After going a short distance, we came to another concrete lining. This, Adams said, was to reinforce the tunnel at the point where it passed underneath the railway line. We went on again, this time walking on a dirt floor, and then we came to a timbered junction, from which the tunnel branched off again to the right in the north-east direction that was originally intended to bring it into line with the gallery at Shakespeare Cliff, while to the left there was a low-roofed chamber that probably once housed a siding and a maintenance workshop for the Beaumont boring machine. Then, walking now on half-rotted planks, in the warm light of the restlessly moving Tilley lamps, we entered the circular, unlined tunnel of Lower Chalk—a smooth, light-gray cavern, seven feet in diameter, that stretched far ahead to disappear into darkness. Our footing was slippery, and a small stream of water ran in the direction from which we had come in a rough gutter cut in the chalk, but the tunnel at this point seemed surprisingly dry for a hole that had lain unlined for some eighty years, and the stream of water draining away didn't seem to me to be really any greater than the one in the Orangeburg pipe that drains seepage from under the cellar of my summer house in Connecticut. We had gone only a little way along the chalk tunnel when Adams, walking ahead of me, began flashing his light along the wall and then stopped and motioned me to come and look at the spot where he had focused his lamp. I did so and saw, cut into the chalk in crude lettering, the following inscription: THIS TUNNEL WAS BUGN IN 1880 WILLIAM SHARP However, this was not exactly how the inscription went, for its author, after finishing it, obviously had decided that "BUGN" didn't look right, and, being unable to erase the incision, he had had another go at it, inscribing the second try to one side and partly over the first, so that the intended "begun" now came out like "BEGUBNUGN." But with all the crudeness of the inscription, the author had been careful with the lettering, even to point of conscientiously incising serifs on the "T"s and "E"s.