The cable tightened.

The little beauty began to stir uneasily in its hammock of chains.

Then slowly and steadily the rock arose, and nearly as quickly as I can write the words, it was lying on the side of the trench and the derrick was being dismantled.
As the young man hurried away he passed Mary's car.
"Why, it's Archey!" she thought.

Whether or not it was due to telepathy, the young man looked up and his colour deepened under his tan.

"It is Archey; isn't it ?" asked Mary, leaning forward and smiling.
"Yes'm," he said, awkwardly enough, and grammar deserting him in his confusion he added: "It's me all right, Miss Spencer." "I've been watching you get that rock out," she began, looking at him with frank admiration, and then they talked for a few minutes.