The Beast was sure now. The men were going to blow out the side of
the hill where his hide was thinnest so as to make room for an
air-shaft.
An hour later a gang in charge of a red-shirted foreman who were
shifting a section of toy track on the "fill" felt the earth shake
under them. Then came a dull roar followed by a cloud of yellow
smoke mounting skyward from an opening high up on the hillside.
Flashing through this cloud leaped tongues of flame intermingled
with rocks and splintered trees. From the tunnel's mouth streamed
a thin, steel-colored gas that licked its way along the upper
edges of the opening and was lost in the underbrush fringing its
upper lip.
"What's that?" muttered the red-shirted foreman--"that ain't no
blast--My God!--they're blowed up!"
He sprang on a car and waved his arms with all his might: "Drop
them shovels! Git to the tunnel, every man of ye: here,--this
way!" and he plunged on, the men scrambling after him.
The Beast was a magnet now, drawing everything to its mouth.
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