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Updated: June 5, 2025
"Glad to hear you say that about going too, Mr. Scorrier; we must be careful Pippin's such a good fellow, and so sensitive; and our friend there a bit heavy in the hand, um?" Scorrier did in fact go out with Hemmings.
He went for another company with a mine some thirty miles away. Before starting, however, he visited Hemmings. The secretary was surrounded by pigeon-holes and finer than ever; Scorrier blinked in the full radiance of his courtesy. A little man with eyebrows full of questions, and a grizzled beard, was seated in an arm-chair by the fire. "You know Mr. This is Mr.
He had sat unusually silent; Scorrier, indeed, had thought him a little drunk, so portentous was his gravity; suddenly, however he rose. He was actually compelled to use his imagination to answer the shareholders' questions. This was painful and humiliating; he had never heard of any secretary having to use his imagination! He went further it was insulting!
The occasion indeed was a melancholy one, only six weeks having elapsed since that telegram had come from Scorrier, the mining expert, on a private mission to the Mines, informing them that Pippin, their Superintendent, had committed suicide in endeavouring, after his extraordinary two years' silence, to write a letter to his Board.
The fees will be all right." His left eye closed. "Things have been very er dicky; we are going to change our superintendent. I have got little Pippin you know little Pippin?" Scorrier murmured, with a feeling of vague resentment: "Oh yes. He's not a mining man!" Hemmings replied: "We think that he will do." 'Do you? thought Scorrier; 'that's good of you!
Every one had risen, shaken hands with Scorrier, and expressed themselves indebted for his coming. Scorrier placed Pippin's letter on the table, and gravely the secretary read out to his Board the last words of their superintendent. When he had finished, a director said, "That's not the letter of a madman!" Another answered: "Mad as a hatter; nobody but a madman would have thrown up such a post."
Pippin was away down the coast engaging an engineer; and on his return, Scorrier had not the heart to tell him of the desertion. He was spared the effort, for Pippin said: "Don't be afraid you've got bad news? The men have gone on strike." Scorrier sighed. "Lock, stock, and barrel" "I thought so see what I have here!"
One gets spoiled; it's big and silent here. What should I go back to? I don't seem to realise." Scorrier thought of Hemmings. "'Tis a bit cramped there, certainly," he muttered. Pippin went on as if divining his thoughts. "I suppose our friend Hemmings would call me foolish; he's above the little weaknesses of imagination, eh? Yes; it's silent here.
Yesterday he wer' below; we had to nigh carry mun up at last. He's for goin' down again, but the chaps won't lower mun;" the old man gave a sigh. "I'm waiting for my boy to come up, I am." Scorrier waited too there was fascination about those dead, smiling faces. The rescuing of these men who would never again breathe went on and on. Scorrier grew sleepy in the sun.
Scorrier remained, seated; heavy with insignificance and vague oppression, as if he had drunk a tumbler of sweet port. A week later, in company with Pippin, he was on board a liner. The "King" Pippin of his school-days was now a man of forty-four.
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