ed on. Then he
dug a hole, inch by inch, till he could reach his arm through. No
doubt this was the tunnel!

Finally, after what seemed hours--though it was not even one--Job had
the opening almost large enough to crawl through. Then he struck the
timbers--how was he to get through now? Well, just how, he never knew;
but he did. He dropped down to the floor of the level, lit a little
candle he had with him, ran along to the big shaft, and saw the ladder
reaching down to the next level. Then he bethought himself that his
light might be seen, so he blew it out. How could he get down the
ladder in the dark? One misstep and--he shuddered at the thought. But
he would dare it.

It was slow work, step by step; but at last he found an open space
through the boards, reached out a little lower and felt the floor of
the second level, and stepped off safe. Along the wooden rails laid
for the ore-cars he felt his way, till he began to grow confused. He
must have a light; surely no one could see it. Then he thought he
again heard voices. He stood still. He could hear his heart beat. It
was only the drip of water from the roof. He lit the candle and
hurried on. The air was close and hot, but he never stopped. On down
the long, dark cavern he made his way by the flickering light of the
fast-dying candle.

At last he reached the spot where he was sure the drainage tunnel and
the second level met. Again he dug and dug, using an old pick he found
there. He tore at the hard earth with his fingers, till he found
himself growing drowsy and faint. It was the foul air! He must get
through the wall soon, or perish where he was. The candle was gone.
Now it was a life-and-death struggle. He thought of that night in the
snow and his awful dread of death. All was so different now. A great
peace filled his soul. But he must not die; he must get through; other
lives were in his care; starving men were awaiting him; his promise to
Tim's father must be kept. At it he went again. He felt something give
way, felt a breath of fresh air that revived him, lifted a silent
thanksgiving to God, and crept through into the drainage tunnel.

The pickets on the banks above were calling, "Three o'clock and all's
well," as Job crept silently down the canyon and made for the heavy
timber of the mountain opposite.

* * * * *

The bugle had just sounded "taps" at Camp Sheridan, on the flat
between the South Fork and the Yosemite F