"I give Dixon three more minutes," he said, impatiently looking at his watch; "then we go down without him."
Dixon was the inspector. He was well known throughout the district, a plucky, wiry fellow, who was generally at the pit's mouth immediately after an accident, ready and keen to go with any rescue party on any errand, however dangerous—purely, as he himself declared, for professional and scientific reasons. In this case, he lived only a mile away, on the further side of the village, so that Madan's messenger had not far to go.
As he spoke, George felt his arm clutched from behind. He turned, and saw
Mary Batchelor, who had come forward from a group of women.
"Sir George! Listen 'ere, Sir George." Her lined face and tear-blurred eyes worked with a passion of entreaty. "The boy went down at five with the rest. Don't yer bear 'im no malice. Ee's a poor sickly creetur, an the Lord an't give 'im the full use of his wits."
George smiled at the poor thing's madness, and touched her kindly on the shoulder.
"Don't you trouble yourself, Mary; all that can be done will be done—for everybody. We are only giving Mr. Dixon another minute; then we go down. Look here"—he drew her inside the door of the lamproom, which happened to be close by, for an open-mouthed group, eager to hear whatever he might be saying, had begun to press about them. "Can you take this message from me up to the house? There'll be no news here, you know, for a long time, and I left Lady Tressady asleep."
He tore a half-sheet from the letter in his pocket, scribbled a few words upon it, and put it into Mary's hand.
The woman, with her shawl over her head, ran past the lamphouse towards the entrance-gate as fast as her age would let her, while George rejoined Madan.
"Ah, there he is!"
For the small, lean figure of the inspector was already passing the gate.