XVI

XVIA DRAMATIC FLAGGING

Since shortly following Jack Orr’s appointment to Midway Junction Alex had been “agitating,” as he called it, for his friend’s transfer to the telegraph force at the division terminal. At length, early in the fall, Alex’s efforts bore fruit, and Jack was offered, and accepted, the “night trick” at one of the big yard towers at Exeter.

Of course the two chums were now always together. And the day of the big flood that October was no exception to the rule. All afternoon the two boys had wandered up and down the swollen river, watching the brown whirling waters, almost bank high, and the trees, fences, even occasional farm buildings, which swept by from above. When six o’clock came they reluctantly left it for supper, and the night’s duties.

“Well, what do you think of the river, Ward?” inquired the chief night despatcher as Alex entered the despatching-room.

“It looks rather bad, sir, doesn’t it. Do you think the bridge is quite safe?”

“Quite. It has been through several worse floods than this. It’s as strong as the hills,” the despatcher affirmed.

Despite the chief’s confidence, however, when about5 o’clock in the morning there came reports of a second cloud-burst up the river, he requested Alex to call up Jack, at the yard tower which overlooked the bridge, and ask him to keep them posted.

“Tell him the crest of this new flood will likely reach us in half an hour,” he added; “and that by that time, as it is turning colder, there’ll probably be a heavy fog on the river.”

Twenty-five minutes later Jack suddenly called, and announced, “The new flood’s coming! There is a heavy mist, and I can’t see, but I can hear it. Can you see it from up there?”

Alex and the chief despatcher moved to one of the western windows, raised it, and in the first gray light of dawn gazed out across the valley below. Instead of the dark waters of the river, and the yellow embankment of the railroad following it, winding away north was a broad blanket of fog, stretching from shore to shore. But distinctly to their ears came a rumble as of thunder.

“It must be a veritable Niagara,” remarked the chief with some uneasiness. “I never heard a bore come down like that before.”

“Here she comes,” clicked Jack from the tower. They stepped back to his instruments.

“Say!—”

There was a pause, while the chief and Alex exchanged glances of apprehension, then came quickly, “Something has struck one of the western spans of the bridge and carried it clean away—

“No—No, it’s there yet! But it’s all smashed to pieces! Only the upper-structure seems to be holding!”

Sharply the despatcher turned to an operator at one of the other wires. “McLaren, Forty-six hasn’t passed Norfolk?”

“Yes, sir. Five minutes ago.”

A cry broke from the chief, and he ran back to the window. Alex followed, and found him as pale as death.

“What’s the matter, Mr. Allen?” he exclaimed.

“Matter! Why, Norfolk is the last stop between that train and the bridge! She’ll be down here in twenty minutes! And even if we can get someone across the bridge immediately, how can they flag her in that wall of mist?” Hopelessly he pointed where on the farther shore the tracks were completely hidden in the blanket of white vapor. “And there’s no time to send down torpedoes.”

At the thought of the train rushing upon the broken span, and plunging from sight in the whirling flood below, Alex felt the blood draw back from his own face.

“But we will try something! We must try something!” he cried.

At that moment the office door opened and Division Superintendent Cameron appeared. “Good morning, boys,” he said genially. “I’m quite an early bird this morning, eh? Came down to meet the wife and children.They’re getting in from their vacation by Forty-six.

“Why, Allen, what is the matter?”

The chief swayed back against the window-ledge. “One of the bridge spans—has just gone,” he responded thickly, “and Forty-six—passed Norfolk!”

The superintendent stared blankly a moment, started forward, then staggered back into a chair. But in another instant he was on his feet, pallid, but cool. “Well, what are you doing to stop her?” he demanded sharply.

The chief pulled himself together. “It only happened this moment, sir. The man at the yard tower just reported. One of the western spans was struck by something. Only the upper-structure is hanging,” he says.

“Can’t you send someone over on foot, with a flag, or torpedoes?”

“There are no torpedoes at the bridge house, and there’s not time to send them down. As to flagging—look at the mist over the whole valley bottom,” said the despatcher pointing. “Except directly opposite, where the wind between the hills breaks it up at times, the engineer couldn’t see three feet ahead of him.”

