WINNING A FRIEND BY SHEER PLUCK
Peveril's lamp had been extinguished during his struggle to force an
entrance into the skip, while that in Mike Connell's hat went out as
he sank helpless from terror and crouched at the other's feet. So the
blackness that shrouded them as with a pall was only faintly illumined
by the fitful flashing of the fuses that hissed like so many fiery
serpents beneath them. Their red eyes gleamed spitefully through the
gloom, and for an instant Peveril, leaning over the side of the skip,
gazed at them in fascinated helplessness.
Then he leaped down among them and began to tear them from their
connection with the devilish forces that only awaited a signal to
burst forth and destroy him. The fiery serpents bit at him as he flung
them, to writhe in impotent rage, where they could do no harm; but he
heeded not the pain, and after a little they expired, one by one,
hissing spitefully to the last.
Some of them had already burned so low that he could not pluck them
forth, and was forced to stamp out their venomous lives with the
constant knowledge that, should a single spark escape this imperfect
method of extinguishment, he would still be lost. So fiercely did he
labor that in less than one minute the last visible spark from a score
of fuses had glimmered out, and he stood in absolute darkness. But he
must wait for a full minute more before he could be certain that none
had escaped him, to creep viciously down through the loose tamping and
still reach the hidden dynamite. It was a period of the same helpless
anxiety that immediately precedes the hearing of a sentence that may
be either one of death or acquittal. While it lasted Peveril was
bathed in a cold perspiration, his brain reeled, and his limbs
trembled until he was obliged to lean against the side of the shaft
for support.
As second after second dragged itself away, until it was finally
certain that sixty of them had passed, and that sentence had been
pronounced in his favor, the young miner sank to his knees and framed,
as best he could, a prayer of gratitude. How long he thus remained in
grateful contemplation of his narrow escape from death he never knew,
but he was at length aroused by a shout from above, and, looking up,
saw an approaching light twinkling like a star of good promise through
the blackness. The call that came to him was one of anxious
uncertainty; but, as his answering shout sped upward, it was changed
to an exultant cry of joy. Then came cheer after cheer as the skip
slowly descended until it finally reached the bottom, and a solitary
figure sprang from it.
[Illustration: PEVERIL LEAPED DOWN AMONG THE SPUTTERING FUSES]
This person acted like a crazy man, first flinging his arms about
Peveril, and then falling on his knees at the young man's feet, with
a torrent of words in which praise and gratitude were mingled with
pleas for forgiveness. He was Peveril's recent companion and avowed
enemy, who, after the former had leaped from the skip, had leaned
weakly over its side and watched with fascinated gaze the struggle for
life going on below him. Ere it was ended, the hoisting-machinery
began again to work, and the skip was suddenly impelled upward with
breathless speed.
Those who witnessed its safe arrival at the surface had their
congratulations changed to exclamations of dismay by the discovery
that it contained but a single occupant. Though the time-limit for the
explosion was already passed, and though Mike Connell begged them to
send him down again at once, they refused to do so until another full
minute should elapse. During its slow passage they crowded about the
shaft-mouth in breathless silence, listening with strained ears for
the awful sound they so dreaded to hear.
Even with the minute of safety passed, it was not certain that the
explosion might not yet occur; but the young Irishman demanded so
fiercely to be instantly lowered to the very bottom that they finally
consented to do as he desired. Several were even willing to accompany
him, but he waved these back and insisted upon going alone.
He had to meet the man to whom he owed his life, as well as a shameful
confession of cowardly acts, and he preferred to meet him alone. Two
minutes later he was at the bottom of the shaft, kneeling in
semi-darkness on its rocky floor, acknowledging his obligation,
confessing his guilt, and imploring forgiveness.
"You are the bravest man I've ever known, Mister Peril, though I've
met them as was counted brave before; but none of them would dare do
what you have this day. You have given me my life, and yet I tried
twice to take yours, for 'twas me flung that rock in the mine.
And--I'm choked with the shame of the black deed--but I gave the
signal to hoist the skip a few minutes since, and tried to leave you
here to die. I'm a coward and a murderer at heart, Mister Peril, and
the dirtiest blackguard that ever was let live. I'm not worthy of your
contempt, and yet, sir, I'm going to dare ask a favor of you."
"My dear fellow," interrupted Peveril, who was greatly moved by the
man's attitude and words of self-condemnation. "Believe me--"
"Wait, Mister Peril. Please wait, sir, till you've heard me through.
