THE PIT-PROP
Driscoll was sorting pit-props, throwing them on to piles at the bottom
of the shaft, when Thirlwell stopped to hook a small, flat lamp to his
hat. The man sometimes worked in the mine for a few weeks when the
trapping season was over, and Scott was generally willing to engage him
because he was skilful with the axe and labor was scarce. He made no
friends among the men, and gave Thirlwell a sour look without speaking
when the latter picked up his lamp.
Thirlwell went on down the inclined gallery. Water splashed upon his
slickers and trickled about his feet; the tunnel was narrow and the air
was foul. Here and there a smoky light burned among the props lining the
walls, and the dim illumination touched the beams that crossed the roof,
but the gaps between the spots were dark. The timbers were numerous, and
where one could see a short distance, ran on into the gloom in rows so
closely spaced that they seemed continuous.
By and by Thirlwell found Scott looking up at a massive beam a few
inches overhead. The beam was not quite level, and the prop beneath one
end had bent, while a threatening crack extended across the roof.
"We may have a bad fall here," Scott remarked. "The prop's getting
shaky and the pressure's pretty fierce. I reckon we'd better shore her
up as quick as we can. It's lucky our lumber doesn't cost us much."
Thirlwell examined the crack and thought it dangerous. There were one or
two transverse splits, which indicated a heavy mass of rock was ready to
come down. None of the men were near the spot, and he knew they were
occupied, but Driscoll had left a few props between the timbers, ready
for use where the roof was weak. Thirlwell found one and dragged it to
the spot.
"We'll put this up and then I think I'll get a fresh beam across."
Scott helped him to raise the timber. It was a few inches too long, and
crossed the space between floor and roof with a small slant, but it was
meant to do so, in order that when its lower end was driven forward
until it stood upright it would wedge fast the beam above. Then
Thirlwell brought an ax and struck the prop some heavy blows with its
back while Scott steadied the top. It was almost in place, and the bent
timber was getting loose, when the top slipped and shook the beam. There
was an ominous crack and a few small stones broke away and fell on
Scott's head.
"I've got her butted solid now," he shouted after a short breathless
struggle with the timber. "Be quick! The roof's coming down!"
Thirlwell saw the danger. So long as the prop slanted, it would not
support the beam, and if the beam gave way, the roof would fall and
crush them before they could get from underneath. He thought he had a
few moments to hammer the prop straight, and swung the ax savagely while
the sweat ran down his face. He dared not look up again, but the
ominous cracking went on and while he wondered what was happening,
Driscoll ran past. A big stone fell beside the man as he seized another
prop and with a tense effort jambed it under the beam.
"I'll take some weight off her while you shore her up," Driscoll gasped.
He had brought a heavy mallet, but before he used this he dragged the
foot of the timber round, bending his body forward while his arms got
stiff and hard, as if carved from wood. His sullen face was darkly
flushed and the swollen veins stood out from his forehead. Thirlwell saw
him for a moment as he lifted his ax, and remembering the scene
afterwards, thought the fellow had looked a model of savage strength. It
was obvious that he had no fear.
In the meantime, he was vaguely conscious that Driscoll had saved his
life. He and Scott had stayed too long, and could not have fixed their
prop before the beam gave way had not the other come to help. For that
matter, they were not out of danger yet. Unless they could wedge the
timber in the next few moments, the roof would come down. There was not
room to swing the ax properly, his body was cramped from bending, and he
could not lift his head. Stooping in the low tunnel, he nerved himself
for a tense effort and struck several furious blows. The prop quivered,
groaned as it felt the pressure from above, moved an inch or two, and
stood upright. Then Thirlwell dropped his ax and staggered back. He felt
limp and exhausted, and wanted to get away. The beam would hold the roof
for some minutes and might do so for a time.
"You can let up now, Driscoll," Scott called out when they stopped a few
yards off. "We'll see if the prop will stand before we do anything
else."
"Guess I'll fix the other," Driscoll replied.
"Come out," Scott insisted. "You don't know if it's safe."
Driscoll glanced round for a moment. His hat had fallen off and the
miner's lamp flared and smoked in the water at his feet. His hair was
wet with the drops from the roof, and a thin streak of blood ran down
his face from a cut a falling stone had made. But his heavy eyes had a
fixed, obstinate look.
"You hired me to mind the timbers; it's my job."
Scott acquiesced with a gesture and he and Thirlwell watched. There was
a risk that in wedging the extra prop the man might loosen the first;
and then, if neither was able to bear the load, the rock above would
fall and bury him. For all that, Driscoll looked undisturbed and did not
stop until he had carefully driven the timber into its proper place.
Then he turned to Scott and his glance was slow and dull.
"I want you to send two of the boys along."
"Why do you want them?"
"I've got to have some help. She won't hold up long unless we run
another beam across."
"It would be prudent," Thirlwell agreed, and went down the gallery with
Scott to the working face.
"What do you think of Black Steve?" Scott asked when they had sent the
men and stood near a lamp. "He wasn't scared just now!"
