For a day and a night these stout-hearted men worked without knowing whether they sought the living or the dead. On the afternoon of the second day, during a momentary pause in the steady rattle of the picks, Jack Hobson, who was at the inner end of the heading, thought he heard a knocking. Calling for perfect silence, he listened. Yes, it was! Faint, but unmistakable, it came again. "Tap, tap, tap; tap, tap, tap; tap, tap, tap," and a pause. Then it was repeated, and its meaning could not be doubted. As plain as human speech, it said, "Here we are, still alive, but in great distress. We know you are coming, but you must hurry." From mouth to mouth the joyful news was carried out from the heading, across the sullen waters, up the slope to the anxious waiting throngs, and on throbbing wires throughout the length and breadth of the land. Mrs. Sterling heard it and lifted her tear-stained face in earnest thankfulness to Heaven. The Halfords heard it in Philadelphia, and Mr. Halford said he could stand it no longer, but must go to Raven Brook and be on hand when the men were rescued. Before another sun rose that faint tapping made in the recesses of the drowned mine by Derrick Sterling with a bit of rock had been heard around the world. Now the brave fellows in the heading knew what they were working for, and the blows of their picks fell faster and harder than ever on the glistening wall that still opposed its black front to them. The excitement at the mouth of the mine was now intense, and every man who came up from it was besieged by anxious inquiries for the very latest news. What was the meaning of the three taps three times repeated? Did it signify that there were nine persons in the breast, or only three? If only three, where were the others? Who were the three? How many were alive? Were any dead? These and a thousand like questions were asked and discussed, but nobody could answer them certainly. The reports brought up were only regarding the progress of the work. So many feet in an hour, so many yards a day. Now there are only six feet more to cut through; now five, four, three, and now but eighteen inches. The suspense is terrible. To the mothers and wives waiting for the end up in the little village it is almost too great to be borne. To the haggard men behind those eighteen inches of black rock it seems as though the breath of fresh air for want of which they are dying would come too late. They press eagerly against the wall, and in their feebleness pick vainly at it with their fingers. It will not yield. Even Monk Tooley, who was so fierce and strong five days before, can make no impression on it. Now but one foot of wall remains, and Tom Evert pauses in his task to dash the sweat-drops from his eyes, and to call, as he has already a dozen times, "Holloa! Holloa in there!" Like an echo comes the answer, faint but distinct, "Holloa! Hurry!" He only stops to call louder than before, but with a tremble in his voice,