The Proof of Crime

"Drop that club!" commanded Winston coldly, the gleam of an uplifted
steel barrel in the other's eyes. "Lively, my man; this is a
hair-trigger."

"What the hell--"

"Drop that club! We 'll discuss this case later. There--no, up with
your hands; both of them. Turn around slowly; ah, I see you don 't
tote a gun down here. So much the better, for now we can get along to
business with fewer preliminaries."

He kicked the released pick-helve to one side out of sight in the
darkness, his watchful eyes never straying from the Irishman's face.
Burke stood sputtering curses, his hands held high, his fighting face
red from impotent passion. The trembling light gave to the scene a
fantastic effect, grimly humorous.

"Who--who the divil be ye?" The surprised man thrust his head yet
farther forward in an effort to make the flame more clearly reveal the
other's features. Winston drew the peak of his miner's cap lower.

"That will make very little difference to you, Jack Burke," he said
quietly, "if I have any occasion to turn loose this arsenal. However,
stand quiet, and it will afford me pleasure to give you all necessary
information. Let us suppose, for instance, that I am a person to whom
Biff Farnham desires to sell some stock in this mine; becoming
interested, I seek to discover its real value for myself, and come down
with the night shift. Quite a natural proceeding on my part, is n't
it? Now, under such circumstances, I presume you, as foreman, would be
perfectly willing to show me exactly what is being accomplished down
here?"