The superintendent gripped his hands convulsively. Suddenly he turned to Alex. “Ward, can’t you suggest something?” he appealed. “You have always shown resource in emergencies.”

“I have been trying to think of something, sir. But, as the chief says, even if we could get a man across the bridge, what could he do? I was down by the river yesterday morning, and the haze was like a blind wall.”

“Couldn’t a fire be built on the tracks?”

“Not quickly enough, sir. Everything is soaking wet.”

The superintendent strode up and down helplessly. “And of course it had to happen after the Riverside Park station had closed for the season,” he said bitterly. “If we had had an operator there we—”

The interruption was a cry from Alex. “I’ve something! Oil!”

He dashed for the tower wire.

“What? What’s that?” cried the superintendent, running after.

“Oil on a pile of ties, or anything, sir—providing Orr can get over the bridge,” Alex explained hurriedly as he whirled off the letters of Jack’s call. The official dropped into the chair beside him.

“I, I, TR,” answered Jack.

“OR, have you any oil in the tower?” shot Alex.

“No, but there’s some in the lamp-shed just below.”

“Look here, could you possibly get across the bridge?”

“I might manage it. There is a rail bicycle in the lamp-house. If the rails are hanging together perhaps I could shoot over with that. Why?”

“46 is due in twenty minutes, and apparently we have no way of stopping her except through you.”

“Why, certainly I’ll risk it,” buzzed the sounder. “I suppose the oil is to make a quick blaze, to flag her?” Jack added, catching Alex’s idea.

“That’s it. Make it just this side of the Riverside Park station.”

“OK! Here goes!”

“Good luck,” sent Alex, with a sudden catch in his throat, as he realized the danger his chum was so cheerfully running. “God help him!” added the superintendent fervently.

Jack, in the distant tower, took little time to think of the danger himself. Catching up a lantern and lighting it, he was quickly out and down the tower steps, and running for the nearby shed. Fortunately it was unlocked. Darting in, he found a large can of oil. Carrying it out to the main-line track, he returned, and hurriedly dragged forth the yard lamp-man’s rail bicycle—a three-wheeled affair, with the seat and gear of an ordinary bicycle.

Swinging the little car onto the rails, he placed the oil can on the platform between the arms, swung the lantern over the handlebars, mounted, and was off, pedalling with all his might.

As he speedily neared the down-grade of the bridge approach, and the roar of the flood met him in full force, Jack for the first time began to realize the danger of his mission. But with grimly set lips, he refused to think of it, and pedalled ahead determinedly.

He topped the grade, and below him was a solid roof of mist, only the bridge towers showing.

Apprehensively, but without hesitation, he sped downward. The first dampness of the vapor struck him. The next moment he was lost in a blinding wall of white. He could not see the rails.

On he pedalled with bowed head. Suddenly came a roar beneath him. He was over the water.

Jack’s occasional views from the tower had shown him where the bridge was shattered; and for some distance he continued ahead at a good speed. Then judging he was nearing the wrecked portion, he slowed down and went on very slowly, peering before him with straining eyes, and listening sharply for a note in the tumult of water below which might tell of the broken timbers and twisted iron.

It came, a roar of swirling, choking and gurgling. Simultaneously there was a trembling of the rails beneath him.

He was on the shattered span.

At a crawl Jack proceeded. The vibration became more violent. On one side the track began to dip. Momentarily Jack hesitated, and paused. At once came a picture of the train rushing toward him, and conquering his fear, he went on.

Suddenly the track swayed violently, then dipped sharply sideways. With a cry Jack sprang off backwards, and threw himself flat on his face on the sleepers. Trembling, deafened by the roar of the cataract just beneath him, he lay afraid to move, believingthe swaying structure would give way every instant. But finally the rails steadied, and partly righted; and regaining his courage, Jack rose to his knees, and began working his way forward from tie to tie, pushing the bicycle ahead of him.

Presently the rails became steadier. Cautiously he climbed back into the saddle, and slowly at first, then with quickly increasing speed and rising hope, pushed on. The vibration decreased, the track again became even and firm. Suddenly at last the thunder of the river passed from below him, and he was safely across.

A few yards from the bridge, and still in the mist, Jack peered down to see that the oil can was safe. He caught his breath. Reaching out, he felt about the little platform with his foot.

