"Be all the powers, but Oi 'll tache that humpin' fool a lesson this day he 'll not be apt to fergit fer a while.

I will that, or me name 's not Jack Burke.

Here you, Peterson, hand me over that pick-helve." He struck the tough hickory handle sharply against the wall to test its strength, his ugly red moustache bristling.

"Lave the falsework sthandin' where it is till I git back," he ordered, with an authoritative wave of the hand; "an' you fellers go in beyant, an' help out on Number Wan till Oi call ye.

Dom me sowl, but Oi'll make that Swanson think the whole dom mounting has slid down on top o' him--the lazy, dhrunken Swade." The heavy pick-handle swinging in his hand his grim, red face glowing angrily beneath the sputtering flame of the lamp stuck in his hat, the irate Burke strode swiftly back into the gloomy passage, muttering gruffly..