succeed in duplicating that exactly,

but he could imitate Swedish dialect, and, amid the excitement and

darkness, trust to luck. Let us see; Burke had surely called one of

those miners yonder Ole, another Peterson; it would probably help in

throwing the fellows off their guard to hear their own names spoken,

and they most naturally would expect Swanson to be with the foreman.

It appeared feasible enough, and assuredly was the only plan possible;

it must be risked, the earlier the better. The thought never once

occurred to him of thus doing injury to a perfectly innocent man.

He looked once more anxiously at the limp figure of the prostrate

Burke, and then, holding the lamp out before him, moved cautiously down

the passage toward the main tunnel. Partially concealing himself amid

the denser shadows behind the displaced falsework, he was enabled to

look safely down the opening of Number One, and could perceive numerous

dark figures moving about under flickering rays of light, while his

ears distinguished a sound of voices between the strokes of the picks.

He crept still closer, shadowing his lamp between his hands, and

crouching uneasily in the shadows. The group of men nearest him were

undoubtedly Swedes, as they were conversing in that language, working

with much deliberation in the absence of the boss. Winston rose up,

his shadow becoming plainly visible on the rock wall, one hand held

before his mouth to better muffle the sound of his voice. The hollow

echoing along those underground caverns tended to make all noise

unrecognizable.

"Yust two of you fellars bettar come by me, an' gif a leeft," he

ventured, doubtfully.

Those nearer faces down the tunnel were turned toward the voice in

sudden, bewildered surprise, the lights flickering as the heads

uplifted.

"Vas it you, Nels Swanson?"

"Yas, I tank so; I yust want Peterson an' Ole. Meester Burke vas got

hurt in the new level, an' I couldn't leeft him alone."

He saw the two start promptly, dropping their picks, their heavy boots

crunching along the floor, the flapping hat-brims hiding their eyes and

shadowing their faces. For a moment he lingered beside the falsework,

permitting the light from his lamp to flicker before them as a beacon;

then he hid the tiny flame within his cap, and ran swiftly down the

main tunnel. Confident now of Burke's early rescue, he must grasp this

opportunity for an immediate escape from the mine. A hundred feet from

the foot of the shaft he suddenly came upon the advancing tram-car, a

diminutive mule pulling lazily in the rope traces, the humping figure

of a boy hanging on behind. The two gazed at each other through the

smoke of a sputtering wick.