pieces in his pocket with the matches, and started on his journey.  He was oblivious to his surroundings, oblivious to everything but the object of his quest—­Harry Hardy, lying far below in the dripping main drive of the Silver Stream.  His large dark eyes, staring unblinkingly, seemed as if set on a vision of his friend prone on the muddy floor of the drive, with the treacherous waters stealing amongst his hair.  The present mission had nothing in common with those fanciful adventures that had served to make the boy the wonder and despair of his native township.  Richard Haddon was entirely forgotten for the time being, and this concentration of mind and energy served to carry the boy bravely over every obstacle.

Dick made his way through the opening he and Ted had fashioned, dropped into the Red Hand drive beneath, and then turned with familiar feet and hastened towards the shaft.  A few centres had been knocked out and thrown across the pit as a staging, so that access to the ladder was possible, but not with out some risk.  The boy paused at nothing, reached the iron rungs with a bound, and started down the perpendicular ladder.  Down, down he went for many minutes, his candle feebly illuminating a blurred patch about his head.  Above, through a bewildering space of darkness, the grated opening at the surface shone like a faint star in another sphere; below was solid blackness; about him the slime of the dripping timbers sparkled in the candle’s rays.  Down, down, down!  The journey might have seemed interminable—­a long pilgrimage into the earth’s black distances—­had the boy had a mind for it, but he thought nothing of the task; at length his feet struck the slabs over the well, and turning he flashed his light into the cavernous depth of a big drive.

He plunged into the drive without a pause, and now the way was familiar again.  Voyages of discovery made during crib time when he officiated as tool boy in the Silver Stream had often brought him up the jump-up into the Red Hand drive.  Down that jump-up he scrambled now, and stood in the first level of the Silver Stream where the rich gutter had dipped away.  A short journey brought him to a balance shaft.  Down this to the lower level he travelled without any difficulty, and his journey was almost completed.  He was in the bottom drive hastening towards the face where Rogers and Shine had left their victim.  He could hear the far-off throbbing of the plunger in the big Stream pumps as it drew the water into the lifts, and above it all the strange murmur of a great mine, like the voice of a distant sea.

Finding an empty truck the boy ran it before him on the rails.  He was experienced miner enough to know that one can only travel quickly in this way in a wet drive full of ruts and pitfalls.  Passing the ‘S’ drive, where the robbers had done their work, Dick found Harry Hardy just as Rogers had described him, on his back a few feet up the incline from the hand-pump that served to drain the low-lying part of the drive.  His arms were thrown out, and his deadly pale face turned up, the chin pointing to the roof.  Upon his forehead were stains of blood, and he lay like a corpse in the black water.  The flood had risen above his ears, and the boy knew he had come only just in time.