But she had thought it was because in the desperation
of his complete revolt from Martin's domination anything else
seemed to him preferable. Now, in a lightning flash, she
understood. This reaction from a life whose duties had begun
before sun-up and ended long after sundown, made danger seem as
nothing in comparison with the marvellous chance to earn a
comfortable living with only one hour's work a day.
Her conversation with Bill proved that she had been only too
right. The boy was intoxicated with his own liberty. "I know I
ought to have told you, mother," he confessed. "I wanted to.
Honest, I did, but I was afraid you'd worry, though you needn't.
The man who taught me how to fire has been doing it over twenty
years. A lot of it's up to a fellow, himself. You can pretty near
tell if the air is all right by the way it blows--the less the
better it is. And if you're right careful to see that the
tool-boxes the boys leave are all locked--so's no powder can
catch, you know--and always start lighting against the air, so
that if there's gas and it catches the fire'll blow away from you
instead of following you up--and if you examine the fuses to see
they're long enough and the powder is tamped in just right--each
miner does that before he leaves and lots of firers just give 'em
a hasty once-over instead of a real look--and then shake your
heels good and fast after you do fire--"
"Billy!" Rose was white.
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