"I'm puzzled," said Thirlwell thoughtfully. "The fellow was quite cool.
If he hadn't come with the prop, I expect the roof would have buried
us. But that's another thing. Why did he come?"
Scott smiled. "We were plainly in some danger, but I don't imagine Black
Steve was moved by a generous impulse to save our lives. In fact, if it
had promised him some advantage, I rather think he'd have seen us
buried."
"You don't claim it was a sense of duty?"
"Not in a way; Steve's too primitive. On the whole, I think he explained
the thing best when he said it was his job. A fellow of his kind doesn't
reason like you; perhaps he did once, but lost the habit in the bush.
He's, so to speak, atavistic; moved by instincts, like the Indians and
animals."
"But I don't see--"
"Perhaps it isn't very obvious," Scott admitted. "For all that, the
Indian's instinctive obstinacy carries him far. Steve had undertaken to
look after our timbering, he's used to danger, and the risk didn't
count. I expect he was moved by the feeling the bushman gets when he's
up against Nature; he knows he'll be crushed if he can't make good.
Anyhow, I've moralized long enough. Will you see what they're doing with
that rock-borer?"
Thirlwell left him and went to the machine, which made a jarring noise.
He spent some time adjusting the cutters, and afterwards stood for a few
minutes thinking about what his comrade had said. Scott's argument was
involved, but Thirlwell thought he saw what he meant. Driscoll's bemused
mind could not grasp the thought of duty that demanded self-sacrifice,
but he had animal courage and stubbornness. He would carry out what he
had undertaken. Moreover, he might have animal cunning without having
cultivated intelligence, and his strength and resolution made him
dangerous. Thirlwell did not like Driscoll better than before, but it
looked as if the fellow had saved his life, and although he might not
have meant to do so, this counted for something. Going back to the shaft
presently, he climbed up and sat down in the sun.
A warm wind blew across the pine woods, the sun was getting hot, and the
wet grounds about the shaft-head was drying fast. The river had risen as
the lakes in the wilds it came from overflowed with melted snow, and
raged, level with its banks, in angry flood, rolling broken trees down
stream and strewing ledges and shingle with battered branches. Its
hoarse roar echoed across the bush, and Thirlwell felt that there was
something daunting in the deep-toned sound. One could understand that a
man like Driscoll, whose brain was dulled by liquor, might let it fill
him with vague terrors when the woods were still at night.
But listening to the river presently led Thirlwell to think about
Strange. There was something pathetic about the story of his life, for
Agatha had made Thirlwell understand her father's long patience,
gentleness, and self-sacrifice. His duty to his family had cost him
much, but he had cheerfully paid. It looked as if he had done best at
the task he most disliked--managing the humble store in the small wooden
town. One could not think of him as having failed there. His wife and
children loved him, though all but one had smiled when he talked about
the lode.
His daughter, who knew him best, had inherited his confidence, and
Thirlwell owned that this had some weight. She was perhaps influenced by
tender sentiment, but there was nothing romantic about Driscoll and
Stormont, and it looked as if they shared her belief that the lode could
be found. Scott, too, thought it possible, and his judgment was often
sound. Thirlwell had imagined the lode an illusion of Strange's, but his
disbelief was giving way.
Then he forgot the others and thought about Agatha. In some ways she was
like Strange, but she was made of finer and stronger stuff. She had his
patience, but her brain was keener, and her resolution was backed by
moral force. Moreover, she was a very charming girl and Thirlwell
admitted that he looked forward with eagerness to their journey. She
would come in summer, when the rivers and lakes were open and the woods
were filled with resinous smells. The sun was hot in the North then, the
days were often calm, and there was a wonderful bracing freshness when
the lingering twilight glimmered behind the pines.
It would be strangely pleasant to listen to the girl's soft voice while
the canoes glided smoothly across sparkling lakes, and perhaps to tell
her stories of the wilds when the smoke of the camp-fire drifted by and
the cry of the loon came out of the shadows. For all that, there was not
much risk of his falling in love with her. He was not a sentimentalist,
and she had told him that her vocation was science. Her journey was a
duty, and when the duty was carried out she would concentrate on her
studies, and as she had talent presently make her mark. He did not think
she would find the lode, but when she was persuaded it could not be
found he would no longer be useful and they would go their different
ways. Well, he supposed he must acquiesce. He was a poor engineer, and
such happiness as marriage could offer was not for him.
Then he glanced at his watch and got up with an impatient shrug. He had
forgotten his work while he thought about the girl, and there was much
to be done. For one thing, he had come up to see if the smith had
tempered some boring tools; and then he must send the _Metis_
river-jacks to float a raft of props down to the mine. Pulling himself
together, he set about the work with characteristic energy, but as he
walked through the murmuring woods he unconsciously began to sing a
romantic ballad he had learned when a boy. Presently, however, he
stopped and smiled. It looked as if he were getting sentimental, and one
must guard against that kind of thing.