You have the right to hate me, to despise me, or even to kill me, and
I'd not lift a finger to prevent you; but I'm going to ask you to
forgive me. If you don't, I can never hold up my head or look an
honest man in the face again. If you can't forgive me I shall never
dare ask the forgiveness of God in heaven."
"I do forgive you, with all my heart," exclaimed Peveril, "and there
is my hand on it." With this he grasped the young Irishman's hand and
almost lifted him to his feet. "You have done a brave deed in coming
down here after me," he added, "while there was still danger of an
explosion, and one much braver even than that, in confessing your
faults. These two things prove that you are not a coward, and from
this time on I shall claim you as a friend."
"Thank you, Mister Peril, and may God bless you for them words," cried
Connell, in a voice choked with feeling. "As for being your friend,
sir, I'd be proud to be counted your slave."
"I would much rather have a friend than a slave," returned the other,
smiling. "And so, if you don't mind, we'll stick to the first
proposition. But, Connell, I want to ask you a question. What made you
hate me, as you seemed to do from the very first?"
"Jealousy, Mister Peril. Just black, bitter jealousy, and nothing at
all else."
"How could that be, when you didn't even know me?"
"Because, sir, I'm near crazy with love for a girl who only laughs at
me, and whose folks treat me with contempt. When I first saw you, so
strong and handsome and gentleman-like, with her father, and knew he
was going to take you to live in the very house along of her, I
couldn't help but hate you."
"You surely can't mean Miss Trefethen?"
"Yes, sir, no other; and when I seen you and her walking together, and
she looking up so smiling into your face, I swore I'd kill you if ever
I had the chance, and this day the devil gave it to me. But now,
Mister Peril, you've proved yourself the best man of us two, and if
you want her I'll never again stand in your way."
"But I don't want her!" cried Peveril. "Nothing was ever farther from
my thoughts; and even if I did, I couldn't have her, because I am
engaged to another young lady."
"You are, sir? Bless you for them words! And may I tell her that you
are already bespoke?"
"Certainly; or, better still, I will tell her myself at the very first
opportunity I have for speaking with her on such a subject. But, now
that everything is settled between us, don't you think we'd better
prepare the blast again before we go up? There is fuse enough left in
the skip."
"Well, you are a game one!" exclaimed Connell, admiringly. "Of course,
if you are willing to do it after what you've just gone through, I'm
the man to stand by you. Only I do hope as there won't be no hitch in
the hoisting this time."
The signal, "All's well," having already been sent to the surface,
Connell now notified the engineer to be ready to hoist for a blast,
and the two set to work. In a few minutes the charge, that had so
nearly proved fatal to both of them, was again ready for firing, and
the hissing fuses were lighted. Then both men sprang into the skip,
the signal to hoist was hurriedly sounded, and away they sped up the
black shaft towards the distant sunlight.
As they reached the surface and clambered from the skip, aided by a
dozen eager hands, there came from the depths below a dull roar and
the tremor of a heavy explosion. At this a throng of persons which, to
Peveril's surprise, was gathered at the shaft-mouth raised a mighty
cheer. Then they crowded tumultuously forward to shake hands with, or
even to gaze on, the hero of the hour; for, on his previous visit to
surface, Mike Connell had told of Peveril's brave deed, and news of it
had already spread far and wide. So the night-shift had paused to see
him before entering the mine, and the day-shift had waited to greet
him before going to their homes, while others had come from all
directions.
Waving them all back, and grasping Peveril's hand, Mike Connell
shouted:
"Wait a minute, mates! Only one minute, and then you shall have a
chance at him. First, though, I want you all to know that Mister Peril
here has just stepped from the very jaws of hell, where he went of his
own free will to save my life. It's proud I am to call him my friend,
and for the deed he has done this day I name him the bravest lad in
all Red Jacket. If any man denies that, he'll have to settle with Mike
Connell, that's all. And now, boys, you may treat him as a brave man
deserves to be treated."
Poor Peveril, covered with confusion, tried to explain that whatever
he had done was for his own salvation as well as for that of his
friend, Mr. Connell; but no one would listen. All were too busy with
cheering and in crowding forward for a look at him.
In another minute he was hoisted on the shoulders of half a dozen
sturdy miners, the foremost of whom was proud old Mark Trefethen, and
was being borne in triumphal procession through the principal streets
of the town.
It was a spontaneous tribute of working-men to a fellow-workman; and,
gladly as Peveril would have modified the form of the ovation, he was
more proud of it than of any ever tendered him for having stroked the
Oxford 'varsity eight to a win.