“Clang—Clang—Clang——Clang!” again the indicator rang. This time with a sharp, insistent sound.
“Perhaps they want it to come up fast. Oh, very, very fast,” was the thought that came to him, and he threw the lever all the way over. Fascinated, he watched the cable tearing past him on the drum.
“Funny—they—should—signal—that—way,” he spoke aloud. “Perhaps—they—are—drunk—too.”
Faster and faster whirled the reel. The mark for the four hundred level flashed by. Almost in an instant the marking for the three hundred followed. The blur of white upon the cable, telling that the bucket was only two hundred feet below the surface seemed to come within a second. He did not see the marking for the last hundred feet.
Suddenly, out of the bowels of the earth shot the bucket. For a sixtieth of a second two figures, standing on the edge, were outlined. Loring heard a shriek, half drowned in a crash and roar, as the bucket, with its human freight, was hurled against the overhead supports.
He smiled foolishly, and hopelessly fingered the lever.
Outside, by the shaft mouth, all was in wild confusion. Shouts, curses, hoarse whispers, all were intermingled. Then came the sound of feet, tramping in unison, and men entered the shed carrying a—thing—its head driven into its shoulders. Loring looked—stared—then he knew.
Like a knife cutting into the mist of dizziness came realization. The truth burned its way into his mind, and sobered him.
“My God!” he sobbed. “The signal was for men on the bucket.” It flashed upon him what had happened. The men, standing upon the edge of the bucket, holding onto the cable, had been dashed into the tripod framework, which overhung the shaft mouth, a scant ten feet above the ground.
Shaking, as with ague, he stepped outside to the shaft.