Riches could do much--but they could not aid in that particular, and somewhat sobered by the knowledge, Fairchild turned from the main road and on up through the high-piled snow to the mouth of the Blue Poppy mine.
A faint acrid odor struck his nostrils as he started to descend the shaft, the "perfume" of exploded dynamite, and it sent anew into Fairchild's heart the excitement and intensity of the strike.
Evidently Harry had shot the deep hole, and now, there in the chamber, was examining the result, which must, by this time, give some idea of the extent of the ore and the width of the vein.

Fairchild pulled on the rope with enthusiastic strength, while the bucket bumped and swirled about the shaft in descent.

A moment more and he had reached the bottom, to leap from the carrier, light his carbide lamp which hung where he had left it on the timbers, and start forward.
The odor grew heavier.

Fairchild held his light before him and looked far ahead, wondering why he could not see the gleam from Harry's lamp.
He shouted.

There was no answer, and he went on.
Fifty feet! Seventy-five! Then he stopped short with a gasp.