“All right, Jim, give us the trolley. We’ll do it ourselves.” The blacksmith wheeled it out, and gave it with half an apology to Alan.
“Don’t apologize, Jim. I understand.”
But the blacksmith had one more thing to say. “Do’ant ’ee trouble to bring it back to Marshfielden, sirs, leave it with Ezra Meakin. He’ll bring it back for ’ee.”
“Oh, don’t fear, Jim, we won’t return to Marshfielden once we’ve left. Ezra shall return it safely. We’ll pay you now.”
Jim was not too frightened to refuse payment, and the liberal amount of silver they showered on him touched him.
“I do’ant mean to be rude, sir,” he began—but the boys had started on their way and were already wheeling the lumbering trolley down the uneven street.
Jim went back into his forge with a shaking hand. Had he helped the “Curse” by lending his trolley—doubly so, indeed, by accepting payment? And as he beat the hammer on the anvil, sparks flew out all around him like little red devils thirsting for prey!
When the miners came home that night they were unaware of the double tragedy that had come into their midst. The strangers were gone! They rejoiced, and Matt Harding was among the merriest. Mr. Winthrop and John Meal were away still searching for the missing ones, and no one had dared go to the mine to tell Matt of his loss.
He received the news with a set face, and strong self control. No word of comfort was given him by his comrades; he needed none. Blindly he staggered home, his loving, grief-stricken wife comforting and consoling him, bearing up herself in order to help the man she loved.
Silently the miners prepared for another fruitless search.