“‘What,’ I cried, ‘do you mean to say you can’t see it moving?’
“‘No,’ George replied. ‘It’s not, I tell you.’ And picking up his tool he set to work again, even more vigorously than before.
“Some minutes later I again stopped. ‘Heavens!’ I exclaimed. ‘Look at my lamp! It’s burning blue! What makes it do that?’
“George paused—his pick shoulder high—and looked round. ‘Nonsense,’ he said savagely. ‘You are——’ Then he left off and his jaws dropped. ‘It must be some chemical in it,’ he stammered. ‘Let the damned thing be; it’ll soon right itself.’
“‘This is a strange place, George!’ I said slowly.
“‘Why strange?’ George snapped.
“‘Well, first of all there was my cap, then your coat, and now the lantern—all doing something queer. Have you ever known the likes of it before?’
“‘Often,’ George muttered. ‘Scores of times. Funny things is always happening below ground; you’ll get used to them in time.’
“‘And yet you look a bit scared.’
“‘Do I?’ George grunted. ‘Well, I’m not. By ——, I’m not. You can’t always judge by looks, you know.’ And, raising his pick, he attacked the coal furiously.