Yes; it was gone! The tipping of the car had sent it into the river.

As the significance of its loss burst upon him, and he thought of the peril he had come through to no purpose, Jack sat upright in the saddle, and the tears welled to his eyes.

Promptly, however, came remembrance of the Riverside Park station, a mile ahead of him. Perhaps there was oil there!

Clenching his teeth, and bending low over the handlebars, Jack shot on, determined to fight it out to the finish.

Meantime, at the main office the entire staff, including the superintendent, the chief despatcher and Alex, were crowded in the western windows, watching, waitingand listening. Shortly after Alex had announced Jack’s departure a suppressed shout had greeted the tiny light of his lantern on the bridge approach, and a subdued cheer of good luck had followed him as he had disappeared into the wall of mist.

Then had succeeded a painful silence, while all eyes were fixed anxiously on the spot opposite where a light west wind, blowing down through a cut in the hills, occasionally lifted the blanket of fog and dimly disclosed the river bank and track.

Minute after minute passed, however, and Jack did not reappear. The silence became ominous.

“Surely he should be over by this time, and we should have had a glimpse of his light,” said the chief. “Unless—”

An electrifying cry of “There he is!” interrupted him, and all momentarily saw a tiny, twinkling light, and a small dark figure shooting along the distant track.

A moment after the buzz of excited hope as suddenly died. From the north came a long, low-pitched “Too—oo, too—oo, oo, oo!”

The train!

“How far up, Allen?”

“Three miles.”

The superintendent groaned. “He’ll never do it! He’ll never do it! She’ll be at the bridge in five minutes!”

JACK ROSE TO HIS KNEES, AND BEGAN WORKING HIS WAYFORWARD FROM TIE TO TIE.

JACK ROSE TO HIS KNEES, AND BEGAN WORKING HIS WAYFORWARD FROM TIE TO TIE.

“No; Broad is careful,” declared the chief, referring to the engineer of the coming train. “He won’t keep up that speed when he strikes the worst of the fog. There are eight or ten minutes yet.”

Again came the long, mellow notes of the big engine, whistling a crossing.

“Who’s that?” said Alex suddenly, half turning from the window. The next moment with a cry of “He’s at the station! Orr’s at the Park station!” he darted to the calling instruments, and shot back an answer. The rest rushed after, and crowded about him.

“I’m at the Park station,” whirled the sounder. “I broke in. I lost the oil can on the bridge. There is no oil here. What shall I do?”

As the chief read off the excited words to the superintendent, the official sank limply and hopelessly into a chair.

“But might there not be some there, somewhere? Who would know, Mr. Allen?”

At Alex’s words the chief spun about. “McLaren, call Flanagan on the ’phone!” he cried. “Quick!”

The operator sprang to the telephone, and in intense silence the party waited.

He got the number.

“Hello! Is Flanagan there?

“Say, is there any oil across the river at the Park station?

“For Heavens sake, don’t ask questions! Is there?”

“Yes; he says there’s a half barrel in the shed behind,” reported the operator.

Alex’s hand shot back to the key.

At the first dot he paused.

Through the open window came a whistle, strong and clear.

The chief threw up his hands. Alex himself sank back in his chair, helplessly.

Suddenly he again started forward.

“I have it!”

With the sharp words he again grasped the key, and while those about him listened with bated breath he sent like a flash, “Jack, there’s a barrel of oil in the shed at the rear. Knock the head in, spill it, and set a match to it.

“Burn the station!”

The chief and the operators gasped, then with one accord set up a shout and darted back for the windows. The superintendent, told of the message, rushed after.

In absolute silence all fixed their eyes on the spot a mile up the river where lay the little summer depot.

Once more came the long-drawn “Too—oo, too—oo, oo, oo!” for a crossing.

“The next’ll tell,” said the chief tensely—“for the crossing this side of the station, or—”

It came. It was the crossing.

But the next instant from the mist shot up a lurid flare. From the windows rose a cry. Higher leaped the flames. And suddenly across the quiet morning air came a long series of quick sharp toots. Again they came—then the short, sharp note for brakes.

WITH THE SHARP WORDS HE AGAIN GRASPED THE KEY.

