I will that, or me name 's not Jack Burke. Here you, Peterson,
hand me over that pick-helve." He struck the tough hickory handle
sharply against the wall to test its strength, his ugly red moustache
bristling. "Lave the falsework sthandin' where it is till I git back,"
he ordered, with an authoritative wave of the hand; "an' you fellers go
in beyant, an' help out on Number Wan till Oi call ye. Dom me sowl,
but Oi'll make that Swanson think the whole dom mounting has slid down
on top o' him--the lazy, dhrunken Swade."
The heavy pick-handle swinging in his hand his grim, red face glowing
angrily beneath the sputtering flame of the lamp stuck in his hat, the
irate Burke strode swiftly back into the gloomy passage, muttering
gruffly.
CHAPTER XV
THE PROOF OF CRIME
Winston sprang to his feet and ran back along the deserted tunnel,
bending low to avoid collision with the sloping roof, striving to move
rapidly, yet in silence. The intense darkness blinded him, but one
hand touching the wall acted as safeguard.
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