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Updated: May 28, 2025
A Welsh preaching hillman, carried away by the triumph of the moment, gave the great tragedy the bugle-note of human joy and pride. Ian Stafford and Brengyn and Jim Gawley had conquered. The limp bodies carried past Al'mah were not dead. They were living, breathing men whom fresh air and a surgeon's aid would soon restore.
Here, Jim," he added to a small, wiry fellow not more than five feet four in height "here, Jim Gawley, you're comin' wi' me, an' that's all o' you as can come. No, no," he added, as there was loud muttering and dissent. "Jim's got no missis, nor mother, and he's tough as leather and can squeeze in small places, and he's all right, too, in tight corners."
Jasmine took a step forward with a smothered cry, but Alice Tynemouth laid a hand on her arm. "He'll bring Rudyard back, if it can be done," she whispered. Stafford did not turn round. He said something in an undertone to Tynemouth, and then, without a glance behind, strode away beside Brengyn and Jim Gawley to the pit's mouth. Adrian Fellowes stepped up to Tynemouth.
And the women turned away to their own to their capital, which in the slump of Fate had suffered no loss. It was theirs, complete and paying large dividends. To the crowd, Brengyn, with gruff sincerity, said, loudly: "Jim Gawley, he done as I knowed he'd do. He done his best, and he done it prime. We couldn't ha' got on wi'out him. But first there was Mr.
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