At the mouth of the slope similar meetings were taking place between others who had less self-control or less delicacy, but who, in their way, showed equal affection and deep feeling. Wives greeted husbands who appeared to them as risen from the dead, and mothers wept over sons whom they had deemed lost to them forever.
As Monk Tooley stepped from the car, the first to hold out a hand to him was his son Bill, leaning on a crutch, and still bearing traces of his illness. His greeting was,
"Well, feyther, we've missed yer sad! Thought maybe yer wouldn't get back no more."
"I'm not dat easy got rid of, lad. Had a plenty ter eat, hain't yer?"
"Plenty, feyther, sich as it was."
"Dat's more'n I have, an' I hope yer've saved a bite fer yer dad. Starvin's hungry work."
Nothing else was overheard; but the tones of the rough man and his equally rough son held an unwonted accent of tenderness. As they grasped each other's hand, one gazed curiously at his father's haggard face, and the other cast a pitying glance at his son's rude crutch.
Not the least interested spectator of these touching scenes was Mr. Halford, who had arrived that morning from Philadelphia. When, after all the rest had been sent safely to the surface the mine boss was drawn up the slope, and was in turn greeted with a rousing cheer, that gentlemen slipped an arm through his, and led him away, saying,
"You have done nobly, Warren, and I am proud to call you brother."
"I could have done nothing, Harold, if these brave fellows had not stood by me as they have."