During the week which the Camerons spent in camp at Kay, it was amusing to notice the change in the appearance of the men at the mess. Dilapidated flannel shirts and khaki trousers the worse for wear had been supplanted at supper time by self-conscious black suits and very white ties. The camp barber made enough money to tide him over many months. Mr. Cameron had spent a very busy week, examining with Loring all the details of the work, and daily his respect had grown for the man whom he had so despised. The evening before the last which she was to spend in Kay, Jean announced her intention of visiting the “workings” with her father when he should go the next day. Loring said that it was not safe; her father protested; Radlett argued with her, and as the net result of all she appeared the following morning with her determination unchanged.
The porch of the mess a few minutes before[292] breakfast time was always crowded. Men on their way back from the night shift made a practise of stopping to exchange a few words. It was a quieter gathering than in the evening, for ahead lay the prospect of a long day’s work. Yet an air of comfort always prevailed. The five minutes before breakfast made a precious interval in which to loaf, a delightful time when one could stretch himself against the wall and bask in the sunlight.
Jean and her father came up to the veranda with a friendly “good morning” to those who were gathered there. A few of the loiterers talked respectfully to Mr. Cameron, whose fame as a mining expert was a wide one, and Jean quickly became the center of a large group of men, eager to point out to her the different mountains, the Grahams in the distance or the long sharp ridges of the neighboring range. They called her attention to the mist hanging low in the valley, curling softly in the farthest recesses. The mine foreman, usually the most shiftlessly dressed man in camp, twitched his polka-dotted tie into place when he thought that Miss Cameron’s attention was absorbed by the landscape.
[293]
Stephen came across from his quarters among the last. He waited a moment before joining the group about Miss Cameron; and his eyes employed that moment in fixing a picture indelibly on his mind. As Jean leaned lightly against the wall, in her dress of white linen crash, she made a picture which no one who saw could forget. Her gray eyes were clear with the reflection of the morning light, and the sun searched for and illuminated the subtle tints of her hair. She had a pretty way of speaking as though everything she said were a simple answer to a clever question. Men liked that. They thought her appreciative.
She looked up to notice Loring’s glance upon her, and answered his “good morning” lightly. “You need not speak as though you were surprised, Mr. Loring,” she said, “I may have been late to breakfast five out of my six days, but that is no sign that it is a habit with me. Besides, you know that to-day I am to visit the mine.”
“So you are still determined?” he asked. “Really, Miss Cameron, it is not very safe. There might be an accident of some sort, and,” he went on, looking at her gown, “you will ruin your dress.”
[294]
“Do you fancy that I travel with only one?” Jean queried smiling. “It may be so, but not even my vanity shall deter me; I really must go.”
Just then Wah appeared on the veranda, and began to pound with his railroad spike on the iron triangle which, as at Quentin, served for a dinner gong.
“La, la, boom, boom! Breakfast!” he shouted, amidst the din which he was creating. “Me bludder, Steve, he almost late. La, la, boom, boom! Hot cakes, hot cakes; oh, lubbly hot cakes, oh, lubbly, lubbly—!”
In the midst of his song he caught sight of Jean, and stopping his pounding he beamed upon her.
“Goodee morning, missee, goodee morning! Missee on time this morning; how it happen?”
McKay angrily told him to shut up, but Miss Cameron stopped the rebuke, assuring Wah that his reproaches had been well deserved.
Several minutes after the others had begun their meal, Radlett appeared at breakfast, still struggling against sleepiness. Not even the clear early morning air had thoroughly aroused him. Breakfasts at half-past six were a distinct[295] and not wholly appreciated novelty to Baird. He slipped into his place beside Jean, and endeavored to parry her banter upon his indolence. Stephen, at his side of the table, was occupied in dispensing the platter of “flap jacks,” which Wah, beaming with appreciation of their excellence, had set before him to serve.
“At what time do we visit the mine?” asked Jean across the table.
“As soon after breakfast as you and your father are ready,” answered Stephen. “The air is much better early in the day, before they have begun to shoot down there. But I wish that you would change your mind about going.”
Jean turned to the mine foreman for assistance.
“It is perfectly safe, isn’t it, Mr. Burns? I know that all my father and Mr. Loring think is that I shall be in the way.”
