II
THE VEGA VERDE MINE
Jim Cayley clambered over the refuse-heaps of the mine, rejoicing in atremendous appetite which he was soon to have the pleasure ofsatisfying.
There was also something else.
Little Toro, the kiddy from Cuba--"Somebody's orphan," the Spaniards ofthe mine called him, with a likely hit at the truth--little Toro hadbeen to the Lago Frio with Jim, to see that he didn't drown of cramp orget eaten by one of the mammoth trout, and had hinted at dark doings tobe wrought that very day, at closing time or thereabouts.
Hitherto, Jim had not quite justified his presence at the Vega Verdemine, some four thousand feet above sea-level in these wilds ofAsturias. To be sure, he was there for his health. But Mr. Summerfield,the other engineer in partnership with Alfred Cayley, Jim's brother,had, in a thoughtless moment, termed Jim "an idle young dog," and thephrase had stuck. Jim hadn't liked it, and tried to say so.Unfortunately, he stammered, and Don Ferdinando (Mr. Summerfield) hadlaughed and gone off, saying he couldn't wait.
_Now_ it was Jim's chance. He felt that this was so, and he rejoiced inthe sensation as well as in his appetite and the thought of theexcellent soup, omelette, cutlets, and other things which it was Mrs.Jumbo's privilege to be serving to the three Englishmen (reckoning Jimin the three) at half-past one o'clock precisely.
Toro had made a great fuss about his news. He was drying Jim at thetime, and Jim was saying that he didn't suppose any other English fellowof fifteen had had such a splendid bathe. There were snow-peaks in thedistance, slowly melting into that lake, which well deserved its name of"Cold."
"Don Jimmy," said young Toro, pausing with the towel, "what do youthink?"
"Think?" said Jimmy. "That I--I--I--I'll punch your black head for youif you don't finish this j--j--j--job, and b--b--b--be quick about it."
He wasn't really fierce with the Cuban kiddy. The Cuban kiddy himselfknew that, and grinned as he made for Jim's shoulder.
"Yes, Don Jimmy," he said; "don't you worry about that. But I'm tellingyou a straight secret this time--no figs about it."
Toro had picked up some peculiar English by association with theAmericans who had swamped his native land after the great war. Still, itwas quite understandable English.
"A s--s--s--straight secret! Then j--j--just out with it, or I'llp--p--p--punch your head for that as well," said Jimmy, rushing hiswords.
He often achieved remarkable victories over his affliction by rushinghis words. He could do this best with his inferiors, when he hadn't totrouble to think what words he ought to use. At school he made howlingmistakes just because of his respectful regard for the masters and thatsort of thing. They didn't seem to see how he suffered in his kindlyconsideration of them.
It was same with Don Ferdinando. Mr. Summerfield was a very greatengineering swell when he was at home in London. Jimmy couldn't helpfeeling rather awed by him. And so his stammering to Don Ferdinando wassomething "so utterly utter" (as his brother said) that no fellow couldlisten to it without manifest pain, mirth, or impatience. In DonFerdinando's case, it was generally impatience. His time was worthpounds a minute or so.
"All right," said Toro. "And my throat ain't drier than your back now,Don Jimmy; so you can put your clothes on and listen. They're going tobust the mine this afternoon--that's what they're going to do; andthey'd knife me if they knew I was letting on."
"What?" cried Jimmy.
"It's a fact," said Toro, dropping the towel and feeling for acigarette. "They're all so mighty well sure they won't be let go down toBavaro for the Saint Gavino kick-up to-morrow that they've settled to dothat. If there ain't no portering to do, they'll be _let_ go. That's howthey look at it. They don't care, not a peseta between 'em, how much itcosts the company to get the machine put right again; not them skunksdon't. What they want is to have a twelve-hour go at the wine in thevalley. You won't tell of me, Don Jimmy?"
"S--s--snakes!" said Jimmy.
Then he had started to run from the Lago Frio, with his coat on his arm.Dressing was a quick job in those wilds, where at midday in summer onedidn't want much clothing.
"No, I won't let on!" he had cried back over his shoulder.
Toro, the Cuban kiddy, sat down on the margin of the cold blue lake andfinished his cigarette reflectively. White folks, especially whiteEnglish-speaking ones, were rather unsatisfactory. He liked them,because as a rule he could trust them. But Don Jimmy needn't havehurried away like that. He, Toro, hoped to have had licence to draw hispay for fully another hour's enjoyable idleness. As things were,however, Don Alonso, the foreman, would be sure to be down on him if hewere two minutes after Don Jimmy among the red-earth heaps and thegalvanised shanties of the calamine mine on its perch eight hundred feetsheer above the Vega Verde.
Jim Cayley was a few moments late for the soup after all.
"I s--s--say!" he began, as he bounced into the room.
"Say nothing, my lad!" exclaimed Don Alfredo, looking up from hisnewspaper.
[Words missing in original] mail had just arrived--an eight-mile climb,made daily, both ways, by one of the gang.
Mrs. Jumbo, the moustached old Spanish lady who looked after the house,put his soup before Jimmy.
"Eat, my dear," she said in Spanish, caressing his damp hair--one of hermany amiable yet detested little tricks, to signify her admiration ofJim's fresh complexion and general style of beauty.
"But it's--it's--it's most imp--p--p----"
Don Ferdinando set down his spoon. He also let the highly grave letterfrom London which he was reading slip into his soup.
"I tell you what, Cayley," he said, "if you don't crush this youngbrother of yours, I will. This is a matter of life or death, and I_must_ have a clear head to think it out."
"I was only saying," cried Jim desperately. But his brother stopped him.
