There was a hollow sound of many voices "Tha might as well leave it, Walter," said Barker. "It'll do to-morrow, without thee hackin' thy guts out." "I'll lay no b -- finger on this to-morrow, Isr'el!" cried Morel. "Oh, well, if tha wunna, somebody else'll ha'e to," said Israel. Then Morel continued to strike. "Hey-up there -- LOOSE-A'!" cried the men, leaving the next stall. Morel continued to strike. "Tha'll happen catch me up," said Barker, departing. When he had gone, Morel, left alone, felt savage. He had not finished his job. He had overworked himself into a frenzy. Rising, wet with sweat, he threw his tool down, pulled on his coat, blew out his candle, took his lamp, and went. Down the main road the lights of the other men went swinging. There was a hollow sound of many voices. It was a long, heavy tramp underground. He sat at the bottom of the pit, where the great drops of water fell plash. Many colliers were waiting their turns to go up, talking noisily. Morel gave his answers short and disagreeable. "It's rainin', Sorry," said old Giles, who had had the news from the top. Morel found one comfort. He had his old umbrella, which he loved, in the lamp cabin. At last he took his stand on the chair, and was at the top in a moment. Then he handed in his lamp and got his umbrella, which he had bought at an auction for one-and-six. He stood