The monosyllable was snapped out like a pistol shot, and into Orren Fairchilds’ face came a look which seldom appeared there, and which those who knew him dreaded. His eyes grew cold and hard and piercing, and, as he turned slowly from one to another, men dropped their heads, and with nervously shuffling feet and crimsoned faces awaited in awe-struck silence the inevitable explosion.
It came.
“Who set off that blast?”
There was a steely menace to the words as they issued from the mine owner’s set lips.
Not a man spoke. Not one in the circle lifted his eyes. Fear and embarrassment made them all look equally guilty.
“McDonough!”
Fairchilds withdrew his hand from the foreman’s arm, and the big fellow took a step forward.
“McDonough, you’re in charge of this level,” snapped the mine owner. “Who set off that blast?”
The man with the scar moistened his lips with his tongue. His face was a little pale, but he met his chief’s eyes squarely.
“I don’t know,” he said in a level tone—“so help me, I don’t.”