“He's gone! He's under the whole of it!” Wagg dropped the dipper and collapsed on the ground. “My nerve is all busted, Warden. I sha'n't ever have any more grit to be a guard. I ask to be discharged. Here and now I beg to be fired!” “I'll arrange a furlough for you, Wagg,” said the warden, with understanding sympathy. “You're entitled to a lay-off with pay. It was a terrible thing to see!” “And his mother!” mourned the guard. “Break it to her easy!” “A dreadful--dreadful affair,” insisted the warden. He started toward the edge of the pit. “And the prison commissioners, the way state finances are, will never go to the expense of having all that rock moved to dig him out.” “Probably not, seeing that he's under the whole of it,” agreed Wagg. “He was a likable chap, spite of what he had done to get in here. Poor Two-Seven-Nine!” One of the inside guards had arrived at the scene of mourning. He was greatly excited. “And I guess it's poor Two-Eight-Two! He's missing from the noon count-up, Mr. Warden!” Wagg struggled upon his feet. He was not simulating the new phase of his emotions. He looked distinctly frightened. “There's only one under there. I saw him go. Who is Two-Eight-Two?” “One of the pair sent down from Levant for breaking and entering in the nighttime.” “He wasn't in my crew--he wasn't on outdoor work,” shouted Wagg. “What was his job?” demanded the warden. “Harness shop,” reported an officer. He called to another guard and started into the building indicated. All those in the yard waited anxiously, their eyes on the door where the guards had entered. Promptly the officers came out. One propelled a convict, clutching the collar of the dingy prison coat; the other carried a length of narrow ladder that was fashioned from strips of leather. “I reckon he hid out to work on this,” said the guard. “Didn't you know that you couldn't get away with anything of that sort?” the warden demanded, angrily. The convict looked past the warden, straight into the eyes of Wagg. “You never can tell what you can get away with till you try it,” Two-Eight-Two declared. There was a touch of insolence in his manner. “Into the doghole with him!” the warden commanded. Wagg surveyed the departure of the convict. The man contrived to twist his head around and look behind him; and he disclosed a grin. But he was hampered by the clutch on his collar and Wagg was not sure that the grin was intended for him, though the consciousness that the convict might have beheld what was on the inner side of that shield of boards was a thought which troubled Mr. Wagg's complacent belief that a good job had been well done.