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
"Holy God," cried his mate, "that was a near thing," as a huge mass of
rocks and slimy moss lunged out a little below them and hurtled away in
a loud rumbling noise.
Robert pulled the signal cord to stop and looked up to see the white
clouds passing over the narrow funnel-like shaft in which they hung.
Then he gave the signal to let out again noting how thick with damp the
atmosphere was becoming, and having difficulty with his light.
Lower and lower they swung and dropped down into the old shaft and as
the rope creaked and crazed above them it lilted:
"Choose, choose, wha' you'll tak',
Wha' you'll tak', wha' you'll tak',
Choose, choose wha' you'll tak',
A laddie or a lassie."
And the memory of the old lilt brought back other scenes again and he
found himself guiding the chair from the shaft side steering it off with
his hand at every rhythmic beat of the child song.
Soon they reached the bottom of the shaft, for it was not very deep, and
found a mass of debris, almost choking up the roadways on either side of
the bottom. But they got out of their chair and soon began to "redd"
away the stones though they found very great difficulty in getting the
lamps to burn. Occasionally, as they worked, little pieces came tumbling
from the side of the shaft, telling its own tale, and as soon as Robert
got a decent sized kind of opening made through the rocks which blocked
the roadway he sent up the other man to bring down more help and to get
others started to repair the old shaft by putting in stays and batons to
preserve the sides and so prevent them from caving in altogether.
He found his way along the level which had been driven to within nine
feet of going through on the heading in which the inbreak of moss had
taken place. He noticed the roof was broken in many places and that the
timber which had been put in years before was rotten. Strange noises
seemed to assail his senses, and stranger smells, yet the lilt of that
old childish game was ever humming in his brain and he saw himself with
other boys and girls with clasped hands linked in a circle and going
round in a ring as they sang the old ditty.
"Three breakings should dae it," he said as he looked at the face of the
coal dripping with water from the cracks in the roof. "If only they were
here to put up the props. I could soon blow it through," and he began to
prepare a place for batons and props, pending the arrival of more help
from those who were only too eager to come down to his aid.
It was almost an hour before help came in the shape of two men carrying
some props. Then came another two and soon more timber began to arrive
regularly and the swinging blows of their hammers as they drove in the
fresh props were soon echoing through the tunnels, and Robert set up his
boring machine and soon the rickety noise of it drowned all others. He
paused to change a drill when a faint hullo was heard from the other
side.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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