original determination. He could not see any way in which the boy
would be benefited by hearing the news. Still, the miner hated anything
that savored of concealment or deception.

"I wish Anne was here to help me," he thought; "she'd know what to do."

He sat long, looking down, his hands clasped about his knees, drinking
with old Tantalus. But the reverie ended as it always did--in action.
There was nothing for it but the claim. Success there meant success
everywhere.

It was the knowledge that Anne, the boy, and all he wished to do for both
depended on the pay-streak which had urged him to such a fury of effort.

His carelessness of his own life, that led him to slap his timbering up
any way, was born of that same fury. And the consequences came like most
consequences, without a moment's warning.

It was a still and beautiful noon. Ches had pulled out the last car
before dinner, and started for the cabin.

A curious groaning and snapping from the tunnel halted him. It was the
giving of the tortured timbers. On the heels of that came a dull,
crushing roar. A blast of dust shot from the tunnel-mouth, like smoke
from a cannon, preceded by a shock that nearly threw the boy off his
feet.

Then all was still again. The sun shone as brilliantly as before, blazing
down upon the ghastly face of a little boy, who, after one heart-broken
cry of "Jim! Oh, Jim's killed!" sank down upon the ground, chewing the
fingers thrust in his mouth, that the pain might make the black wave keep
its distance.

For Ches knew that he was alone; that there was no human being within
miles to help the man caught in the hand of that mischance but himself,
so frantically willing, but so impotent.

"I must git me wits tergedder--I must!" and down came the teeth with all
the strength of the boy's jaw. "Oh, what will I do? What will I do?" The
little head waved from side to side in its agony, and a sudden sob struck
him in the throat.

After that one small weakness rose Ches Felton, hero. To the mouth of the
tunnel he went. Above the tumbled pile of dirt and timber ran a sort of
passage, between it and the roof.

A way along which a boy might crawl and find out if all the frames were
down--to which the silence of the tunnel gave a bitter assent--or if by
some most lucky chance one or two had held, and Jim be safe within.

Ches climbed to the top and thrust his head into the gloom. "Jim!" he
called, "Jim!" No answer.

Before him lay the