But there was a stronger motive than fear, fear for himself, to set him groping for the telephone.  The precious minutes were flying, and he knew that by this time the two men on the hand-car must have reached the main line at Silver Switch.  Whatever helpful chain of events might be set in motion by communicating with Goodloe, must be linked up quickly.

He found the telephone without difficulty.  It was an old-fashioned set, with a crank and bell for ringing up the call at the other end of the line.  A single turn of the crank told him that it was cut off somewhere, doubtless by a switch in the office wiring.  In a fresh fever of excitement he began a search for the switch, tracing with his fingers the wires which led from the instrument and following where they ran around the end of the room on the wainscoting.  In the corner farthest from his window of ingress he found the switch and felt it out.  It was a simple cut-out, designed to connect either the office instrument or the mine telephones with the main wire, as might be desired.  Under the switch stood a corner cupboard, and in feeling for the wire connections on top of the cupboard, Judson found his fingers running lightly over the bounding surfaces of an object with which he was, unhappily, only too familiar—­a long-necked bottle with the seal blown in the glass.  The corner cupboard was evidently Flemister’s sideboard.

Almost before he knew what he was doing, Judson had grasped the bottle and had removed the cork.  Here was renewed strength and courage, and a swift clearing of the brain, to be had for the taking.  At the drawing of the cork the fine bouquet of the liquor seemed instantly to fill the room with its subtle and intoxicating essence.  With the smell of the whiskey in his nostrils he had the bottle half-way to his lips before he realized that the demon of appetite had sprung upon him out of the darkness, taking him naked and unawares.  Twice he put the bottle down, only to take it up again.  His lips were parched; his tongue rattled in his mouth, and within there were cravings like the fires of hell, threatening torments unutterable if they should not be assuaged.

“God have mercy!” he mumbled, and then, in a voice which the rising fires had scorched to a hoarse whisper:  “If I drink, I’m damned to all eternity; and if I don’t take just one swallow, I’ll never be able to talk so as to make Goodloe understand me!”

It was the supreme test of the man.  Somewhere, deep down in the soul-abyss of the tempted one, a thing stirred, took shape, and arose to help him to fight the devil of appetite.  Slowly the fierce thirst burned itself out.  The invisible hand at his throat relaxed its cruel grip, and a fine dew of perspiration broke out thickly on his forehead.  At the sweating instant the newly arisen soul-captain within him whispered, “Now, John Judson—­once for all!” and staggering to the open window he flung the tempting bottle afar among the scattered bowlders, waiting until he had heard the tinkling crash of broken glass before he turned back to his appointed task.