Mr. Chattaway turned to Rupert. "Go down the shaft and tell Bean to come up. I want him."
He rode off as he spoke, and Rupert departed for the pit. The man Pennet lived in a hovel, one of many, about a mile and a half away. Chattaway, between haste and temper, was in a heat when he arrived. A masculine-looking woman with tangled hair came out to salute him.
"Where's Pennet?"
"He's right bad, master."
Mr. Chattaway's lip curled. "Bad from drink?"
"No," replied the woman, defiantly; for the owner of the mine was held in no favour, and this woman was of too independent a nature to conceal her sentiments when provoked. "Bad from rheumatiz."
He got off his horse, rudely pushed her aside, and went in. Pennet was dressed, but was lying on a wooden settle, as the benches were called in that district.
"I be too bad for the pit to-day, sir; I be, indeed. This, rheumatiz have been a-flying about me for weeks; and now it's settled in my loins, and I can't stir."
"Let's see you walk," responded Chattaway.
Pennet got off the bench with difficulty, and walked across the brick floor slowly, his arms behind him.