“Perhaps they want it to come up fast. Oh, very, very fast,” was the thought that came to him, and he threw the lever all the way over. Fascinated, he watched the cable tearing past him on the drum. “Funny—they—should—signal—that—way,” he spoke aloud. “Perhaps—they—are—drunk—too.” Faster and faster whirled the reel. The mark for the four hundred level flashed by. Almost in an instant the marking for the three hundred followed. The blur of white upon the cable, telling that the bucket was only two hundred feet below the surface seemed to come within a second. He did not see the marking for the last hundred feet. Suddenly, out of the bowels of the earth shot the bucket. For a sixtieth of a second two figures, standing on the edge, were outlined. Loring heard a shriek, half drowned in a crash and roar, as the bucket, with its human freight, was hurled against the overhead supports. He smiled foolishly, and hopelessly fingered the lever. Outside, by the shaft mouth, all was in wild confusion. Shouts, curses, hoarse whispers, all were intermingled. Then came the sound of feet, tramping in unison, and men entered the shed carrying a—thing—its head driven into its shoulders. Loring looked—stared—then he knew. Like a knife cutting into the mist of dizziness came realization. The truth burned its way into his mind, and sobered him. “My God!” he sobbed. “The signal was for men on the bucket.” It flashed upon him what had happened. The men, standing upon the edge of the bucket, holding onto the cable, had been dashed into the tripod framework, which overhung the shaft mouth, a scant ten feet above the ground. Shaking, as with ague, he stepped outside to the shaft. A crowd of Mexicans were jabbering. The voices of several Americans carried above the soft slur of the Spanish. Some one was holding lantern over the mouth of the shaft, and cautiously peering down. Up the hill came the sound of running feet. “Here’s the Doc, now!” called some one. They showed Dr. Kline the body on the floor of the hoist box. He merely glanced at it, then picking up a burlap sack laid it over the head. “Where is the other man?” he asked curtly. Some one, with a quick gesture, pointed towards the shaft. “Down there.” A small, close set ladder, for use in case of emergency, ran down the shaft. Down this two of the Americans started to climb. The group by the edge watched breathlessly, while the light of their lantern dropped—dropped—dropped. For the first twenty feet the lantern illuminated the greasy sides of the shaft, bringing out clearly the knots and chinks in the boards. Then the light shrank into the darkness, became a mere dot. After a long minute the dot began to sway back and forth. But so far down was it that it seemed to have a radius only of inches. “They have found him,” breathed McKay, who had reached the scene. On the iron piping of the shaft pump tapped dully the signal to lower slowly. Loring started for his place at the engine.