e, 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?"

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