Part 22 (1/2)

”Yes. He apologised for the delay, but thought it useless to send it until he had investigated the gallery itself.”

”That's the business of his engineers. If he is not satisfied with them he should get others.”

Mr. Foilet bowed, selected a paper from the sheaf he carried and handed it over. Peter Masters perused it with precisely the same kindly smiling countenance he wore when studying a paper or deciphering a friendly epistle. It was not a friendly letter at all, it was a curt, bald statement that a certain rich gallery in a certain mine was unsafe for working, though the opinion of two specialists differed on the point. The two reports were enclosed, and when all three reports were read Peter asked for the wage sheet of the mine.

There was no cause of complaint there.

”The articles of the last settlement between the firm and the men have been rigorously adhered to?” questioned Masters, flinging down the paper.

”Rigorously. I will say they have taken no advantage of their success.”

Peter smiled. ”It is for us to do that. Mr. Weirs p.r.o.nounces the gallery fit for working. The seam is one of the richest we have. What improvements can be done to the ventilation and propping before Monday are to be done, but the gallery is to be worked then, until the new shaft is completed. Then we will reconsider it.”

Again Mr. Foilet bowed, but his hand fingered his gla.s.ses nervously.

”And if the men refuse?” he questioned in a low voice, with averted eyes.

Peter Masters waved his hand.

”There are others. Men who receive wages like that must expect to have a certain amount of danger to face. Danger is the spice of life.” He leant back in his chair, humming a little tune and watched Mr. Foilet with smiling eyes. Mr. Foilet was wondering whether his chief was personally fond of spice, but he knew better than to say more. He left the room with a vague uneasy feeling at his heart. ”A nice concern it will be if anything happens before the New Shaft's ready,” he muttered; ”if it wasn't for his wonderful luck, I'd have refused.”

So he thought: but in reality he would have done no such thing.

The manager of the Stormby Foundry, which was a private property of Mr. Masters's, and no company, was the next visitor. He was a tall lank Scotchman with a hardy countenance and a soft heart when not fretted by the roll of the Machine. The question he brought was concerning the selling of some land in the neighbourhood of the works, for the erection of cottages.

”Surely you need no instructions on that point, Mr. Murray,” said Peter a little more curtly than he had spoken to Mr. Foilet.

”There are two offers,” said the Scotchman quietly. ”Tennant will give 150 and Fortman 200.”

”Then there is no question.”

”Tennant will build decent cottages of good material and with proper foundations, and Fortman--well, you know what Fortman's hovels are like.”

”No, I don't,” said Peter drily. ”He has never been my landlord.”

Mr. Murray appeared to swallow something, probably a wish, with difficulty.

”They are mere hovels pretending to be villas.”

”No one's obliged to live in them.”

”There are no others,” persisted Mr. Murray desperately, imperilling his own safety for the cause.

Masters frowned ominously.

”Mr. Murray,” he said, ”as I have before remarked, you are too far-sighted. Your work is to sell the ground for the benefit of the company, which, I may remind you, is for your benefit also. You have not to build the cottages or live in them. If the people don't like them they needn't take them. I do not profess to house the people. I pay them accordingly. They can afford to live in decent houses if they like.”