The workmen hurried for the powder house, far down the drift, by the shaft, lugging back in their pockets the yellow, candle-like sticks of dynamite, with their waxy wrappers and their gelatinous contents together with fuses and caps.

Crimping nippers--the inevitable accompaniment of a miner--came forth from the pockets of the men.

Careful tamping, then the men took their places at the fuses.
"Give the word!" one of them announced crisply as he turned to Fairchild.

"Each of us 'll light one of these things, and then I say we 'll run! Because this is going to be some explosion!" Fairchild smiled the smile of a man whose heart is thumping at its maximum speed.

Before him in the long line of the foot wall were ten holes, "up-holes", "downs" and "swimmers", attacking the hidden ore in every direction.