WITH THE SHARP WORDS HE AGAIN GRASPED THE KEY.

And the boys and the flames had won!

The superintendent turned and held out his hand. “Ward, thank you,” he said huskily. “Thank you. You are a genuine railroader.”

“And—about the station?” queried Alex, a sudden apprehension in his face and voice. For the moment the crisis was past he had realized with dismay that he had issued the unprecedented order for the burning of the station entirely on his own responsibility.

“The station?” The superintendent laughed. “My boy, that was the best part of it. That was the generalship of it. There was no time to ask, only act. The fraction of a second might have lost the train.

“No; that is just why I say you are a genuine railroader—the burning of the station was a piece of the finest kind of railroading!

“And this reminds me,” added the superintendent some minutes later, leading Alex aside and speaking in a lower voice. “We expect to start construction on the Yellow Creek branch in six weeks, and will be wanting an ‘advance guard’ of three or four heady, resourceful operators with the construction train, or on ahead. Would you like to go? and your friend Orr? There’ll be plenty of excitement before we are through.”

“I’d like nothing better, sir, or Orr either, I know,” declared Alex with immediate interest. “But where will the excitement come in, sir?”

“You have heard the talk of the K. & Z. also runninga line to the new gold field from Red Deer? And that they were held up by right-of-way trouble? Well, we have just learned that that was all a bluff; that they have been quietly making preparations, and are about to start construction almost immediately. And you see what that means?”

“A race for the Yellow pass?”

“A race—and more than that. Did you ever read of the great war between the Santa Fe and the Rio Grande for the Grand Canyon of Colorado? Regularly organized bands of fighting men on either side, and pitched battles? Well, I don’t anticipate matters coming to that point between us and the K. & Z., but I wouldn’t be surprised if it came near it before we are through. The lines traverse wild country, and the K. & Z. people have men in their construction department who would pull up track or cut wires as soon as light a pipe. In the latter case they would cut at critical times. There is where an operator with a head for difficulties might prove invaluable.”

“I would be more than glad to tackle it, sir,” agreed Alex enthusiastically.

“Very well then. You may consider yourself, and your friend Orr, appointed. And if you know of anyone else of the same brand, you might suggest him,” the superintendent concluded.

“I don’t think I do, sir—at the moment,” Alex responded.

The week succeeding brought Alex a suggestion.

XVIIWILSON AGAIN DISTINGUISHES HIMSELF

It was decidedly warm the following Monday noon at Bonepile, and Wilson Jennings, his coat off, but wearing the fancy Mexican sombrero that the Bar-O cowmen had given him, sat in the open window to catch the breeze that blew through from the rear. From the window Wilson could not see the wagon-trail toward the hills to the west. Thus was it that the low thud of hoofs first told him of someone’s hurried approach.

Starting to his feet, he stepped to the end of the platform. At sight of a horseman coming toward him at full speed, and leading a second horse, saddled, but riderless, Wilson gazed in surprise. Wonder increased when as the rider drew nearer he recognized Muskoka Jones, the big Bar-O cowman.

“What is it, Muskoka?” he shouted as the ponies approached.

The cow-puncher pulled up all-standing within a foot of the platform.

“There’s been an explosion at the Pine Lode, kid, and ten men are bottled up somewhere in the lower level. Two men got in through a small hole—the mouth of the mine is blocked—and one of them istapping on the iron pump-pipe. Bartlett, the mine boss, thinks it may be telegraph ticking—that maybe Young knows something about that. Will you come up and listen?

“You see, if they knew what was what inside, they’d know what they could do. They are afraid to blast the big rock that’s blocking the mouth for fear of bringing loosened stuff down on the men who have been caught.”

Wilson was running for the station door. “I’ll explain to the despatcher,” he shouted over his shoulder.

“I, I, X,” responded the despatcher.

“There has been an explosion at the Pine Lode mine,” sent Wilson rapidly, “and a man has been sent to take me there to try and read some tapping from the men inside. Can you give 144 and the Mail clearance from Q and let me go up?”

“Some tapping? What—Oh, I understand. OK! Go ahead,” ticked the despatcher. “Get back as soon as possible.”

“I will.”

