MISS ANDREWS ACCEPTS AN INVITATION
Life in New River valley, full of toil as it was, full of the stern,
trying struggle for existence, had still its moments of relaxation,
and in these, as she came to know the people better, the little
schoolmistress was summoned to take a part—first in the church
“socials,” which Mr. Bayliss organized from time to time in his
unceasing efforts to bring the people within his doors and to get
nearer to them; then at the informal little gatherings which took
place at the homes of the wealthier families in the long winter
evenings. Wealth is only a comparative term, and a man considered
wealthy in the coal-fields may still be close to poverty; but most
of them were honest and hospitable and open-hearted, and the lonely
girl found many friends among them.
And they, when they saw her so thoroughly in earnest, regarded her
with an admiration and respect which grew gradually to affection. To
the men, roughened by labor in the mines and by year-long contact
with the unlovely side of life, this delicate and gentle girl was
singularly attractive, and their voices instinctively took a softer
tone than usual when they spoke to her. To the women she was a
revelation of neatness and refinement, and any suspicion or envy
with which they may have regarded her at first was soon forgotten
when they found her so eager to help them in every way she could, so
free from guile and selfishness, so willing to give them of her
best. Gradually, a keen observer might have noted, the hats of the
women and girls of her acquaintance became less gaudy; gradually
dresses of flaming greens and yellows disappeared; slowly certain
rudiments of good taste began to be apparent. Of all the battles
Bessie Andrews waged—and they numbered many more than may be set
down in this short history—this one against the liking for garish
things in dress was not the least heroic, requiring such patience,
tact, and gentle resolution as few possess.
It was at a little party one evening at the home of George Lambert,
superintendent of one of the larger mines, that her host swung
suddenly around upon her with a proposition which for a moment took
her breath away.
“You’ve been here nearly a year now, Miss Bessie,” he began, “and
you’ve seen about everything the valley’s got to show. You’ve been
on top of Old Nob—”
“Oh, yes; Mr. Bayliss and two of the boys took me up there last
spring.”
“And you’ve been down to the falls?”
“Yes; we had a picnic there, you know.”
“But there’s one place you haven’t been.”
“And where is that, Mr. Lambert?”
“That’s back in our mine.”
For a moment she did not answer, and Mrs. Lambert laughed a little
as she looked at her.
“That’s a great honor, Miss Bessie,” she said. “George is very
particular about whom he asks to go through the mine. He thinks it’s
the loveliest place on earth.”
Still she hesitated. It was one of the things she had longed yet
feared to do. She had sometimes thought it was her duty to go, that
she could not hope to wholly understand this people unless she saw
them at their daily toil. But the black openings yawning here and
there in the mountain-side frightened her; they called into life
weird imaginings; it seemed so terrible to walk back into them, away
from the air and the sunlight.
“Why,” laughed Lambert, reading her thoughts in her face, “to look
at you one would think you could never hope to get out alive! There
hasn’t been an accident—a really bad accident—in our mine for over
eight years. It’s perfectly safe or I wouldn’t ask you to go. A
coal-mine is a mighty interesting thing to see, Miss Bessie.”
There was something so encouraging in his eyes and voice, so
reassuring in his confidence, that her fears slipped from her.
“Of course it is interesting,” she said, “and thank you for the
invitation, sir. I shall be very glad to go.”
“And how about you, Mr. Bayliss?” asked Lambert.
“Why, yes; I should like to go, too. I’ve been through the mine
three or four times, but it has a great fascination for me.”
“That’s good. Suppose we say Saturday morning. Will that suit you,
Miss Bessie?”
“It will suit me very well, sir,” answered the girl, a little
faintly, remembering that Saturday was only two days away.
“All right; Mr. Bayliss and I will stop for you. And say—there’s one
thing; you want to wear the oldest dress you’ve got—a short skirt,
you know.”
“Very well,” she smiled. “I think I have a gown that will answer.”
Whatever misgivings she may have experienced in the meantime, they
were not apparent on her face when she came out to meet the two men
bright and early that Saturday morning.