"Hold your tongue, Jim," he said. "We've worry enough to go on with justat present. I mean it, my lad. If you've anything important to proclaim,leave it to me to give you the tip when to splutter at it. I'm solemn."
When Don Alfredo said he was "solemn," it often meant that he was on theedge of a most unbrotherly rage. And so Jim concentrated upon hisdinner. He made wry faces at Mrs. Jumbo and her strokings, and evenfound fault with the soup when she asked him sweetly if it were notexcellent. All this to relieve his feelings.
The two engineers left Jim to finish his dinner by himself. Jim'srenewed effort of "I say, Alf!" was quenched by the upraised hands ofboth engineers.
Outside they were met by Don Alonso, the foreman, a very smart andgo-ahead fellow indeed, considering that he was a Spaniard.
"They'll strike, senores!" said Don Alonso, with a shrug. "It can't behelped, I'm afraid. It's all Domecq's doing, the scoundrel! Why didn'tyou dismiss him, Don Alfredo, after that affair of Moreno's death?There's not a doubt he killed Moreno, and he hasn't a spark of gratitudeor goodness in his nature."
"He's a capable hand," said Alfred Cayley.
"Too much so, by half," said Don Ferdinando. "If he were off the mine,Elgos, we should run smoothly, eh?"
"I'll answer for that, senor," replied the foreman. "As it is, he playshis cards against mine. His influence is extraordinary. There'll not bea man here to-morrow; Saint Gavino will have all their time and money."
"You don't expect any active mischief, I hope?" suggested DonFerdinando.
The foreman thought not. He had heard no word of any.
"Very well, then. I'll settle Domecq straight off," said Don Ferdinando.
He returned to the house and pocketed his revolver. They had to beprepared for all manner of emergencies in these wilds of Asturias,especially on the eves and morrows of Saints' days. But it didn't at allfollow that because Don Ferdinando pocketed his shooter he was likely tobe called upon to use it.
The three were separating after this when a lad in a blue cotton jacketrose lazily from behind a heap of calamine just to the rear of them, andswung off towards the machinery on the edge of the precipice.
"Pedro!" called the foreman, and, returning, the lad was asked if he hadbeen listening.
He vowed that such a thought had not entered his head. He had beenasleep; that was all.
"Very good!" said the foreman. "You may go, and it's fifty cents offyour wage list that your sleep out of season has cost you."
Discipline at the mine had to be of the strictest. Any laxity, and thelaziest man was bound to start an epidemic of laziness.
Don Ferdinando set off for the Vega, eight hundred feet sheer below themine. It was a ticklish zigzag, just to the left of the transportingmachinery, with twenty places in which a slip would mean death.
Domecq was working down below, lading the stuff into bullock-carts.
Alfred Cayley disappeared into one of the upper galleries, to see howthey were panning out.
The snow mountains and the afternoon sun looked down upon a verypleasing scene of industry--blue-jacketed workers and heaps of ore; andupon Jim Cayley also, who had enjoyed his dinner so thoroughly that hedidn't think so much as before about his rejected information.
But now again the Cuban kiddy drifted towards him, making for thezigzag.
Jim hailed him.
"Can't stop, Don Jimmy!" said Toro. But when he was some yards down, hebeckoned to Jim, who quickly joined him.
They conferred on the edge of a ghastly precipice.
"I'm off down to tell Domecq that it's going to be done at two-thirtyprompt," said Toro.
"What's going to be d--done?" asked Jimmy.
"What I told you about. They've cut the 'phone down to the 'llano' as astart. But that's nothing. You just go and squat by the engine and seewhat happens. Guess they'll not mind you."
To tell the truth, Jim was a trifle dazed. He didn't grapple the ins andouts of a conspiracy of Spanish miners just for the sake of a holiday.And as Toro couldn't wait (it was close on half-past two), Jim thoughthe might as well act on his advice. He liked to see the big buckets ofore swinging off into space from the mine level and making their fearfuljourney at a thrilling angle, down, down until, as mere specks, theyreached the transport and washing department of the mine in the Vega.Two empty buckets came up as two full ones went down, travelling with acertain sublimity along the double rope of woven wire.
Jim sat down at a distance. He saw one cargo get right off--no more.
Then he noticed that the men engaged at the engine were confabulating.He saw a gleam of instruments. Also he saw another full bucket hitchedon and sent down at the run. And then he saw the men furtively at workat something.
Suddenly the cable snapped, flew out, yards high!
Jim saw this--and something more. Looking instantly towards the Vega hesaw the return bucket, hundreds of feet above the level, toss asomersault as it was freed of its tension and--this was horrible!--pitcha man head-foremost into the air.
He cried out at the sight, and so did the rascals who had done theirrattening for a comparatively innocent purpose.
But when he and a dozen others had made the desperate descent of thezigzag, they found that the dead man was Domecq. Even the miners had nolove for this arch-troubler, and, in trying to avoid Don Ferdinando, thesight of whom, coming down the track, had warned him of danger, Domecqhad done the mine the best turn possible.
Toro's own warning was of course much too late.
The tragedy had a great effect. Saint Gavino was neglected after all,and it was in very humble spirits that the ringleaders of the plotconfessed their sins and agreed to suffer the consequences.
Jim by-and-by tried to tell his brother and Don Ferdinando that if onlythey had listened to him at dinner the "accident" might not havehappened. But he stammered so much again (Don Ferdinando was as stern asa headmaster) that he shut up.
"It's--it's--nothing particu--ticu--_ticular_, Mr. Summerfield!" heexplained.
Don Ferdinando was anything but depressed about Domecq's death; and Jimdidn't want to damp his spirits. Of course, if Domecq had really killedanother fellow only a few weeks ago, as was rumoured, he deserved thefate that had overtaken him.