"I beg your pardon, I'm sure, sir. I thought it was nothing but some idler obstricting of me. One does get beset with idlers at these times, asking one all sorts of questions. I shouldn't have answered that way, sir, if I'd knowed it was you."
"Go on with your work; there's no time to talk. And don't blunder along again without looking where you are going."
"One can't see well in the dark, sir."
"It's not dark; it is as light as it need be. Quite light enough for you to see your way. Do you call that bright moon nothing?"
"He'd ha' been right over my legs, but for you, sir," murmured poor Bigg, the great drops of pain standing out on his brow, black with his occupation. "I don't know how I be to bear this agony. That cursed engine"----
"Hush, Bigg," interrupted Mr. Oswald Cray.
Bigg groaned his contrition. "Heaven forgive me! I know it ain't a right word for me tonight."
"Heaven will help you to bear the pain if you will only let it," said Oswald. "There has been worse pain to bear than even yours, my poor fellow; though I know how hard it is for you now to think so."
"It may be my death-blow, sir. And what's to become o' my wife and little uns? Who'll work for 'em?"
"No, no, Bigg. I hope it is not so bad as that. I do not think it is."