"The explorer of a few centuries hence may find a lot of these piles,"
laughed Tom. "If he does, he'll most likely attribute them to the
Pueblo Indians or the Aztecs, and he'll write a learned volume about the
high state of civilization that existed among the savages here before
the white man came."

"I'm mighty glad, Tom, that General Manager Ellsworth isn't out here to
see how many dozens of steel piles we're feeding hopelessly to the Man-
killer."

"Not one of those piles is going down hopelessly," Tom retorted. "Some
of the piles may disappear, and never be seen again, but each one will
help hold the drift at some point, near the surface, or perhaps a
thousand feet below the surface."

"Only a thousand feet below the surface!" Harry grunted. "Tom, I often
feel certain that the Man-killer extends away down to the center of the
earth and up again on the other side. Before I'm a very old man I
expect to hear that several of our steel piles have shot up above the
surface in China or India."

Hearing the noise of horse's hoofs behind him, Tom turned. He beheld
Fred Ransom riding out to the spot on a mottled "calico" horse.

"Look who's here," Reade murmured to his chum.

"What are you going to do with him?" asked Hazelton, after a quick look.
"Run him off the line?"