"He could not have fallen, then," observed a miner, answering his comrade's remark—as is the custom with this class of great doers and small talkers—at a considerable interval.
"Yes, he could," replied the one who had first spoken. "See, his ladder was short, and he may have pitched over."
They stood and listened, peering down into the darkness beneath them; but there was no repetition of the cries. The wounded man had apparently spent his last strength, perhaps his last breath, in uttering them.
"He must be down here somewhere. Come on."
The situation was sufficiently appalling; but these men had lost half their terrors, now that they knew there was a fellow-creature needing help. They descended slowly; and he who was foremost presently cried out, "I see him; here he is."
The man was lying on his face quite still; and when they lifted him, each looked at the other with a grave significance—they had carried too many from the bowels of the earth to the pit's mouth not to know when a man was dead. Even a senseless body is not the same to an experienced bearer as a dead weight. The corpse was still warm, but the head fell back with a movement not of life.
"You were right, mate. His neck is broke; the poor gentleman pitched over on his head."
"Stop a bit," exclaimed the man addressed; "see here. Why, it ain't him at all—it's Solomon Coe."
An exclamation of astonishment burst involuntarily from the other three.
"Then where's the other?" cried they all together.