“All right, Muskoke,” cried Wilson, hastening forth, struggling into his coat as he ran.

“Get round thar,” shouted the cowboy, swinging the spare pony to the platform. Wilson went into the saddle with a neat bound.

“Say, you’ve seen a hoss before, kid,” observed Muskoka with surprise as he threw over the reins.

“Sure I have. Used to spend my summer vacationson a farm. Can ride a bit standing up,” said Wilson, with pride.

They swung their animals about together, and were off on the jump. As the two ponies stretched out to their full stride the cowboy eyed Wilson’s easy seat with approval. “Well, kid,” he observed after a moment’s silence, “next time I come across a dude I’ll git him to do his tricks before I brand him. I don’t see but what you sit about as good as I do.”

Wilson’s pleased smile gave place to gravity as he returned to the subject of the explosion. “When did it happen?” he asked.

“Early this morning. Just after the men went in. They’re not sure, but think it was powder stored at the foot of the shaft down to the lower level. The main lead of the Pine Lode, you know, runs straight into the mountain, not down; and the shaft to the lower level is a ways in. We heard the noise at the Bar-O.

“There’s nothing much to see, or do, though,” the cowman added as they raced along neck and neck. “A big rock just over the entrance came down, and when they got the dirt away they found it had bottled the thing up like a cork. It’s that they are afraid to blast until they know how the men are fixed inside. Hoover and Young got in through a small hole at the top, Hoover about half an hour before Young. He started tapping on the pipe too, then stopped. They don’t know what happened to him.”

Twenty minutes’ hard riding brought them to thefoothills. Still at the gallop the ponies were urged up a winding rocky trail, and finally a tall black chimney and a group of rough buildings came into view.

“There it is,” said the cowboy, indicating a ledge just above.

As they went forward, still at full speed, Wilson gazed toward the mine entrance with some astonishment. Mine disasters he had always thought of as scenes of great excitement—people running to and fro, wringing their hands, excited crowds held back by ropes, and men calling and shouting. Here, about a spot but little distinguished from the rest of the rocky, sparsely-treed mountain side, was gathered a group of perhaps fifty men, some sitting on beams and rocks, others moving quietly about, all smoking.

On their being discovered, however, there was a stir, and as Muskoka and the boy dismounted at the foot of a rough path and ascended there was a general movement of the miners and cowmen to meet them.

“I got him,” Muskoka announced briefly to a grizzle-haired man who met them at the top. “This is Bartlett, the mine boss,” he said to Wilson by way of introduction. The boss nodded.

“The tapping’s going on yet, is it, Joe?”

“No. It’s stopped, just like Hoover’s did,” was the gloomy response. “And just when we were getting onto it ourselves.”

The speaker held up a small board pencilled with figures and letters. “Redding there hit on the idea that maybe Young was knocking out the numbers ofletters in the alphabet, and we made this table, and just found out we had it right when the tapping stopped. That was twenty minutes ago, and we haven’t had another knock since.”

“Let’s see it. What did you get?”

“There—‘20, 7, 5, 20, 21, 16‘—’T G E T U P.’ Something about ‘can’t get up,’ we figured it. But it’s not enough to be of any use.

“And there’s not another man here can wriggle in through the hole,” went on the boss, turning toward the great rock which sealed the mouth of the mine. “A dozen of ’em tried it, and Redding got stuck so we had to get a rope on him. Nearly pulled his legs off.”

Wilson made his way forward and examined the strangely blocked entrance. The small hole referred to was a triangular-shaped opening about a foot in height and some sixteen inches in width, apparently just at the roof of the gallery. Some minutes Wilson stood studying it, pondering. Finally he turned about with an air of decision and returned to Muskoka and the mine boss.

“I have a plan,” he announced. “If you will go back to the station again, Muskoke, I’ll send for another operator, and go in the mine myself. Two operators could talk backwards and forwards easily on the piping. And—”

“But whar’s the other operator?” interrupted the cowboy.

“There is a freight due at the station in abouttwenty-five minutes. I can give you a message to hand the engineer for the operator at Ledges, the next station—a message asking the despatcher to send the Ledges operator down on the Mail. Someone could wait for him, and if there is no hitch he’d be here inside of an hour and a half.”

