"At the rate we're going at present," Ross wrote, "we'll finish work by the middle of May.... We have at least one thing to be thankful for in our tunnel. We're not obliged to timber it. Of course, blasting through solid rock isn't easy nor fast work, but I guess in the long run we get along faster than we would through dirt. In this case, you see we should be obliged to snake logs down from the mountainside and build side walls and roof in the tunnel for our own safety. How's 'snaking' for you, Aunt Anne? First time I heard it I hadn't an idea what it meant, but it covers the process of cutting down trees and getting them to their destination. Tell you what! We speak some language up here. The King's English isn't always in it, but then every one understands, and I have fallen into using it as easily as a fish takes to water. And I am getting hardened to the work and the weather. I wouldn't mind the whole thing so much now if only the way to Miners' Camp would remain open. But any day it may become practically impassable, and then I cannot hear from you nor you from me for months. That--as I look ahead--is the tough part of it, being cooped up here with only five of us; and how the McKenzies can remain without laying in more provisions I don't see. They have meat enough, but that's all. With this letter I'm taking another over to Camp for Leslie's father. I ought to have sent him word before that Leslie hasn't been seen nor heard of since he disappeared, but every day I've looked for him back--the whole affair worries me a lot--I should think as soon as he gets my letter, old man Quinn would come and hunt Leslie up himself." At this point there was the sound of laughter outside, and Ross laid aside his pencil and pad. "Sandy," he muttered, listening. To his surprise it was not Sandy whom the opening door revealed, but Lon and Waymart, both in unprecedented high spirits. "We left Sandy snorin'," Waymart volunteered. "He and Uncle Jake ought to bunk in together. Lon, show Ross how Sandy talks in his sleep." Weston sat down, leaned his head back against the logs, gave one or two passes through his hair, which left it arranged like Sandy's with a lock falling over his forehead; and in an instant, although Weston was dark and Sandy fair, an excellent imitation of the latter mumbled and talked and snored against the logs. Weston accurately and easily imitated the voice and manner of Sandy with his laugh and every facial characteristic. Even Weimer rolled over in his bunk and laughed. Next, Weston, carried out of himself by an appreciative audience, imitated Waymart, the sheep-herder at Dry Creek, and finally Ross himself, and did it all with amazing success. Ross, convulsed with laughter, rocked back and forth on his box. It was the first real fun he had encountered since leaving Pennsylvania. It did not seem possible that this Weston was the same half-sullen, wholly silent man whom he had nursed at the stage camp.