Once he had straightened out, smashing the tiny cars and the tugging locomotive; breaking a leg and an arm, and once a head, but the devils had begun again, boring and digging and the cruel wound was opened afresh.

Another time, after a big rain, with the help of some friendly rocks who had rushed down to his help, he had snapped his jaws tight shut, penning the devils up inside, but a hundred others had wrenched them open, breaking his teeth, shoring up his lips with iron beams, tearing out what was left of his tongue.

He could only sulk now, breathing hard and grunting when the pain was unbearable.

One thought comforted him, and one only: Far back in his bulk he knew of a thin place in his hide,--so thin, owing to a dip in the contour of the hill,--that but a few yards of overlying rock and earth lay between it and the free air.
Here his tormentors had stopped; why, he could not tell until he began to keep tally of what had passed his mouth: The long trains of cars had ceased; so had the snorting locomotives; so had the steam drills.
Curious-looking boxes and kegs were being passed in, none of which ever came back; men with rolls of paper on which were zigzag markings stumbled inside, stayed an hour and stumbled out again; these men wore no lamps in their hats and were better dressed than the others.

Then a huge wooden drum wrapped with wire was left overnight outside his lips and unrolled the next morning, every yard of it being stretched so far down his throat that he lost all track of it.
On the following morning work of every kind ceased; not a man with a lamp anywhere--and these The Beast hated most; that is, none that he could see or feel.