“Well, I’ve seen some excitin’ times,” Hopkins went on. “But life out thar ain’t what it was twenty year ago. I got disgusted an’ come back east an’ got this job.”
“Which job?” asked Allan.
“Oh, I’m special constable an’ guardeen o’ th’ company’s property. Not much doin’ now; but last year we had a strike, and I tell you, sir, things was fast an’ furious fer a couple o’ weeks. But them dagoes never saves no money—so we soon starved ’em out. I reckon that’s one reason th’ company pays in cash—a dago with cash in his pocket can’t pass a gin-shop—an’ they’s fifteen in Coalville, one right arter th’ other. About th’ only thing I’ve got t’ do now is to guard th’ company’s cash. That’s what’s in that big box in yonder,” he added, easily.
“Isn’t there some danger?” asked the boy.
“Danger?” repeated Hopkins, scornfully. “I should say not. Them vermin know me too well!”
Again his instrument called, and again Allan turned to answer it. Hopkins arose, went to the door of the waiting-room, and looked up and down the track.
“They’s usually a wagon waitin’ fer us,” he went on, coming back after a moment and resuming his seat. “Th’ company’s got an office, over at th’ mine, lined with steel an’ with steel shutters to th’ winders, with little loopholes in ’em. They had it fixed up last year when they was gittin’ ready fer th’ strike. And it was mighty useful.”
“Getting ready for the strike?”
“Sure. They knowed there’d be one as soon as they cut the men’s wages,” answered Hopkins, coolly. "Th’ fact is, th’ dumps was full o’ coal, business was slack, an’ they wanted t’ shet down awhile."