One of my landladies, a kindly old soul to whom I had chatted about ghosts, introduced me to an old man, Clem Morgan, whom she said had had a curious experience in one of the neighbouring mines. The incident had taken place some fifty years ago, shortly after a dreadful explosion, whereby many scores of the miners had been killed and injured. I will narrate the experience—merely altering the wording of it here and there—just as Clem Morgan narrated it to me:—
“A thousand feet down, close to the site of a great tragedy that had thrilled the whole country to the very core, my mate and I were at work. Pick, pick, pick; shovel, shovel, shovel; the sound of our instruments must have been heard hundreds of yards away.
“‘George,’ I said suddenly, leaving off work, ‘was it like this afore the accident?’
“‘Like what?’ George grunted. He was a middle-aged man with a black, stubby beard, and arms like the gnarled and knotted branches of an oak. ‘Like what?’
“‘Why, as lonely as this? Were you working with just one other man, or were you with the rest of the gang?’
“‘With one other,’ George responded, ‘and just as soft as you. Why can’t you let the matter drop? I’m sick to death of hearing about it.’
“‘It’s a marvel to me how you escaped,’ I went on; ‘whereabouts were you?’
“‘Just where we are now,’ George growled, ‘and that’s all I’ll tell you, so you’d best shut up!’
“‘And you went up them steps with all the hell of the explosion ringing around you?’ I observed, advancing to the edge of the black shaft close to where we were working, and looking at the slender wooden ladder leading up to the dark vault above. ‘It’s a wonder to me you didn’t miss your footing in your hurry, and fall. I should have done.’
“‘I’ve no doubt you would,’ George sneered, ‘but I’m no tenderfoot; I was at this game when you were in your cradle, which you never ought to have left.’