The Joyous Trouble Maker. Jackson Gregory
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he had replaced last night, drew it aside, went down on his hands and knees and squirmed in through the narrow passage-way. On all fours he passed through a downward slanting natural tunnel, darkness thick about him, chuckling as he went at the memory of his first coming here when he had wondered what sort of lair he was sticking his fool head into.
Presently he stood up, though still must he crouch, still was the darkness opaque about him. From his pocket he took the little electric flash light which he had bought in San Francisco in a moment alive with anticipation. As its circle of light now leaped out before him he stood regarding the walls of the cavern into which he had entered with a quick eyed satisfaction. Since the child has been father to the man there has never yet lived the man who could not draw lively interest from a spot such as this.
About him the broken floor was strewn with fallen bits of stone, and with the small and shattered bones of such unfortunate woodland beings as had come hither in the strong jaws of wild cat or moimtain lion. The rock floor itself plunged downward steeply, the walls showed ancient water action, the roof was sculptured by time's patient tools into odd, grotesque shapes which as Steele's light found them seemed to take life into their cold shapes, to swell their iron lungs with slow breathing.
He went on and down. At last he could stand erect; in a moment he could not reach the stone ceiling with his finger tips. The cave widened until it was a rude, irregular room; narrowed so that as he walked he could brush the rock at both sides with his elbows; widened again after a long, winding, still descending passage-way. And now at length, when he was again at a level with the tumbling waters in the river bed, did the cavern open up to its greatest size and did he come into fresher air, a subdued light and view of his "plunder" secreted five years ago.
In this lofty cavern a man might have built himself a house of half a dozen rooms. Ages ago … how many, Steele wondered … the water had found its way in here, and never resting had toiled through the little seconds which were drawn out into long centuries, breaking down, bearing away, wearing smooth with its fine chisels of sand and particles.
At the side of the cave furthest from the river was a pile of familiar objects. Steele went to it, picking out details in the circle of his light. An axe with blade rusted a bit, pick and shovel, a half dozen cooking utensils, black from many fires, a coil of rope, some loops of wire, a jumble of odds and ends from his last camp at Hell's Goblet.
"Just as I left them," was his thought. "Just as a man could count upon their remaining not five years but five hundred after he put them there. … And telling me that no one had come here since I came."
The thought brought its contentment.
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