Part 2 (1/2)

”There wouldn't be no consekences,” said the overman with a grim laugh; ”there'd be a inquest, if they had pluck enough to come and hunt out what of us was left.”

In spite of himself, Philip could not help a shudder, as he listened to the cynical, callous manner in which his companion spoke of their proximity to a dreadful death. Then, bidding him follow, he went on along the gloomy maze towards where he could hear the rumble of trucks laden with coal, the sound of the ringing picks, the echoing shouts of the men, and the impatient snort of some pony, toiling with its load up an incline.

There was a quick sharp draught of air as they pa.s.sed through a door which was closed behind them by a boy, and, satisfied that the ventilation was good, Philip Hexton and his companion went on.

Meanwhile Ebenezer Parks, the big miner who had been complaining when the young man came up, kept on with his remarks as, in company with his party, he made his way to the four-foot seam, as it was called--a part of the mine where the good coal was but a yard in thickness, and at which they had to work in a stooping, sometimes in a lying, position.

”She sings to-night, lad,” said one of the men, as they stripped themselves to their trousers, and then began to use their sharp-pointed picks, their blackened skins soon beginning to glisten with perspiration in the stifling heat.

”Hey, she do,” said Ebenezer, giving a careless glance at his sputtering lamp. ”There's part gas in pit to-neet.”

The dim sputtering lamps, and the warning hiss of the gas were forgotten as the men worked on, showing wondrous skill in the handling of their picks, and fetching out great lumps of coal with the greatest ease, in spite of the awkward position in which they worked.

This went on for a couple of hours, when Ebenezer threw down his pick, seated himself with his back against a pillar of coal, one of those left to support the roof, and took from his trousers pocket a steel tobacco-box, a black short pipe, and a nail.

”Who's going to hev a smoke?” he said.

”I wouldn't let young master ketch you smoking,” said one of the men.

”He'd better not say owt to me,” said the man fiercely. ”I know what I'm 'bout better than he can tell me;” and as he filled his pipe several more laughed and filled theirs; while, looking like some black spirit of mischief, the big miner took the gauze lamp from the roof where it hung.

”Now then, lads, who wants a leet?” he said; and, taking the nail, he proceeded to pick the lock of the Davy-lamp, or rather unfasten it with the improvised key.

There was a click as the little snap flew back; and then, placing his pipe in his mouth, he proceeded to open the lamp.

This was about as wise an act as for a man to strike a match over an open barrel full of glistening grains of gunpowder--perhaps far worse.

CHAPTER THREE.

MAKING AN ENEMY.

Even as the big miner had his hand upon the gauze cover of the Davy-lamp there were tiny little explosions going on within, for in spite of the great current of air that was kept up through the pit, a draught which swept away the dangerous gas, there were places which its purifying influence did not reach, places such as this new gallery in the four-foot seam, where the vapour had been steadily increasing for hours and collecting round the heads of the men.

Familiarity breeds contempt. Often enough we know that the men who work in gunpowder mills have to be searched to keep them from taking matches with them when they enter the mill.

Philip Hexton and his companion went on, the latter ready to grumble as he grew weary of what he looked upon as unnecessary labour. ”T'pit was reet enew,” he said to himself; and what need was there of ”peeking and poking about this how?”

For the young inspector seemed never satisfied. He was always on the look-out for danger; and as they went on and on through the black galleries, where the iridescent tints of the shaley coal flecked with iron pyrites glittered and flashed in the dim light, he kept pausing and listening.

”He won't stop at it long,” said the overman to himself; ”he's 'bout scarred of it now. I niver see a lad so freckened at every sound.”

It was quite true. Philip Hexton was startled at every sound; but it was from fear for others--not for self. So far from feeling the ordinary coward's dread, he would have gone at once into the most dangerous places to save another's life; but he was at times appalled at the reckless ways of the men.

In one gallery the roof, as the light glimmered upon it, was one beautiful fret-work of ancient vegetation, being carved, as it were, into knotted stems full of beautiful flutings. Huge ferny leaves could be seen bending in graceful curves, and here and there, s.h.i.+ning like cuttings in jet, traces of the cone-like fruit borne by some of the trees of that far-back age when the coal was deposited in bituminous beds.

These geological remains had a great interest for Philip Hexton, and he promised himself plenty of amus.e.m.e.nt when his time of leisure came. At present it was all work--extremely hard work, for, until he could thoroughly master every technicality in the pit, he felt himself to be at a great disadvantage with the men.

”Yo' weant be so partic'lar when yo've been here a few year, Master Hexton,” said the overman, as they were making their way down a wide gallery whose coal had been worked out long enough before, and across which part of the mine they were pa.s.sing to reach a distant portion where the men were at work on the ”new four-foot.”

”Indeed!” said Philip, smiling, ”I think you'll find me twice as strict.”