‘I durnd know as he would ha' worked in th' pit, Mr. Penrose, if you'd ha' kep' him and his mother and o'. But fo'k mun eat, thaa knows. Th' Almeety's gan o'er rainin' daan manna fro' heaven, as He used to do in th' wilderness.’
Mr. Penrose did not reply.
‘Yo' know, Mr. Penrose,’ continued Malachi, ‘workin' in a coile-pit is like preychin': it's yezzy (easy) enugh when yo' ged used to 't. An' as for danger—why, yo' connot ged away fro' it. As owd Amos sez, yo're as safe i' one hoile (workshop) as another.’
‘Yes; that's sound philosophy,’ assented Mr. Penrose.
‘Mr. Morell once tell'd us in his preychin' abaat a chap as axed a oracle, or summat, what kind of a deeath he would dee; and when he wur towd that he would happen an accident o' some sort, they couldn't geet him to shift aat o' his garden, for fear he'd be killed. But it wur all no use; for one day, as he wur sittin' amang his flaars, a great bird dropped a stooan, and smashed his yed. So yo' see, Mr. Penrose, if yo've to dee in th' pulpit yo'll dee theer, just as little Job deed i' th' coile-pit.’
As Malachi delivered himself of this bit of Calvinistic philosophy, a sound of voices was borne in on the two men from the vale below, and looking in the direction whence it came, the old man and Mr. Penrose saw a group of dark figures thrown into relief on the background of snow.
The sounds were too distant to be distinctly heard, but every now and then there was mingled with them the short, sharp bark of a dog.
‘I welly think that's Oliver o' Deaf Martha's dog,’ excitedly cried Malachi. ‘Surely he's noan poachin' a neet like this? He's terrible lat' wi' his wark if he is.’