better than Henry
MacFarlane, C.E., Member of the American Society of Engineers, Fellow
of the Institute of Sciences, etc., etc. Nor was there ever an engineer
more careful of his men. Indeed, it was his boast that he had never lost
a life by a premature discharge in the twenty years of his experience.
Nor did the men, those who worked under him--those who escaped
alive--come to any definite conclusion as to the cause of the
catastrophe: the night and day gang, I mean,--those who breathed the
foul air, who had felt the chill of the clammy interior and who were
therefore familiar with the handling of explosives and the proper
tamping of the charges--a slip of the steel meaning instantaneous
annihilation.

The Beast knew and could tell if he chose.

I say "The Beast," for that is what MacFarlane's tunnel was to me. To
the passer-by and to the expert, it was, of course, merely a short cut
through the steep hills flanking one end of the huge "earth fill" which
MacFarlane was constructing across the Corklesville brook, and which,
when completed would form a road-bed for future trains; but to me it was
always The Beast.

This illusion was helped by its low-browed, rocky head, crouching close
to the end of the "fill," its length concealed in the clefts of the
rocks--as if lying in wait for whatever crossed its path--as well as its
ragged, half-round, catfish gash of a mouth from out of which poured at
regular intervals a sickening breath--yellow, blue, greenish often--and
from which, too, often came dulled explosions, followed by belchings of
debris which centipedes of cars dragged clear of its slimy lips.

So I reiterate, The Beast knew.

Every day the gang had bored and pounded and wrenched, piercing his
body with nervous, nagging drills; propping up his backbone, cutting
out tender bits of flesh, carving--bracing--only to carve again. He had
tried to wriggle and twist, but the mountain had held him fast. Once he
had straightened out, smashing the tiny cars and the tugging locomotive;
breaking a leg and an arm, and once a head, but the devils had begun
again, boring and digging and the cruel wound was opened afresh. Another
time, after a big rain, with the help of some friendly rocks who had
rushed down to his help, he had snapped his jaws tight shut, penning the
devils up inside, but a hundred others had wrenched them open, breaking
his teeth, shoring up his lips with iron beams, tearing out what was
left of his tong