“The Parson's feart,” was the general comment.
“My men,” he said, raising his voice so that all could hear, “can any of you tell me who last saw Fergus Derrick?”
There was a brief pause, and then came a reply from a collier who stood near.
“I coom up out o' th' pit an hour ago,” he said, “I wur th' last as coom up, an' it wur on'y chance as browt me. Derrick wur wi' his men i' th' new part o' th' mine. I seed him as I passed through.”
Grace's face became a shade or so paler, but he made no more inquiries.
His friend either lay dead below, or was waiting for his doom at that very moment. He stepped a little farther forward.
“Unfortunately for myself, at present,” he said, “I have no practical knowledge of the nature of these accidents. Will some of you tell me how long it will be before we can make our first effort to rescue the men who are below?”
Did he mean to volunteer—this young whipper-snapper of a parson? And if he did, could he know what he was doing?
“I ask you,” he said, “because I wish to offer myself as a volunteer at once; I think I am stronger than you imagine and at least my heart will be in the work. I have a friend below,—myself,” his voice altering its tone and losing its firmness,—“a friend who is worthy the sacrifice of ten such lives as mine if such a sacrifice could save him.”
One or two of the older and more experienced spoke up. Under an hour it would be impossible to make the attempt—it might even be a longer time, but in an hour they might, at least, make their first effort.