Burns laboriously protested against such an idea, and clumsily promised to look after her safety.
In the minutes that preceded the seven o’clock whistle, one by one the men straggled off to their work, nodding respectfully to Jean and her father as they left, and calling out parting[296] gibes at Wah. By the time that the whistle blew, the line of ponies picketed to the fence before the mess had disappeared, and the community was at work.
As soon after breakfast as Mr. Cameron had smoked his morning cigar, he joined Radlett and Loring, and with Miss Cameron all walked up to the mouth of the nearest shaft. Burns met them at the shaft house, and selected from the pile of oilskins a “slicker” for Miss Cameron. She struggled helplessly with the stiff button-holes, and Loring was obliged to button the coat for her. His fingers, though stronger than hers, were not much more efficient, owing to their trembling.
“Where are the candles, Burns?” asked Loring.
Burns pointed to a box in one corner of the shaft house. Stephen took out a half dozen, and handed one to each of the visitors. He put a broken one into the spike candle holder which he carried, and slipped the others into his capacious pockets.
The “skip” shot up and was unloaded. “All ready!” called Burns, steadying the bucket by the level of the shaft mouth. Jean stepped[297] forward and looked at the bucket just a bit askance. Loring showed her how to place her hands on the heavy iron links above the swivel, and how to stand on the edge of the bucket with her heels over the edge.
“Look out that your skirt does not hit against the side of the shaft!” was his final injunction.
“Can we go down now?” he asked Burns.
“One second,” answered the foreman. “There is a load of sharpened drills to go down with us.”
In a moment the little “nipper” appeared with his armful of drills, and with a ringing clatter dropped them into the bottom of the bucket.
“I think we had better take Mr. Cameron to the four hundred level right away,” said Stephen to Burns. “I want him to see that new stope. The air isn’t very bad there, is it?”
“No, it’s pretty fair.”
“All right. Lower away, four hundred!” called Loring to the hoist engineer, at the same time swinging himself onto the bucket beside the others.
The skip began to drop slowly down the[298] timbered shaft. For the first twenty-five or thirty feet it was fairly light, and Jean could see the joints in the rough-grained, greasy boards. Then all became dark. She clutched the cable tightly and half closed her eyes. The water began to drip down hard from above, spattering sharply on their oilskins. Loring, close beside her, whispered: “All right. Just hold on tightly, Miss Cameron! Great elevator, isn’t it?”
Even while Loring spoke, a chill struck to his heart. What if the hoist engineer failed in his duty! What if the bucket crashed into the black depths that lay below them, or shot wildly upward to be caught in the timbers at the top! What if Jean Cameron were to be snatched away as those others had been, through the wanton carelessness of the man in charge above! Would any punishment be black enough for him? Would eternity be long enough for him to make a decent repentance?
By the vigor of the answer which his heart made to the question, Loring sensed the pang of remorse which had gnawed at his conscience without ceasing ever since that awful night. “That was what you did.” The words said[299] themselves over and over in his ear as the bucket slid downward.
The air began to turn from the pure clear atmosphere of the mountains to the heavy close humidity of the mine, murky even in its blackness.
“One hundred level,” explained Stephen, as the bucket dropped past a candle which flickered dully in a smoky hole in the side of the shaft, the entrance to the drift which was even blacker than the shaft itself.
As they reached the lower levels, the water poured down faster. The bucket swung and twisted and Jean leaned an imperceptible trifle closer to Loring. He steadied her with his arm, although it may not have been strictly necessary for safety.
The bucket suddenly stopped and hung lifelessly steady.
“Here we are, four hundred foot level,” called Loring. “Please stay just where you are, Miss Cameron, and we will help you off.” He swung himself onto the landing stage after the others, and taking both of Jean’s hands in his, guided her safely into the drift.
She stood for a moment completely confused,[300] unable to make out anything. Loring leaned out into the shaft, and pulling the bell cord, signaled to have the bucket raised again. Then he took Jean’s candle, and biting off the wax from about the wick, lighted it and his own, holding them under a small protecting ledge of rock. To Jean’s unaccustomed eyes the little flickerings made small difference in the darkness. She stepped into a pool of water that lay in the middle of the drift, wetting her boots to the ankles.
“Careful!” said Loring,............