And the manager hastily opened a map of the colliery he was carrying in his hand against the wall of the engine-house, and pointed to the spot. "How many men there?" "About thirty-two in the workings round about--as near as I can reckon it." "Any sign of the rest? How many went down?" "Eighty-six. A cageful of men and lads--just them from the shaft-bottom--got up immediately after the explosion. Since then, not a sound from anyone! The uptake shaft is chock-full of damp. Mitchell, in the fan-room, had to run for it at first, it was coming up so fast." "Good God!" said George, under his breath; and the two men eyed each other painfully. "Have you sent for the inspector?" said Tressady, after a moment. "He ought to be here in five minutes now, sir." "Got some baulks together?" "The men are piling them by the shaft at this moment." "Fan uninjured?" "Yes, sir--and speed increased." Followed by Madan, Tressady walked up to the shaft, and himself questioned Macgregor and the two hewers. Then he beckoned to Madan, and the two walked in close converse towards the lamphouse, discussing a plan of action. As they passed slowly along the bank the eyes of the miserable terror-stricken throng to either side followed every movement. But there was not a sound from anyone. Once Tressady looked up and caught the faces of some men near him--dark faces, charged with a meaning that seemed instantly to stiffen his own nerve for what he had to do. "I give Dixon three more minutes," he said, impatiently looking at his watch; "then we go down without him." Dixon was the inspector. He was well known throughout the district, a plucky, wiry fellow, who was generally at the pit's mouth immediately after an accident, ready and keen to go with any rescue party on any errand, however dangerous--purely, as he himself declared, for professional and scientific reasons. In this case, he lived only a mile away, on the further side of the village, so that Madan's messenger had not far to go. As he spoke, George felt his arm clutched from behind. He turned, and saw Mary Batchelor, who had come forward from a group of women. "Sir George! Listen 'ere, Sir George." Her lined face and tear-blurred eyes worked with a passion of entreaty. "The boy went down at five with the rest. Don't yer bear 'im no malice. Ee's a poor sickly creetur, an the Lord an't give 'im the full use of his wits." George smiled at the poor thing's madness, and touched her kindly on the shoulder. "Don't you trouble yourself, Mary; all that can be done will be done--for everybody. We are only giving Mr. Dixon another minute; then we go down. Look here"--he drew her inside the door of the lamproom, which happened to be close by, for an open-mouthed group, eager to hear whatever he might be saying, had begun to press about them. "Can you take this message from me up to the house? There'll be no news here, you know, for a long time, and I left Lady Tressady asleep."