He felt that he was
strong with the strength of inspiration. It seemed to him, too, that
he was very light in body. It seemed almost as though he were treading
on air, and he thought that he was moving very fast.
In reality his steps were heavy and halting, and his way down the long
chamber was devious and erratic. His fancied strength and elasticity
were born of the fever in his blood.
He came to the heading. He knew, now, which way to turn, and he passed
down it in what he thought was rapid flight.
But here was the fall again. What was to be done now? His last attempt
to get around it had been disastrous. He would not try that plan
again. He would work his way through it this time and keep to the
heading.
He climbed slowly up over the fallen rock and coal and let himself
down upon the other side. But it took his breath away, this climbing,
and he had to wait there a little while to recover it. There was a
clear space before him, though, and he made good progress through it
till he came again to the fall.
In this place the rock was piled higher and it was more difficult of
ascent. But he clambered bravely up, dragging his oil-can with him;
then he moved out along the smooth, sloping surfaces of fallen slate,
keeping as close as possible to the wall of the heading, climbing
higher and higher, very slowly now, and with much labor, stopping
often to rest.
He came, at last, to a place where the space between the fallen rock
and the roof above it was so narrow that he could scarcely squeeze his
slender body through it.
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