“Sure; this was the mine, wasn’t it?” interposed a fussy little man with eyeglasses through which he was peering right and left with his small, near-sighted eyes. “Tell us about it, please,” begged three or four voices at once; and Bill needed no second bidding. When they passed Hustler Joe, Somers pointed him out, and as they walked on into the next gallery he told with unconscious power the story of the heroic rescue of the imprisoned men. The shifting shadows and twinkling lights made the telling more impressive, and the dusky forms flitting in and out of the mysterious openings on either side, added a realistic touch to the tale that sobered the gay crowd not a little. Their interest in the earth’s interior waned perceptibly. “Are—are we on the way out, now?” asked the pretty girl, her cheeks showing white in the gloom. “No, ma’am; we’re goin’ in deeper. Wa’n’t that what ye wanted?” returned Bill. “Yes, of course,” murmured the girl, without enthusiasm. The man with glasses coughed. “Really, Miss Barrington, this is beastly air. It might be well enough to go back before long.” Bill Somers took the hint. He knew the type to which the fussy little man belonged. The party turned about, and the pretty girl’s eyes flashed with a grateful glance—a glance which the near-sighted-glassed saw and promptly appropriated. As they repassed Hustler Joe, Ethel Barrington dropped behind the others and came close to the miner’s side. “I want to thank you myself,” she said, the crimson staining her cheeks as she impulsively held out a slim, ungloved hand. “I want to tell you how much I appreciate your courage and bravery at the explosion.” The man flushed painfully. As he reluctantly touched her finger-tips, she added: “You must be so happy to have saved so many lives. I knew you were a good man the minute I saw your face!” Hustler Joe grew white to the lips, dropped her hand rudely and turned away without a word. Hemenway met the party at the entrance of the mine. He was profuse in apologies for his enforced absence and in offerings of further service, but Miss Barrington dismissed him with a cool “Thank you; nothing more,” and led the way to The Maples. Miss Barrington was vexed—worse than that, she was vexed because she was vexed. Her pulse quickened and her nostrils dilated as she thought of Hustler Joe and of the way he had met her impulsive greeting.