"You are enthusiastic. I see that Wickersham has returned?"
Norman's brow clouded.
"He'd better not come back here," said Keith.
It is a trite saying that misfortunes rarely come singly, and it would not be so trite if there were not truth in it. Misfortunes are sometimes like blackbirds: they come in flocks.
Keith was on his way from his office in the town to the mines one afternoon, when, turning the shoulder of the hill that shut the opening of the mine from view, he became aware that something unusual had occurred. A crowd was already assembled about the mouth of the mine, above the tipple, among them many women; and people were hurrying up from all directions.
"What is it?" he demanded of the first person he came to.
"Water. They have struck a pocket or something, and the drift over toward the Wickersham line is filling up."
"Is everybody out?" Even as he inquired, Keith knew hey were not.
"No, sir; all drowned."
Keith knew this could not be true. He hurried forward and pushed his way into the throng that crowded about the entrance. A gasp of relief went up as he appeared.