At Butte, in Montana, in America, I went doon three thousand feet--more than half a mile, mind ye! There they find copper, and good copper, at that depth.

But they took me doon there in an express elevator.

I had no time to be afeared before we were doon, walkin' along a broad, dry gallery, as well lighted as Broadway or the Strand, with electric lights, and great fans to keep the air cool and dry.
It's different, minin' so, to what it was when I was a boy at Hamilton.
But I'm minded, when I think of Butte, and the great copper mines there, of the thing I'm chiefly thinking of in writing this book.
I was in Butte during the war--after America had come in.

'Deed, and it was just before the Huns made their last bid, and thought to break the British line.

Ye mind yon days in the spring of 1918?
Anxious days, sad days.