"Ey, he wears a bonny white feather in his cap, for sure," said old Reuben Rae.
"No fight in'im—no'but tongue lather," said John, the blacksmith.
Hugh Ritson walked through the darkness to the pit-brow. The glow of the furnace lighted up the air to the south, and showed vaguely the brant sides of the fell; the dull thud of the engine, the clank of the chain, and the sharp crack of the refuse tumbling down the bank from the banksman's barrow were the only sounds that rose above the wind's loud whistle.
Gubblum was at the mouth of the shaft.
"Oglethorpe," said Hugh, "how many of the gangs are below to-night?"
"All but two—auld Reuben's and Jim South'et's."
"Then they have chosen to work on?"
"Ey, another fortnight—trusting to get their wage afore that, please God."
"They shall not be disappointed."