less, battered dead. "I had
warned him, but he would not listen! _Twice_ I warned him! These men are
witnesses."

The Babu is shaking like a jelly. "Oh, sar, I have never seen a man
killed before! Look at that eye, sar! I should have sent runners. I ran
everywhere! I ran to your house. You were not in. I was running for
hours. It was not my fault! It was the fault of the gang-Sirdar." He
wrings his hands and gurgles. The best of accountants, but the poorest
of coroners is he. No need to ask how the accident happened. No need to
listen to the Sirdar and his "witnesses." The Sonthal had been a fool,
but it was the Sirdar's business to protect him against his own folly.
"Has he any people here?"

"Yes, his _rukni_,--his kept-woman,--and his sister's brother-in-law.
His home is far-off."

The sister's brother-in-law breaks through the crowd howling for
vengeance on the Sirdar. He will send for the police, he will have the
price of his brother's blood full tale. The windmill arms and the angry
eyes fall, for the Sahib is making the report of the death.

"Will the Government give me _pensin_? I am his wife," a woman clamours,
stamping her pewter-ankleted feet. "He was killed in your service. Where
is his _pensin_? I am his wife."

"You lie! You're his _rukni_. Keep quiet! Go! The pension comes to
_us_."

The sister's brother-in-law is not a refined man, but the _rukni_ is his
match. They are silenced. The Sahib takes the report, and the body is
borne away. Before to-morrow's sun rises the gang-Sirdar may find
himself a simple "surface-coolie," earning nine _pice_ a day; and in a
week some Sonthal woman behind the hills may discover that she is
entitled to draw monthly great wealth from the coffers of the Sirkar.
But this will not happen if the sister's brother-in-law can prevent it.
He goes off swearing at the _rukni_.

In the meantime, what have the rest of the dead man's gang been doing?
They have, if you please, abating not one stroke, dug out all the clay,
and would have it verified. They have seen their comrade die. He is
dead. _Bus!_[17] Will the Sirdar take the tale of clay? And yet, were
twenty men to be crushed by their own carelessness in the pit, these
same impassive workers would scatter like panic-stricken horses.

[17] Enough.

Turning from this sketch, let us set in order a few stories of the pits.
In some of the mines the coal is blasted out by the dynamite which is
fired by electricity from a batt