"No," said Philip rather bitterly, "not even when I am working to save their lives." "Nay, lad; but that's what they don't believe. Yo' mun go on wi' 'em more gently. But what brought you down to-neet?" "There was a fall in the barometer, and a great want of pressure in the atmosphere this evening," said Philip. "I could not rest without coming to see that everything possible was done." "Ah," said the overman grimly, "that's what our lads weant believe in-- your brometers, and pressures, and such like. They don't like to be teached by one who they say's nobbut a boy." "Does it matter how many years old a person is," cried Philip sternly, "if he can point out what is right? Look here," he said, as he stopped short in a low-roofed and distant part of the mine, "do you see this?" He pointed to his Davy-lamp, inside of which the light kept burning blue, and there was a series of little sputtering explosions. "Ay, I see it, lad; it's often so," said the overman coolly; "but the ventilation's about reet, and it will soon carry that off. It's nowt to do wi' no brometers." "Listen!" said Philip; and as the man impatiently stood still, there was a low dull hissing noise plainly to be heard, where the gas was rushing from the cracks and fissures of the shaley rock and gathering in the long galleries of the mine. "Now," said Philip, "does not the barometer speak truly? When the air is weighty and dense it keeps back the gas, when it is light the gas forces its way out. What would be the consequences if I were to open our lamp?" "There wouldn't be no consekences," said the overman with a grim laugh; "there'd be a inquest, if they had pluck enough to come and hunt out what of us was left." In spite of himself, Philip could not help a shudder, as he listened to the cynical, callous manner in which his companion spoke of their proximity to a dreadful death. Then, bidding him follow, he went on along the gloomy maze towards where he could hear the rumble of trucks laden with coal, the sound of the ringing picks, the echoing shouts of the men, and the impatient snort of some pony, toiling with its load up an incline. There was a quick sharp draught of air as they passed through a door which was closed behind them by a boy, and, satisfied that the ventilation was good, Philip Hexton and his companion went on. Meanwhile Ebenezer Parks, the big miner who had been complaining when the young man came up, kept on with his remarks as, in company with his party, he made his way to the four-foot seam, as it was called--a part of the mine where the good coal was but a yard in thickness, and at which they had to work in a stooping, sometimes in a lying, position. "She sings to-night, lad," said one of the men, as they stripped themselves to their trousers, and then began to use their sharp-pointed picks, their blackened skins soon beginning to glisten with perspiration in the stifling heat.