Hughson, with his white night-shirt half out of his trousers, his boots unlaced, and his eyes still heavy from sleep, shoved him aside and took hold of the lever. Slowly he lowered the “skip.” It seemed to Loring an hour before it reached the bottom.
Then again on the pipe, for the bellrope was broken, was rapped the signal. “One—one—one——one.” In the night air the clank of the taps on the metal sounded ghostly.
Slowly the bucket came to the surface. The two men who had descended were holding in it a swaying figure. Many hands lifted the figure gently to the ground. The doctor bent over it, then shook his head.
“Nothing doing,” he said dryly, and they laid the body beside the other.
A commanding voice echoed through the group. It was Mr. Cameron’s.
“Where is Loring?” he asked decisively.
Stephen, in the background, turned away, and, with a face like chalk etched with acid, stumbled down the hill. Complete agony possessed him. Hitherto, when he had failed, he had hurt himself alone. Now he was little better than a murderer. Drunk on duty, when men’s lives were dependent upon him!
By some blind instinct he found his way to his tent, pulled back the flap, and entered. Lynn was snoring quietly in his corner. His boots lay on the floor, strange shapes in the dark. The alarm clock standing on the table close by his head ticked softly and monotonously.
Loring gasped for breath, swayed, and fell unconscious upon his cot.