The cry was very scornful. The minister, indeed—what good could "a boy like him" do down there where strong men were dying helplessly?
So for half-an-hour Walter McCartney the pithead engineer stood at his post watching the cage index, and listening for the tinkle of the bell which signalled "up" or "down."
Suddenly the faces of such as could see the numbers blanched. And a murmur ran round the crowd at the long t-r-r-r-r-r-r which told that the cage was coming to the surface.
Had all hope been abandoned, that the rescue party were returning so unexpectedly? A woman shrieked suddenly on the edges of the crowd.
"Who's that?" queried the manager, turning sharply. And when he was answered, "Take her away—don't let her come near the shaft!" was his order.
Out of the charred and dripping cage came Pate Tamson and his mate, blackened and wet from head to foot.
"The cage is to be sent empty to the dook-bottom!" they said. "Somebody has managed to get doon the second exit."
With a quick switch of levers and a humming hiss of woven wire from the headwheels, down sank the cage into the belching brown smother of the deadly reek.
Then there was a long pause. The index sank till it pointed to the pit-bottom. The cage had passed through the fire safely. It had yet to be proved that living men could also pass.
"Tinkle—tink!"