e soft voices of the
men of the day shift returning from their voluntary task, the staccato
exhaust of the hoisting engine bringing up a load of ore from the
refound lead, the clash of a car dumping its load of waste, and the
roar of the Rattler's stamps, softened by distance, blended into
discordance.

He entered the assay-house like a whipped dog seeking the refuge of
its kennel, threw himself on a stool before the bench, leaned his head
into his hollowed arms, and groaned as would a stricken warrior of
olden days when surrendering to his wounds.

This, then, explained it all--that sequence of events, frustrating,
harrying, baffling him, since the first hour he had come to the mine
of the Croix d'Or. The rough suggestion of Bully Presby on the first
day, discouraging him; the harsh attitude; the persistent attempts to
dishearten him and buy him out; the endeavor to buy half the property
from, and remove the backing, of Sloan, without which he could not go
on; the words of the watchman, who doubtless had discovered Bully
Presby's secret theft, blackmailed him as much as he could, and,
dying, cursed him; but, hating the men of the mine more, had withheld
the vital meaning of his accusation. Perhaps Presby had been
instrumental in Thompson's strike. But no, that could scarcely be,
although, in the light of other events in that iniquitous chain, it
might be possible. That he had any part in the dynamiting of the dam
or power-house, Dick cast aside as unworthy of such a man. The strong,
hard, masterful, and domineering face of Bully Presby arose before him
as from the darkening shadows of the room, and it seemed triumphant.

He lifted his head suddenly, thinking, in his superacute state of
mind, that he had heard a noise. He must have air! The assay office,
with its smell of nitric acid, its burned fumes, its clutter of broken
cupels and slag, was unbearable. He arose from the stool so suddenly
that it went toppling over to fall against the stacked crucibles
beneath the bench which lent their clatter to the upset. He stepped
out into the night. It was dark, only the stars above him dimly
betraying the familiar shapes of mountains, forests, and buildings
around. Up in the bunk-house some man was wailing a verse of "Ella
Re," accompanied by a guitar, and the doleful drone of the hackneyed
chorus was caught up by the other men "off shift." But, nauseating as
it was to him, this piebald ballad of the hills, it contained one