The next day they went down again to the pit-head; and Scorrier himself descended.  The fumes had almost cleared, but there were some places which would never be reached.  At the end of the day all but four bodies had been recovered.  “In the day o’ judgment,” a miner said, “they four’ll come out of here.”  Those unclaimed bodies haunted Scorrier.  He came on sentences of writing, where men waiting to be suffocated had written down their feelings.  In one place, the hour, the word “Sleepy,” and a signature.  In another, “A.  F.—­done for.”  When he came up at last Pippin was still waiting, pocket-book in hand; they again departed at a furious pace.

Two days later Scorrier, visiting the shaft, found its neighbourhood deserted—­not a living thing of any sort was there except one Chinaman poking his stick into the rubbish.  Pippin was away down the coast engaging an engineer; and on his return, Scorrier had not the heart to tell him of the desertion.  He was spared the effort, for Pippin said:  “Don’t be afraid—­you’ve got bad news?  The men have gone on strike.”

Scorrier sighed.  “Lock, stock, and barrel”

“I thought so—­see what I have here!” He put before Scorrier a telegram: 

“At all costs keep working—­fatal to stop—­manage this somehow.  —­Hemmings.”

Breathing quickly, he added:  “As if I didn’t know!  ’Manage this somehow’—­a little hard!”

“What’s to be done?” asked Scorrier.

“You see I am commanded!” Pippin answered bitterly.  “And they’re quite right; we must keep working—­our contracts!  Now I’m down—­not a soul will spare me!”

The miners’ meeting was held the following day on the outskirts of the town.  Pippin had cleared the place to make a public recreation-ground—­a sort of feather in the company’s cap; it was now to be the spot whereon should be decided the question of the company’s life or death.

The sky to the west was crossed by a single line of cloud like a bar of beaten gold; tree shadows crept towards the groups of men; the evening savour, that strong fragrance of the forest, sweetened the air.  The miners stood all round amongst the burnt tree-stumps, cowed and sullen.  They looked incapable of movement or expression.  It was this dumb paralysis that frightened Scorrier.  He watched Pippin speaking from his phaeton, the butt of all those sullen, restless eyes.  Would he last out?  Would the wires hold?  It was like the finish of a race.  He caught a baffled look on Pippin’s face, as if he despaired of piercing that terrible paralysis.  The men’s eyes had begun to wander.  ’He’s lost his hold,’ thought Scorrier; ‘it’s all up!’

A miner close beside him muttered:  “Look out!”

Pippin was leaning forward, his voice had risen, the words fell like a whiplash on the faces of the crowd:  “You shan’t throw me over; do you think I’ll give up all I’ve done for you?  I’ll make you the first power in the colony!  Are you turning tail at the first shot?  You’re a set of cowards, my lads!”