'm losing my voice from shouting so much when I'm in the
shaft. Gave it up to-day and let little Moya call for me. She's a
trump. Wish she'd stay here all the time and not keep coming and
going."

The jottings on the fourth day show the increase of the delirium.
Sometimes his mind appears to be quite clear, then it wanders to queer
fancies.

"Last cigar gone. Got sick from eating the stub. Violent retchings.
Kept falling asleep while working. Twenty-nine feet done--surely
reach the end to-morrow.... Another cave-in just after I crawled
out from my tunnel. All my work wiped out. Moya, the little devil,
laughed and said it served a highgrader right....

"Have telegraphed for help. Can't manage alone. Couldn't make it up
the shaft and had to give up the climb. Ordered a big breakfast at
the Silver Dollar--steak and mushrooms and hot cakes. The telegraph
wires run through pipe along floor of tunnel. Why don't the
operator stay on his job? I tap my signals and get no answer."

He began to talk to himself in a rambling sort of way. Sometimes he
would try to justify himself for highgrading in jerky half-coherent
phrases, sometimes he argued with Peale that he had better let him out.
But even in his delirious condition he stuck to his work in the tunnel,
though he was scarce able to drag himself about.

As the sickness grew on him, the lightheaded intervals became more
frequent. In one of these it occurred to him that he had struck high
grade ore and he filled his pockets with samples taken from the cave-in.
He spent a good deal of time explaining to Moya patiently over and over
again that the business of highgrading was justified by the conditions
under which the miners lived. There was no sequence to his thoughts.
They came in flashes without logical connection. It became, for
instance, a firm obsession that the pipe running through the tunnel was
a telegraph wire by means of which he could communicate with the outside
world if the operator would only stay on duty. But his interest in the
matter was intermittent.

It is suggestive of his condition that when Moya's answer came to his
seven taps he took it quite as a matter of course.

"The son of a Greaser is back on the job at last," he said aloud without
the least excitement. "Now, I'll get that breakfast I ordered."

He crawled back to the foot of the shaft in a childish, absurd
confidence that the fo