The explosion was in our alley; it had torn up the car-tracks like strips of macaroni; it was the salute of dynamite to our soft, flabby muscles, to our white caps and new overalls; it was a stick of concentrated power throwing down the gauntlet to men in the raw.

We had a foreman who superintended our compartment, “a driller,” who with a steam drill sat all day boring holes for dynamite, and we were the “muckers”—­miner’s helpers—­who carried away with muscular power the effects of the explosion.  Each alley had similar crews.

“Mule boy!” I roared with all my vocal power into what looked like an ugly rent in the rocks.  A moment later, I saw a glimmer of light, then a mule shot up out of a hole and a black boy brought up the rear, clinging to the tail of “Emma,” the mule, our sure-footed locomotive.

We were handed a huge sledge-hammer each and the work began.  My hammer bounded off the rocks as if it were an air ball.  It bounded for a dozen heavy strokes.

“Turn that rock over and look for the grain!” the foreman shouted in my ear.  Then he took the hammer, turned the huge boulder over on its side, struck it twice or thrice and it flew into splinters.

We acquired the knack of things quickly, and instinctively struck the working pace.  It was the limit of human strength and endurance.  My jacket came off first, then my overalls, then my shirt, leaving trousers and undershirt only.  The others followed suit.  The sweat oozed out of every pore of my body.  We smashed, filled and ran out the full cars.  We worked silently, doggedly and at top speed.  Several hundred men were doing likewise in other pockets; they were less bloody, perhaps, but the work was the same and they did it without knowing that it was brutally hard.  There was a halt of fifteen minutes for dinner.  Then we went at it again.  Our best fell short of the demand.  For every car of ore blasted, the foreman got fifty cents and for running out each car, we got twenty cents—­a little over six cents each.

“——­ ——­ your souls to h—­l,” the foreman shouted.  “Why don’t you get a move on you ——­ hey?”

We moved a little faster.

“You muckers ain’t goin’ t’ get ten cars out t’day if ye don’t mend yer licks!”

We “mended our licks.”

He looked like a wild beast.  Short of stature, but his arms were hardened and under the red skin the muscles were hard as whip-cords and taut as a drum.  His eyebrows were heavy and bushy and over his strong chest grew shaggy masses of black hair.  Our car slipped the track once and when he heard the smash he came thundering along, ripping out a string of oaths as he came.  Putting his powerful body to the lever, he lifted the car almost alone.  As he did so, his lamp came in contact with my hand.  Unable to let go, I screamed to him to move.  As he did so, he saw the seared flesh.

“Too bad!  Too bad!” he said, as he dropped the truck.  I gazed into his eyes.