mine, his foremen are forbidden to talk, and his workmen are specially
imported negroes who do not understand the English language."

"But," persisted Mr. Boon, "how, then, do you account for the nuggets
scattered over the mountain? And, beside, what object could Dr. Syx
have in pretending that there is free metal to be had for the
digging?"

"He may have salted the mountain, for all I know," said Hall. "As for
his object, I confess I am entirely in the dark; but, for all that, I
am convinced that we shall find no more metal if we dig ten miles for
it."

"Nonsense," said the president; "if we keep on we shall strike it. Did
not Dr. Syx himself admit that he found no free artemisium until his
tunnel had reached the core of the peak? We must go as deep as he has
gone before we give up."

"I fear the depths he attains are beyond most people's reach," was
Hall's answer, while a thoughtful look crossed his clear-cut brow,
"but since you desire it, of course the work shall go on. I should
like, however, to change the direction of the tunnel."

"Certainly," replied Mr. Boon; "bore in whatever direction you think
proper, only don't despair."

About a month after this conversation Andrew Hall, with whom a
community of tastes in many things had made me intimately acquainted,
asked me one morning to accompany him into his tunnel.