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!"

Scorrier shook his head. All night, jolting along a rough track cut
through the forest, he thought of Pippin. The other miseries of this
calamity at present left him cold; he barely thought of the smothered
men; but Pippin's struggle, his lonely struggle with this hydra-headed
m