“That’ll work!” exclaimed the boss. “That’s it! You’ll go, Muskoke?”

“Sartenly. I’ll get a fresh hoss, and wait fer him myself.” Wilson, finding an envelope in his pocket, dropped to a boulder and began writing.

“W. B. J., Exeter,” he scribbled. “Am at the mine. The tapping has stopped. No one else can go in, so I am going myself. Please send down operator from Ledges to read my tapping if I am unable to return.

“Jennings.”

“Redding! Whar’s Red?” shouted Muskoka as he folded the message.

“Here. What?”

“I’m going back to the station for another operator. I’m going to take your Johnny hoss. Mine’s blowed.”

“Sure yes,” agreed the owner, and with a “Good luck, kid,” Muskoka was clattering down the path.

“Now, Mr. Bartlett, will you please explain the plan of things inside; just how the tunnel runs?” requested Wilson.

“Have a seat and I’ll draw it,” said the boss, settingthe example. He turned the board bearing the fragmentary message, and Wilson dropped down beside him.

“The main gallery, the old lead, runs straight in, at about this dip down,” he said, drawing as he spoke. “Runs back 550 feet, and ends. That was where the old lead petered out.

“Here, about 200 feet from the entrance, is a vertical shaft, 90 feet, that we put down to pick up the old Pine-Knot lead. It’s from the foot of that the new gallery, the lower level, starts. It slopes off just under the old lead—so—330 feet, there’s a fault, and it cants up 12 feet—so—then on down again at a bit sharper dip, nearly 600 feet; then another fault and a drop, and about 50 feet more.

“It’s down there at the end we think most of the men have been caught, but some may have been near the shaft. The pumping-pipe where Hoover and Young must have been tapping is here, half way between the first and second faults, where it comes down through a boring from the old gallery. It must have been at that point, because we had disconnected two leaking sections just below there only this morning.”

“How do you get down the shaft to the lower level?” Wilson asked.

“There was a ladder, but it was smashed by the explosion. Hoover, the first man in, came out for a rope, so I suppose that’s there now. Young must have gone down by it.

“Hoover also reported that the roof of the old gallerywas in bad shape just over the shaft. That’s the particular reason we are afraid to blast the rock here until we know whether any of the men were caught at the bottom of the pit.”

Wilson arose and began removing his collar. “How about water, Mr. Bartlett, since the pump is not working?” he inquired.

“Unless the explosion tapped new water, there’ll be no danger for twenty-four hours at least. But if the drain channel of the lower gallery has been filled the floor will be very slippery,” the mine boss added. “It’s slate, and we left it smooth, as a runway for the ore boxes.”

As the young operator removed his spotless collar—one similar to that which had so aroused the cowmen’s derision on his first day at Bonepile—without a smile one of the very men who had formed the “welcoming committee” that day rubbed his hands on his shirt, took it carefully, and placed it on a clean plank.

“You’ll want a lamp. Somebody give the boy a cap and lamp,” the boss directed. A dozen of the miners whipped off caps with attached lamps, and trying several, Wilson found one to fit. Then, buttoning his coat and turning up the collar, he made his way to the rock-sealed entrance, and climbed up to the narrow opening.

“I’ll tap as soon as I reach the pipe,” he said. “So long!” and without more ado crawled head first within and disappeared.

The lamp on his cap lighting up the narrow trough-like tunnel, Wilson easily wormed his way forward ten or twelve feet. Then the passage contracted and became broken and twisted. However, given confidence by the knowledge that others had passed through, Wilson squeezed on, there presently came a widening of the hole, then a black opening, and with a final effort he found himself projecting into the black depths of the empty gallery.

Below him the debris sloped to the floor. Pulling himself free, he slid and scrambled down, and quickly was on his feet, breathing with relief. Only pausing to brush some of the dust from his clothes, Wilson hastened forward.

Two hundred feet distant a windlass took shape in the obscurity. He reached it, and the black opening of the shaft to the lower level was at his feet. Looking, he found the rope the mine boss had spoken of. It was secured to one of the windlass supports, and disappeared into the depths on the opposite side of the pit. Directly below was the shattered wreck of the ladder.

