The Scribe would willingly omit this chapter.

Dying men, hurrying doctors, improvised stretchers made of wrenched fence rails; silent, slow-moving throngs following limp, bruised bodies,--are not pleasant objects to write about and should be disposed of as quickly as possible.
Exactly whose fault it was nobody knew; if any one did, no one ever told.

Every precaution had been taken each charge had been properly placed and tamped; all the fulminates inspected and the connections made with the greatest care.

As to the battery--that was known to be half a mile away in the pay shanty, lying on Jack Breen's table.
Nor was the weather unfavorable.

True, there had been rain the day before, starting a general thaw, but none of the downpour had soaked through the outer crust of the tunnel to the working force inside and no extra labor had devolved on the pumps.