The shift-boss elbowed his way through the throng of men and, dragging the radio behind him, wriggled and floated up the rise.
"Wright!" he bellowed, the echoes resounding deafeningly all up and down the narrow tube. "You up there ahead of me?"
"Yeah!" that worthy bellowed back.
"More men left than I thought—how many—half of 'em?"
"Just about."
"Good. Sort out the ones you got up there by trades." Then, when he had emerged into the now brilliantly illuminated stope, "Where are the timber-pimps?"
"Over there."
"Rustle timbers. Whatever you can find and wherever you find it, grab it and bring it up here. Get some twelve-inch steel, too, six feet long. Timbermen, grab that stuff off of the face and start your staging right here. You muckers, rig a couple of skoufers to throw muck to bury the base and checkerwork up to the hanging wall. Doze a sluice-way down into that waste pocket there, so we won't clog ourselves up. Work fast, fellows, but make it solid—you know the load it'll have to carry and what will happen if it gives."
They knew. They knew what they had to do and did it; furiously, but with care and precision.
"How wide a sag you figurin' on, Supe?" the boss timberman asked. "Eight foot checkerwork to the hangin', anyway, huh?"