He lingered for a moment behind the protection of that angle of rock
wall, struck a safety match, and held the tiny flame down close against
the face of his pocket compass. Exactly; this new advance extended
southeast by east. He snuffed out the glowing splinter between his
fingers, crossed over to the opposite side, and watchfully rounded the
corner to where he could again perceive the twinkling lights ahead.
His foot met some obstacle along the floor, and he bent down, feeling
for it with his fingers in the dark; it proved to be a rude scrap-iron
rail, evidence that they carried out their ore by means of mules and a
tram-car. A few yards farther this new tunnel began to ascend
slightly, and he again mysteriously lost his view of the miners' lamps,
and was compelled to grope his way more slowly, yet ever carefully
counting his steps. The roof sank with the advance until it became so
low he was compelled to stoop. The sound of picks smiting the rock was
borne to him, made faint by distance, but constantly growing clearer.
There he came to another curve in the tunnel.
He crouched upon one knee, peering cautiously around the edge in an
effort to discover what was taking place in front. The scattered
lights on the hats of the miners rendered the whole weird scene fairly
visible. There were two narrow entries branching off from the main
gallery not more than thirty feet from where he lay. One ran, as
nearly as he could judge, 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?"