That Lass O' Lowrie's. Frances Hodgson Burnett

So that the mines were worked, and their profits made, it did not matter for the rest. They were used to casualties, so well used to them in fact, that unless a fearful loss of life occurred, they were not alarmed or even roused. As to the injuries done to a man's health, and so on—they had not time to inquire into such things. There was danger in all trades, for the matter of that. Fergus Derrick was a young man, and young men were fond of novelties.

      Opposition was bad enough, but indifference was far more baffling. The colliers opposed Derrick to the utmost, the Company was rather inclined to ignore him—some members good-naturedly, others with an air of superiority, not unmixed with contempt. The colliers talked with rough ill-nature; the Company did not want to talk at all.

      “Oh,” answered Derrick, “I do not see that I have made one step forward; but it will go hard with me before I am beaten. Some of the men I have to deal with are as bat-blind as they are cantankerous. One would think that experience might have taught them wisdom. Would you believe that some of those working in the most dangerous parts of the mine have false keys to their Davys, and use the flame to light their pipes? I have heard of the thing being done before, but I only discovered the other day that we had such madmen in the pits here. If I could only be sure of them I would settle the matter at once, but they are crafty enough to keep their secret, and it only drifts to the master as a rumor.”

      “Have you no suspicion as to who they are?” asked Anice.

      “I suspect one man,” he answered, “but only suspect him because he is a bad fellow, reckless in all things, and always ready to break the rules. I suspect Dan Lowrie.”

      “Joan's father?” exclaimed Anice in distress.

      Derrick made a gesture of assent.

      “He is the worst man in the mines,” he said, “The man with the worst influence, the man who can work best if he will, the man whose feeling against any authority is the strongest, and whose feeling against me amounts to bitter enmity.”

      “Against you? But why?”

      “I suppose because I have no liking for him myself, and because I will have orders obeyed, whether they are my orders or the orders of the owners. I will have work done as it should be done, and I will not be frightened by bullies.”

      “But if he is a dangerous man—”

      “He would knock me down from behind, or spoil my beauty with vitriol as coolly as he would toss off a pint of beer, if he had the opportunity, and chanced to feel vicious enough at the time,” said Derrick, “But his mood has not quite come to that yet. Just now he feels that he would like to have a row—and really, if we could have a row, it would be the best thing for us both. If one of us could thrash the other at the outset, it might never come to the vitriol.”

      He was cool enough himself, and spoke in quite a matter-of-fact way, but Anice suddenly lost her color. When, later, she bade him goodnight—

      “I am afraid of that man,” she said, as he held her hand for the moment. “Don't let him harm you.”

      “What man?” asked Derrick. “Is it possible you are thinking about what I said of Lowrie?”

      “Yes. It is so horrible. I cannot bear the thought of it. I am not used to hear of such things. I am afraid for you.”

      “You are very good,” he said, his strong hand returning her grasp with warm gratitude. “But I am sorry I said so much, if I have frightened you. I ought to have remembered how new such things were to you. It is nothing, I assure you.” And bidding her good-night again, he went away quite warmed at heart by her innocent interest in him, but blaming himself not a little for his indiscretion.