“And there’s not another man here can wriggle in through the hole,” went on the boss, turning toward the great rock which sealed the mouth of the mine. “A dozen of ’em tried it, and Redding got stuck so we had to get a rope on him. Nearly pulled his legs off.”
Wilson made his way forward and examined the strangely blocked entrance. The small hole referred to was a triangular-shaped opening about a foot in height and some sixteen inches in width, apparently just at the roof of the gallery. Some minutes Wilson stood studying it, pondering. Finally he turned about with an air of decision and returned to Muskoka and the mine boss.
“I have a plan,” he announced. “If you will go back to the station again, Muskoke, I’ll send for another operator, and go in the mine myself. Two operators could talk backwards and forwards easily on the piping. And—”
“But whar’s the other operator?” interrupted the cowboy.
“There is a freight due at the station in about twenty-five minutes. I can give you a message to hand the engineer for the operator at Ledges, the next station—a message asking the despatcher to send the Ledges operator down on the Mail. Someone could wait for him, and if there is no hitch he’d be here inside of an hour and a half.”
“That’ll work!” exclaimed the boss. “That’s it! You’ll go, Muskoke?”
“Sartenly. I’ll get a fresh hoss, and wait fer him myself.” Wilson, finding an envelope in his pocket, dropped to a boulder and began writing.
“W. B. J., Exeter,” he scribbled. “Am at the mine. The tapping has stopped. No one else can go in, so I am going myself. Please send down operator from Ledges to read my tapping if I am unable to return.
“Jennings.”