Scorrier blurted out:  “To tell you the truth, they complain a little of not hearing from you.”

Pippin put out a hand, as if to push something away.  “Let them try the life here!” he broke out; “it’s like sitting on a live volcano—­what with our friends, ‘the enemy,’ over there; the men; the American competition.  I keep it going, Scorrier, but at what a cost—­at what a cost!”

“But surely—­letters?”

Pippin only answered:  “I try—­I try!”

Scorrier felt with remorse and wonder that he had spoken the truth.  The following day he left for his inspection, and while in the camp of “the enemy” much was the talk he heard of Pippin.

“Why!” said his host, the superintendent, a little man with a face somewhat like an owl’s, “d’you know the name they’ve given him down in the capital—­’the King’—­good, eh?  He’s made them ‘sit up’ all along this coast.  I like him well enough—­good—­hearted man, shocking nervous; but my people down there can’t stand him at any price.  Sir, he runs this colony.  You’d think butter wouldn’t melt in that mouth of his; but he always gets his way; that’s what riles ’em so; that and the success he’s making of his mine.  It puzzles me; you’d think he’d only be too glad of a quiet life, a man with his nerves.  But no, he’s never happy unless he’s fighting, something where he’s got a chance to score a victory.  I won’t say he likes it, but, by Jove, it seems he’s got to do it.  Now that’s funny!  I’ll tell you one thing, though shouldn’t be a bit surprised if he broke down some day; and I’ll tell you another,” he added darkly, “he’s sailing very near the wind, with those large contracts that he makes.  I wouldn’t care to take his risks.  Just let them have a strike, or something that shuts them down for a spell—­and mark my words, sir—­it’ll be all up with them.  But,” he concluded confidentially, “I wish I had his hold on the men; it’s a great thing in this country.  Not like home, where you can go round a corner and get another gang.  You have to make the best you can out of the lot you have; you won’t, get another man for love or money without you ship him a few hundred miles.”  And with a frown he waved his arm over the forests to indicate the barrenness of the land.

Scorrier finished his inspection and went on a shooting trip into the forest.  His host met him on his return.  “Just look at this!” he said, holding out a telegram.  “Awful, isn’t it?” His face expressed a profound commiseration, almost ludicrously mixed with the ashamed contentment that men experience at the misfortunes of an enemy.

The telegram, dated the day before, ran thus “Frightful explosion New Colliery this morning, great loss of life feared.”

Scorrier had the bewildered thought:  ‘Pippin will want me now.’

He took leave of his host, who called after him:  “You’d better wait for a steamer!  It’s a beastly drive!”