"Hash some cold meat up for the master's dinner, and make him an apple-charlotte pudding," said Mrs. Morel.
"He may go without pudding this day," said Mrs. Bower.
Morel was not as a rule one of the first to appear at the bottom of the pit, ready to come up. Some men were there before four o'clock, when the whistle blew loose-all; but Morel, whose stall, a poor one, was at this time about a mile and a half away from the bottom, worked usually till the first mate stopped, then he finished also. This day, however, the miner was sick of the work. At two o'clock he looked at his watch, by the light of the green candle—he was in a safe working—and again at half-past two. He was hewing at a piece of rock that was in the way for the next day's work. As he sat on his heels, or kneeled, giving hard blows with his pick, "Uszza-uszza!" he went.
"Shall ter finish, Sorry?"[1] cried Barker, his fellow butty.
[1] "Sorry" is a common form of address. It is, perhaps, a corruption of "sirrah."
"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 tomorrow, without thee hackin' thy guts out."
"I'll lay no b—— finger on this tomorrow, Isr'el!" cried Morel.