Leaning over, Wilson shouted, “Hello! Hello!” The words crashed and echoed in the shaft and about him, but there was no reply. Once more he shouted, then resolutely suppressing his instinctive shrinking, he made his way about to the rope, carefully lowered himself, and began descending hand under hand.

Wilson had not gone far when with apprehension he found the rope becoming wet and slippery withdrip from the rocks above. Despite a tightened grip his hands began to slip. In alarm he wound his feet about the rope. Still he slipped. To dry a hand on his sleeve, he freed it. Instantly with a cry he found himself shooting downward. He clutched with hands, feet and knees, but onward he plunged. In the light of his lamp the jagged broken timbers of the shoring shot up by him. He would be dashed to pieces.

But desperately he fought, and at last got the rope clamped against the corner of a heel, and the speed was retarded. A moment after he landed with an impact that broke his hold on the rope and sent him in a heap on his back.

Rising, Wilson thankfully discovered he had escaped injury other than a few bruises, and gazed about him. At first sight he appeared to be in the bottom of a well filled with broken water-soaked timbers and gray, dripping rock. He knew there must be an exit, however, and set about looking for it, at the same time listening and watching shrinkingly for signs of anyone buried in the heap of stone and timber. Not a sound save the monotonous drip of seeping water was to be heard, however, and presently behind a shield of planking he located the black mouth of a small opening.

Dropping to his knees, he crawled through, and stood upright in a downward sloping gallery similar to that above—the “lower level.”

Once more he shouted. “Hello! Hello!” Theclashing echoes died away without response, and he started forward.

Scarcely had he taken a half dozen steps when without warning his feet shot from under him and he went down on his back with a crash, barely saving his head with his hands. The smooth hard rock was as slippery as ice from the water flowing over it. Wondering if this icy declivity had anything to do with the failure of Hoover and Young to return, Wilson arose and went on more cautiously.

As he proceeded the walking became more and more treacherous. Several times he again went down, saving himself by sinking onto his outstretched hands.

On rising from one of these falls Wilson discovered something which sent him ahead with new concern. A few yards farther he halted with an exclamation on the brink of a yellow stretch of water that met the gallery roof twenty feet beyond him.

Blankly he gazed at it. Then he recalled the “fault” the mine boss had spoken of—an abrupt rise of the gallery twelve feet. This must be it. Its drain had choked, and filled it with water.

But both Hoover and Young had passed it! The pipe they had tapped upon was beyond. They must have waded boldly in, dove or ducked down, and come up on the other side. At the thought of following them in this Wilson drew back. Had he not better return?

Could he, though? Could he ascend a rope downwhich he had been unable to prevent himself sliding? The answer was obvious.

Desperately Wilson decided to venture the water, to reach those he now knew were on the other side, and the pumping-pipe. In preparation he first securely wrapped the matches he carried in notepaper taken from an envelope, and placed them in the top of the miner’s hat. Then removing his shoes, to give him firmer footing, he stepped into the yellow pool and carefully made his way forward. Six feet from the point at which the water met the top of the gallery the water was up to his chin, and he saw he must swim for it, and dive. Without pause, lest he should lose his nerve, he struck out, reached the roof, took a deep breath, and ducked down.

Three quick, hard strokes, and he arose, and with a gasp found himself at the surface again. A few strokes onward in the darkness, and his hands met a rough wall, over which the water was draining as over the brink of a dam.

At the same moment a sound of dull blows reached his ears. Spluttering and blinking, Wilson drew himself up. A shout broke from him. Far distant and below was a point of light.

“Hello!” he cried. Immediately came a chorus of response, as though many were excitedly shouting at once. Unable to distinguish anything from the jangle of echoes, Wilson cried back, “Are you all safe?”

Again came the clashing, incomprehensible shout.

“I’m coming down,” he called, though not surethat they heard him. Producing the matches from the crown of the hat, he found they had come through dry, and after some difficulty lighting one against the side of another, he re-lit the lamp. While at this, voices continued to come up to him, evidently shouting something. But try as he could he was unable to make out what was said. It was all a reverberating clamor, as though a hundred people were talking at once.

As the lamp spluttered up, after the ducking which had extinguished it, Wilson gazed down the gallery before him with a touch of new dismay. The water was flowing over it in a thin, glossy coat, and it was considerably steeper than on the outer side of the fault. Apparently the only thing to do was to slide.