“That’s the stuff!” said Lambert, looking approvingly at her natty
costume of waterproof. “That’s just the thing.”
“Yes; I think this will defy even a coalmine,” she answered,
laughing. “It has withstood a good many mountain storms, I know.”
“Well, if you’re ready we are,” said Lambert, and set off along the
railroad track that led to the big tipple.
“And you’re going to tell me everything about it?” she asked.
“Of course; that’s what I’m for. Mr. Bayliss maybe’ll help me a
little if I get hoarse,” he added slyly.
“Not I!” cried that gentleman. “In the science of coal-mining I am
still in the infant class. I’ll let you do the talking, Mr. Lambert,
and will be very glad to listen myself.”
Lambert strode on, chuckling to himself. He was certainly qualified,
if any one was, to tell her “everything.” He had made the mine a
study and life-work, and regarded it with pride and affection. Every
foot of its many passages was as familiar to him as those of his own
home. The men knew that with him in charge the mine was as safe as
skill and care could make it; in hours of trouble, which were
certain to come at times, his clear eyes and cheery voice, his quick
wit and indomitable will, were mighty rocks of refuge to cling to
and lean against until the storm was past. As he walked along beside
them this bright morning, alert, head erect, his two companions
glanced admiringly at him more than once, knowing him for a man who
did things worth doing.
“Well,” he said at last, as they reached the great wooden structure
stretching above the track, “here we are at the tipple, and we might
as well begin here, though it’s sort of beginning at the wrong end.
Let’s go up to the top first, though,” and he led the way up a steep
little stair. “Now, Miss Bessie, we have come to the first lesson in
the book. The coal is let down from the mine on that inclined
railway to this big building, which is built out over the railroad
track so the coal can be dumped right into the cars without any
extra handling. The coal, as it comes down, is in all sizes, called
‘run of mine’—big lumps and little, and a lot of dirt. So it is
dumped out here on this screen,—the bars are an inch and a half
apart, you see,—and all the coal that passes over it to that bin
yonder is called ‘lump.’ The coal that goes through falls on that
other screen down there, with bars three quarters of an inch apart,
and all that passes over _it_ is called ‘nut.’ All that falls
through is called ‘slack,’ and is hauled away to those big piles you
see all around here. Understand all that?”
“Oh, yes; that’s as clear as it can be.”
“That’s good. Now we’ll go up to the mine. Let’s get into this empty
car. It’s not as clean as a Pullman, nor as big, but it’s the only
kind we run on this road.”
They helped her in, and one sat on either side to steady her, as the
tipple-hands coupled it to the cable and the trip up the steep grade
began.
“You see, the loaded cars going down pull up the empty ones,” he
said. “We make gravitation do all the work. It’s a simple way, and
mighty convenient.”
The loaded car, heaped high with coal, passed them midway, and in a
moment they were at the mouth of the mine. To her surprise, she saw
that there were two openings, one much smaller than the other.
“That smaller one’s the airway,” said Lambert. “Just inside there’s
a big wheel, or fan, made very much like the wheel of a windmill,
going around about a hundred times a minute, and blowing about a
thousand cubic feet of air out of the mine at every revolution.”
“_Out_ of the mine!” exclaimed Miss Andrews.
“Yes. The airway is connected with the gangway there, away back at
the farthest limit of the mine. So what happens?”
He was smiling down at her, relishing intensely this novel chance to
test the wits of the school-teacher.
“Why,” she began slowly, “if so much air is pumped out, just so much
more must rush in to take its place through the other opening.”
“The gangway—yes. And since the only open break-through between them
is away at the other end of the mine?”
“The fresh air must go clear through the mine before it can start
out again.”
“That’s it—that’s it exactly!” and Lambert slapped his thigh with
pleasure at her quickness. “That’s the whole secret, Miss Bessie, of
ventilating coal-mines: get your fresh air, and plenty of it, clear
back to the end, through every chamber, before it starts out again.
