Winston sprang to his feet and ran back along the deserted tunnel,
bending low to avoid collision with the sloping roof, striving to move
rapidly, yet in silence. The intense darkness blinded him, but one
hand touching the wall acted as safeguard. For a moment the
bewildering surprise of this new situation left his brain in a whirl of
uncertainty. He could remember no spot in which he might hope to
secrete himself safely; the rock wall of that narrow passageway
afforded no possible concealment against the reflection of the
foreman's glaring lamp. But he must get beyond sight and sound of
those others before the inevitable meeting and the probable struggle
occurred. This became the one insistent thought which sent him
scurrying back into the gloom, recklessly accepting every chance of
encountering obstacles in his haste. At the second curve he paused,
panting heavily from the excitement of his hard run, and leaned against
the face of the rock, peering anxiously back toward that fast
approaching flicker of light. The angry foreman came crunching
savagely along, his heavy boots resounding upon the hard floor, the
hickory club in his hand occasionally striking against the wall as
though he imagined himself already belaboring the recreant Swanson.
About him, causing his figure to appear gigantic, his shadow grotesque,
the yellow gleam of the light shone in spectral coloring. Winston set
his teeth determinedly, and noiselessly cocked his revolver. The man
was already almost upon him, a black, shapeless bulk, like some unreal
shadow. Then the younger stepped suddenly forth into the open, the two
meeting face to face. The startled foreman stared incredulous, bending
forward as though a ghost confronted him, his teeth showing between
parted lips.
"Drop that club!" commanded Winston coldly, the gleam of an uplifted
steel barrel in the other's eyes. "Lively, my man; this is a
hair-trigger."
"What the hell--"
"Drop that club! We 'll discuss this case later. There--no, up with
your hands; both of them. Turn around slowly; ah, I see you don 't
tote a gun down here. So much the better, for now we can get along to
business with fewer preliminaries."
He kicked the released pick-helve to one side out of sight in the
darkness, his watchful eyes never straying from the Irishman's face.
Burke stood sputtering curses, his hands held high, his fighting face
red from impotent passion. The trembling light gave to the scene a
fantastic effect, grimly humorous.
"Who--who the divil be ye?" The surprised man thrust his head yet
farther forward in an effort to make the flame more clearly reveal the
other's features. Winston drew the peak of his miner's cap lower.
"That will make very little difference to you, Jack Burke," he said
quietly, "if I have any occasion to turn loose this arsenal. However,
stand quiet, and it will afford me pleasure to give you all necessary
information. Let us suppose, for instance, that I am a person to whom
Biff Farnham desires to sell some stock in this mine; becoming
interested, I seek to discover its real value for myself, and come down
with the night shift. Quite a natural proceeding on my part, is n't
it? Now, under such circumstances, I presume you, as foreman, would be
perfectly willing to show me exactly what is being accomplished down
here?"