One ran, as nearly as he could judge, considerably to the east of south, but the second had its trend directly to the eastward.

Along the first of these tunnels there was no attempt at concealment, a revealing twinkle of light showing where numerous miners were already at work.

But the second was dark, and would have remained unnoticed entirely had not several men been grouped before the entrance, their flaring lamps reflected over the rock wall.

Winston's eyes sparkled, his pulse leaped, as he marked the nature of their task--they were laboriously removing a heavy mask, built of wood and canvas, which had been snugly fitted over the hole, making it resemble a portion of the solid rock wall.
There were four workmen employed at this task, while the foreman, a broad-jawed, profane-spoken Irishman, his moustache a bristling red stubble, stood a little back, noisily directing operations, the yellow light flickering over him.

The remainder of the fellows composing the party had largely disappeared farther down, although the sound of their busy picks was clearly audible.
"Where the hell is Swanson ?" blurted out the foreman suddenly.