The underworld: The story of Robert Sinclair, minerWelsh, James C.
General
The underworld: The story of Robert Sinclair, miner
Welsh, James C.
Coal miners -- Fiction; Coal mines and mining -- Fiction
"A guid innins, you muckle black-hearted brute!" she cried. "By heavens,
an' I'll see that you get yours afore I hae done wi' you. Dinna think
though I hae been saft wi' you a' along, that I'll ay be like that. Oh,
no, I can stand a lot; but you'll find oot that Mag Robertson hasna selt
her a' tae you, without driving a hard bargain afore she lets you alone.
You can gang back to your tippy wee baggage! Gang to hell, baith you an'
her, an' joy be wi' you baith! But I'll put a sprag in your wheel afore
you gang far. Mind that! By ---- I will! She'll nae toss her heid as she
gangs past me as if I was dirt. Her, an' her fine dresses that she never
payed for wi' money an' her fal-lals. By heaven! But you hae a fine
taste!" She finished up exasperated beyond all control by his coolness.
"Ay, it wad seem so," he laughed brutally. "When I look at you, I begin
to wonder what the hell I was lookin' at. You're like a damnationed big
lump o' creesh," and he laughed in her face, knowing this would rouse
her more than ever. Then as she choked and spluttered in her anger he
said: "But what the hell odds is't to you, you baggage?" and his eyes
and voice were cold and brutal beyond expression. "Leebie Granger is
young," he went on insultingly, in a collected even voice which he
strove to make jaunty in tone. "She's as fresh an' young. An' you're
auld, an' fat an' as ugly as hell, an' if I dae gang to Leebie you hae
damn all to dae wi' it. As I said, you've had your innin's, an' been gey
well paid for it, an' I dinna gie a damn for you."
"Dae you no'?" she cried now livid with anger and losing all control
over her words and actions, her eyes flashing with maddened rage and the
froth working from her lips. "I'll let you ken or no'. I'll tear the
pented face off your new doll; and I'll sort you too, you dirty black
brute that you are."
"Gang to hell!" he shouted, starting out of the door so suddenly that he
almost ran into the next door neighbor who hearing the noise had crept
noiselessly on tiptoe to the door the better to hear all that was going
on.
"What the hell's wrang wi' you?" he demanded turning in rage upon the
eavesdropper. "Have you naething else to dae than that? Gang in an' get
your dirty midden o' a hoose cleaned an' I'll see that you don't stay
lang in Lowwood to spy on ony mair folk!" and cowering in shame the
poor woman backed into the door and shut it, making up her mind that her
man would be sacked that day, and wondering where they would flit to, so
as to find work and a house.
Walker strode up the row with Mag Robertson shouting behind him and the
neighbors all coming to the doors as they passed, and craning their
necks, while keeping their bodies safe hidden within the doorways of
their homes.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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