"Do the waggons often get off the metals along this road, Evans?" he asked, stopping at one of the doors which regulate the ventilation.
"Pretty often, sir; the rails are not very true, and the sleepers want renewing."
"It would be as well if there were an extra light somewhere here; it would be handy. This is Number Ten door, is it not?"
"Yes sir."
"Who is this? a new hand, is he not?" raising his lamp so as to have a full look at the lad, who was standing respectfully in the niche in the rock cut for him.
"Yes, sir; he is the son of a hand who was killed in the pit some ten years ago—Simpson."
"Ah! I remember," Mr. Brooks said. "Well, serve the boy a lamp out when he goes down of a day. You'll be careful with it, lad, and not let it fall?"
"Oh yes, sir," Jack said, in a tone of delight; "and, please, sir, may I read when I am not wanted?"
"Certainly you may," his master said; "only you must not neglect your work;" and then Mr. Brook went on, leaving Jack so overjoyed that for that afternoon at least his attempts at mental arithmetic were egregious failures.