Working about into a sitting position, facing down the slope, with feet spread out, as though steering a sleigh, Wilson allowed himself to go. The rapidity with which he gained momentum startled him. Soon the gray damp walls were passing upward like a glistening mist. With difficulty he kept his feet foremost.

Meantime the voices from below had continued shouting. Onward he slid, and the sounds became clearer. At last the words came to him. They were, “The pipe! The pipe! Catch the pump-pipe!” Then Wilson suddenly recollected that the pipe was but half way down the slope.

Digging with his heels he sought to slow up, gazing first at one flitting wall, then the other. On the right a vertical streak of black appeared. He clutched withheels and hands, and sought to steer toward it. He swept nearer, and reached with outstretched hand. The effort swung him sideways, his fingers just grazed the iron, and twisting about, he shot downward head first at greater speed than ever. A moment after there was a chorus of shouts, a sharp cry in his ears, an impact, a rolling and tumbling, a second crash, and Wilson felt himself dragged to his feet.

About him, in a single flickering light, was a group of strange faces. While he gazed, dazed, rubbing a bruised head, all talked excitedly, even angrily.

“Why didn’t you hang on, you idiot?” demanded a voice.

“Who is it, anyway? It’s a stranger!”

“And a boy!” said another.

Wilson recovered his scattered wits, and quickly explained who he was and what he had come for. Immediately there was a joyful shout. “We’ll be out inside of an hour!” cried one.

“But how am I going to get up to the pipe?” demanded Wilson.

“We are cutting footholds up the incline.

“White, get back on the job,” directed the speaker, who Wilson later learned was the fire-boss.

“You brought him down with you,” he added, to the boy.

The man spoken to began creeping up the water-covered slope dragging a pick, and Wilson turned to look about him. The eleven men in the party, not including the man on the slope, were crowded togetheron the level floor of what evidently was the lower fault of the lead. From the darkness beyond came the sound of water trickling to a lower level.

“Are all here, and no one hurt?” he asked.

“Hoover and Young, and everybody, and not one scratched,” responded the fire-boss. “You were the one nearest hurt.

“You were a mighty plucky youngster,” he added, “to come through that water up there.”

Wilson interrupted a chorus of hearty assent. “What happened to Hoover and Young at the pipe?” he inquired. “That mystified everybody outside.”

“They both caught it coming down, but Hoover lost his hold trying to change hands for tapping, and Young dropped the knife he was knocking with, and slipped fishing for it,” the fire-boss explained.

Meantime at the entrance to the mine, a half hour having passed without a knocking on the pipe to announce the arrival inside of the young operator, anxiety began to be felt for his safety also. When another half hour had passed, and there was still no response to frequent tappings of inquiry, the mine-boss, Bartlett, began to stride up and down before the blocked entrance. “I shouldn’t have allowed him to go in,” he muttered repeatedly. “He was only a boy.”

When at length Muskoka Jones reappeared on the scene, and with him the operator from Ledges, Bartlett met them with a gloomy face. At that very moment, however, there was a shout from the mengathered about the pumping-pipe. “He’s knocking!” cried a voice.

Bartlett, Muskoka and the Ledges operator went forward on the run. The latter dropped to his knees and placed his ear to the pipe. At the quick smile of comprehension which came into his face a great cheer went up. It was immediately stilled by a gesture from the operator, and in tense silence he caught up a stone, tapped back a signal, then read aloud Wilson’s strangely telegraphed words of the safety of the men below, their situation, and the means to be taken to reach them.

And just at sunset the bedraggled but joyful, cheering party of rescuers and rescued emerged from the entrance—Wilson to a reception he will remember as long as he lives.

The most important result of Wilson’s courage and resourcefulness, however, was an interview Alex Ward had that evening at Exeter with the division superintendent. Following a recital of Wilson’s feat at the mine, Alex added: “You said last week, Mr. Cameron, that I might suggest a third operator for the Yellow Creek construction ‘advance guard’ of operators. I’d like to suggest Jennings, sir.”

“He is appointed, then,” said the superintendent. “Go and tell him yourself.”

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