emed to shrink, for he fancied that
he actually felt the dreaded claws sinking into his flesh. In his haste
he missed the branch, and fell violently forward, scratching himself
terribly among the bushes. Again he rose, and a cold perspiration broke
out upon him as he uttered an involuntary howl of terror, and once more
leaped up at the limb of the oak, which he could just barely see. He
caught it; despair nerved him, and in another moment he was safe, and
panting violently among the branches.

We need scarcely say that this little episode gave his feelings such a
tremendous shock that his tendency to sleep was thoroughly banished; but
another and a better result flowed from it,--the involuntary hubbub
created by his yells and crashing falls reached listening and not
far-distant ears.

During their evening meal that day, Ned Sinton and his comrades had
speculated pretty freely, and somewhat jocularly, on the probable result
of the captain's hunting expedition--expressing opinions regarding the
powers of the blunderbuss, which it was a shame, Larry O'Neil said, "to
spake behind its back;" but as night drew on, they conversed more
seriously, and when darkness had fairly set in they became anxious.

"It's quite clear that something's wrong," cried Ned Sinton, entering
the tent hastily, "we must up and search for him. The captain's not the
man to lose his way with a compass in his pocket and so many landmarks
round him."

All the party rose at once, and began to buckle on belts and arm, while
eagerly suggesting plans of search.

"Who can make a torch?" inquired Ned.

"Here's one ready made to hand," cried Maxton, seizing a huge pine-knot
and lighting it.

"Some one must stay behind to look after our things. The new-comers who
camped beside us to-day are not used to mining life, and don't
sufficiently know the terrors of Lynch law. Do you stop, Maxton. Now
then, the rest of you, come along."

Ned issued from the tent as he spoke, and walked at a rapid pace along
the track leading up the valley, followed closely by Tom Collins, Larry
O'Neil, and Bill Jones--all of whom were armed with rifles, revolvers,
and bowie-knives. For a long time they walked on in silence, guided by
the faint light of the stars, until they came to the flat rock which had
formed the captain's dinner-table. Here they called a halt, in order to
discuss the probability of their lost comrade having gone up the ravine.
The question was soon