one glance at the problem.

"We'll rig up a derrick for this little beauty," he said. "Come on, boys;
let's get some timbers."

They were back again in no time, and before Mary knew what they were
doing, they had raised a wooden tripod over the rock. The apex of this
was bound together with a chain from which a pulley was hung. Other
chains were slung under the rock. Then from a nearby hoisting engine, a
cable was passed through the pulley and fastened to the chains below.

"All right, boys?"

"All right!"

The young man raised his hand. "Let her go!" he shouted. "Tweet-tweet!"
sounded a whistle. The engine throbbed. 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."