“You have Bennin’s report at last?”
“Yes. He apologised for the delay, but thought it useless to send it until he had investigated the gallery itself.”
“That’s the business of his engineers. If he is not satisfied with them he should get others.”
Mr. Foilet bowed, selected a paper from the sheaf he carried and handed it over. Peter Masters perused it with precisely the same kindly smiling countenance he wore when studying a paper or deciphering a friendly epistle. It was not a friendly letter at all, it was a curt, bald statement that a certain rich gallery in a certain mine was unsafe for working, though the opinion of two specialists differed on the point. The two reports were enclosed, and when all three reports were read Peter asked for the wage sheet of the mine. There was no cause of complaint there.
“The articles of the last settlement between the firm and the men have been rigorously adhered to?” questioned Masters, flinging down the paper.
“Rigorously. I will say they have taken no advantage of their success.”
Peter smiled. “It is for us to do that. Mr. Weirs pronounces the gallery fit for working. The seam is one of the richest we have. What improvements can be done to the ventilation and propping before Monday are to be done, but the gallery is to be worked 131 then, until the new shaft is completed. Then we will reconsider it.”
Again Mr. Foilet bowed, but his hand fingered his glasses nervously.
“And if the men refuse?” he questioned in a low voice, with averted eyes.
Peter Masters waved his hand.