“Shall ter finish, Sorry?”[1] cried Barker, his fellow butty.
“Finish? Niver while the world stands!” growled Morel.
And he went on striking. He was tired.
“It’s a heart-breaking job,” said Barker.
But Morel was too exasperated, at the end of his tether, to answer. Still he struck and hacked with all his might.
“Tha might as well leave it, Walter,” said Barker. “It’ll do to-morrow, without thee hackin’ thy guts out.”
“I’ll lay no b—— finger on this to-morrow, Isr’el!” cried Morel.
“Oh, well, if tha wunna, someb’dy else ’ll ha’e to,” said Israel.
Then Morel continued to strike.
“Hey-up there—loose-a’!” cried the men, leaving the next stall.
Morel continued to strike.
“Tha’ll happen catch me up,” said Barker, departing.
When he had gone, Morel, left alone, felt savage. He had not finished his job. He had overworked himself into a frenzy. Rising, wet with sweat, he threw his tool down, pulled on his coat, blew out his candle, took his lamp, and went. Down the main road the lights of the other men went swinging. There was a hollow sound of many voices. It was a long, heavy tramp underground.
He sat at the bottom of the pit, where the great drops of water fell plash. Many colliers were waiting their turns to go up, talking noisily. Morel gave his answers short and disagreeable.
“It’s rainin’, Sorry,” said old Giles, who had had the news from the top.
Morel found one comfort. He had his old umbrella, which he loved, in the lamp cabin. At last he took his stand on the chair, and was at the top in a moment. Then he handed in his lamp and got his umbrella, which he had bought at an auction for one-and-six. He stood on the edge of the pit-bank for a moment, looking out over the fields; grey rain was falling. The trucks stood full of wet, bright coal. Water ran down the sides of the waggons, over the white “C. W. and Co.” Colliers, walking indifferent to the rain, were streaming down the line and up the field, a grey, dismal host. Morel put up his umbrella, and took pleasure from the peppering of the drops thereon.
- ↑ “Sorry” is a common form of address. It is, perhaps, a corruption of “sirrah.”