So long as you do that, there’s mighty little danger from fire-damp
and choke-damp, or any of the other gases the coal is always
throwing off.”
“But it isn’t always so simple as this, is it?”
“No. You see, there are three ways of opening a coal-mine, Miss
Bessie, of which this is the very simplest. The river, there, has
cut down through the seams of coal and left them exposed, so all we
have to do is to hunt up those most favorably located and work right
back into them. That sort of entrance is called a drift, and is the
cheapest as well as simplest, because every blow of the pick brings
down so much coal. That’s the great advantage of all the mines along
this river—along almost any river, for that matter. Sometimes the
seams don’t come to the surface, and then we have to tunnel in
horizontally through earth and rock to reach them; that’s the second
way. The third way is where the coal is buried deep in the earth,
and a vertical opening called a shaft has to be sunk to it, and the
gangways started out horizontally from the shaft-foot. That is the
most expensive way of all, and the most difficult. This main
entrance is called the gangway or entry, and the side workings from
it are called butt entries. Well, let’s go in.”
Just inside the entrance a boy supplied them with little smoking tin
lamps with hooks to hold them to their hats, and then the trip into
the mine began. The darkness that fell upon them almost instantly
appalled the girl for a moment. She felt that every step forward
must carry her down into a bottomless abyss. She clutched nervously
at her companions; but the feeling passed, and soon she was able to
advance with greater confidence. The gangway seemed quite level,
though Lambert told her it sloped upward slightly so as to throw out
all the water that gathered in the mine, and along either side of it
ran a narrow wooden track. On one track the loaded cars were brought
out of the mine, and on the other the empty cars were taken back
again. Mules furnished the motive power, and each of them was driven
by a grimy boy. The sight of them going ceaselessly back and forth
aroused the old bitterness in her.
“I think it is such a terrible thing,” she said, “that children have
to work in the mines!”
“It’s not pleasant,” assented her guide, grimly, “but it’s a case of
bread and butter—and mighty little butter. They’re not in any
danger, though,” he added, “except from being kicked or bitten by
the mules. Some of them are vicious brutes, but the boys soon learn
how to handle ’em.”
The rattle of an approaching “trip” of cars drowned his voice, and
they stepped aside to let it pass. For a moment they could see
nothing; then the mule flashed into view, with a boy lying flat on
its back to escape the roof, the flame of his lamp streaming thinly
out behind; then four loaded cars, rocking and swaying on the narrow
track.
“You see, the slope of the gangway helps get the loaded cars to
daylight,” observed Lambert, “as well as throw out the water—and
there’s lots of water in a mine.”
That was evident enough. Everywhere about them the black walls were
dripping with moisture, and every angle shone bright in the rays of
their lamps. From low roof and sides alike gleamed thousands of
scintillating points, until it seemed almost that they must be in a
mine of diamonds. Along the center of the gangway a row of heavy
props had been placed to support the roof and render it quite safe.
As they went on, Bessie Andrews began to think it all some dreadful
illusion. Mules loomed up suddenly before her; swarthy faces, with
no apparent bodies, gleamed for an instant out of the darkness; a
constant rumble of cars was in her ears; the lamps sputtered and
flared in the strong air-current, and seemed each instant about to
go out and leave them in darkness—such a darkness as exists nowhere
else. On they went,—miles, as it seemed to her, but really only a
few hundred yards,—and came at last to a door, beside which a small
boy sat. He jumped up and opened it for them, and they passed
through. For a moment they walked on between two narrow walls which
opened suddenly before them.
“Now we are in a chamber,” said her guide. “Here we will see the
miners at work.”
Far ahead she could see dimly four lights bobbing about in a
seemingly senseless way. Suddenly three of them came toward her; she
heard somewhere in the distance the cry of “Fire!” repeated over and
over. The three lights disappeared; the fourth drew rapidly near,
then disappeared also. She felt Lambert catch her by the arm to
steady her; there was a sudden beating of the air against her face,
the dull rumble of an explosion, the crash of falling coal, and then
a moment’s breathless silence.