“When does she bust?”

“Next week, so he cal’lates!”

But Mr. Wagg, returning slowly, keeping to the side of the pit farthest from the hillock, was at that moment down to seconds in his figuring how long it would be before the crawling fire on a fuse would reach and sever a cord and trip a certain trigger.

“I reckon she’s about due,” muttered Mr. Wagg.  He stopped without easy jumping distance of the corner of a shop and slowly lighted his pipe as an excuse for stopping.

His reckoning was correct.

The hillock heaved.  The mining had been skillfully done; the mass of rocks and earth was hoisted from behind and slid toward the pit.  There was a tremor of the ground under the prison and its yard as if Thor had thunked viciously with his heaviest hammer.  When startled men shot glances from the windows that were handiest for observation, the hill was toppling into the pit.  In the forefront was the dynamite shed, splintering under the tons of moving rock.  Instantly the last sliver of the shed was swallowed up, and then other tons of dirt and rock went piling into the pit, burying the shattered structure in crashing depths from which lime-rock dust came puffing in clouds.

On the edge of the pit a man was dancing wildly in an aura of dust.  The man was Wagg.  He came staggering away from the pit, his arms folded across his eyes.

“I saw him!” he squalled, when officers met him in their race across the yard from the prison.  “He was in the shed.  I told him to keep away from them wires.  I’ve been telling everybody to keep off’n them wires.  But everybody has been bound and determined to fool with ’em.”  He pulled down his arms and shot accusatory digit at the deputy warden whom he had previously rebuked.  “Only this day I had to warn you not to fool with them wires.  He must have done it.  I saw him go under.  It’s Gawd-awful.  I’ll never forget it—­how he looked.  Gimme water!”

He sucked from the edge of the tin dipper which a man brought, suffling like a thirsty horse.  He rolled up his eyes and surveyed the warden, who had arrived.

“Number Two-Seven-Nine—­you say he has gone?” The warden’s countenance registered honest horror; but Mr. Wagg’s simulated horror was even more convincing in its intensity.

“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.”