"The man told me he was not in the pit," returned Mr. Chattaway. "They said he was here." "Then they knew nothing about it," observed Ford. "Bean has been down the pit all the morning." Mr. Chattaway turned to Rupert. "Go down the shaft and tell Bean to come up. I want him." He rode off as he spoke, and Rupert departed for the pit. The man Pennet lived in a hovel, one of many, about a mile and a half away. Chattaway, between haste and temper, was in a heat when he arrived. A masculine-looking woman with tangled hair came out to salute him. "Where's Pennet?" "He's right bad, master." Mr. Chattaway's lip curled. "Bad from drink?" "No," replied the woman, defiantly; for the owner of the mine was held in no favour, and this woman was of too independent a nature to conceal her sentiments when provoked. "Bad from rheumatiz." He got off his horse, rudely pushed her aside, and went in. Pennet was dressed, but was lying on a wooden settle, as the benches were called in that district. "I be too bad for the pit to-day, sir; I be, indeed. This, rheumatiz have been a-flying about me for weeks; and now it's settled in my loins, and I can't stir." "Let's see you walk," responded Chattaway. Pennet got off the bench with difficulty, and walked across the brick floor slowly, his arms behind him. "I thought so," said Chattaway. "I knew you were skulking. You are as well able to walk as I am. Be off to the pit." The man lifted his face. "If you was in the pain I be, master, you wouldn't say so. I mote drag myself down to 'im, but I couldn't work." "We will see about that," said Mr. Chattaway, in his determined manner. "You work to-day, my man, or you never work again for me: so take your choice." There was a pause. Pennet looked irresolute, the woman bitter. Perhaps what these people hated most of all in Chattaway was his personal interference and petty tyranny. What he was doing now--looking up the hands--was the work of an overseer; not of the owner. "Come," he authoritatively repeated. "I shall see you start before me. We are too busy for half of you to be basking in idleness. Are you going? Work to-day, or leave the pit, just which you please." The man glanced at his children--a ragged little group, cowering in silence in a corner, awed by the presence of the master; took his cap without a word, and limped slowly away, though apparently scarcely able to drag one foot before the other. "Where be your bowels of compassion?" cried the woman, in her audacity, placing herself before Mr. Chattaway. "I know where my whip will be if you don't get out of my way and change your tone," was his answer. "What do you mean, woman, by speaking so to me?" "Them as have no compassion for their men, but treads 'em down like beasts o' burden, may come, perhaps, to be treaded down themselves," was the woman's retort, as she withdrew out of Mr. Chattaway's vicinity.