“Three paces was the depth of the ledge,” muttered Janki without heeding—“and—oh, my poor bones!—I have found it! It is here, up this ledge. Come all you, one by one, to the place of my voice, and I will count you.” There was a rush in the dark, and Janki felt the first man’s face hit his knees as the Sonthal scrambled up the ledge. “Who?” cried Janki. “I, Sunua Manji.” “Sit you down,” said Janki. “Who next?” One by one the women and the men crawled up the ledge which ran along one side of “Bullia’s Room.” Degraded Muhammadan, pig-eating Musahr and wild Sonthal, Janki ran his hand over them all. “Now follow after,” said he, “catching hold of my heel, and the women catching the men’s clothes.” He did not ask whether the men had brought their picks with them. A miner, black or white, does not drop his pick. One by one, Janki leading, they crept into the old gallery—a six-foot way with a scant four feet from thill to roof. “The air is better here,” said Jasoda. They could hear her heart beating in thick, sick bumps. “Slowly, slowly,” said Janki. “I am an old man, and I forget many things. This is Tibu’s gallery, but where are the four bricks where they used to put their _huqa_ fire on when the Sahibs never saw? Slowly, slowly, O you people behind.” They heard his hands disturbing the small coal on the floor of the gallery and then a dull sound. “This is one unbaked brick, and this is another and another. Kundoo is a young man—let him come forward. Put a knee upon this brick and strike here. When Tibu’s gang were at dinner on the last day before the good coal ended, they heard the men of Five on the other side, and Five worked _their_ gallery two Sundays later—or it may have been one. Strike there, Kundoo, but give me room to go back.” Kundoo, doubting, drove the pick, but the first soft crush of the coal was a call to him. He was fighting for his life and for Unda—pretty little Unda with rings on all her toes—for Unda and the forty rupees. The women sang the Song of the Pick—the terrible, slow, swinging melody with the muttered chorus that repeats the sliding of the loosened coal, and, to each cadence, Kundoo smote in the black dark. When he could do no more, Sunua Manji took the pick, and struck for his life and his wife, and his village beyond the blue hills over the Tarachunda River. An hour the men worked, and then the women cleared away the coal. “It is farther than I thought,” said Janki. “The air is very bad; but strike, Kundoo, strike hard.”