had been faced with then, remained perfectly cool.
'I may say,' he added, 'that, speaking as one chiefly concerned with my own interests, the idea of this was not my own, but Mrs. Brodrick's. It is she you have to thank.'
More applause for Katherine, who smiled, and blushed a little, and said nothing.
'Fifty years ago today,' continued Henry, 'my grandfather John Brodrick signed the original agreement with Mr. Robert Lumley of Duncroom, for a mine to be started on Hungry Hill. The original miners were mostly Cornishmen, a few of whom are with us today as pensioners, and whose sons have carried on their work and are settled amongst us. The rest of you, if not all from Doonhaven and the neighbourhood, belong to this country, and know that our granite hills do not yield easily to pick and shovel like the chalk cliffs of other, easier lands. From the beginning my grandfather had to import gunpowder to do his work, and blast the copper out of Hungry Hill, and although today machinery and explosive are modernised, we still have to deal with the same old stubborn granite. We still have the westerly gales that prevent shipment of the cargoes to Bronsea during the winter months, and, perhaps most important of all, we still have to contend with that strange fluctuating affair known as the copper trade itself, the ups and downs of which are beyond you, and very often beyond me too, and have their origin in the varying claims and discoveries of other countries. The copper mines of Hungry Hill have had their difficulties, like every other mining concern. My grandfather had to contend with riots and floods and many other vicissitudes in his time, which, I am glad to say, have not been my portion. The troubles today are rather different-the law of supply and demand, the labour shortage, the more favourable life, on paper if not in actuality, offered many of you in America, and the fact that the deeper we go in search of our copper the more reluctant are the old granite bones of Hungry Hill to give it to us. One day, perhaps not very far distant, we shall strike for the last time and know that the best of the copper has been brought to the surface, and that what remains is not worth the cost of raising it. Until that day, my friends, I wish you good luck and God-speed, with all the thanks in my heart for your loyalty, your energy and your courage.'
And with these words Henry sat down, wondering, as the applause rang in his ears, whether his grandfather would have made the same sort of speech, or whether, in the manner of fifty years ago, he would have kept his listeners a full hour, and be damned to them if they showed signs of impatience. Griffiths, the manager, made reply for the miners, and then there were songs, and talking, and more songs; and finally, about eleven o'clock, when the air in the drying-shed was becoming thick and hazy with smoke and the company boisterous and rather over-full of ale, Henry, and Katherine, and the rest of the family slipped away, and summoned the carriages, with all the satisfaction of a good deed done.
'Well,' declared Aunt Eliza, 'I only hope those men are grateful for all Henry has done for them. But they are all the same; every kindness is taken for granted, and it was just the same in my father's time. Personally, I consider all these improvements only make them lazy. Great bits of machinery to bring the stuff up above ground, when I can remember every ounce of copper coming to the surface in a bucket.'
'You ought to have been a director,' laughed Henry; 'hard as nails, and not a penny extra to the miners. Is it true my grandfather used to flog 'em in the early days?'
'It would have done them no harm if he had,' she replied, 'and I know he quelled the riot they had in '25 by blowing several of them up with gunpowder, and quite right too. There was never any trouble afterwards.'
'It must have left a great deal of bitterness, all the same,' said Katherine.
'Stuff and nonsense! They learnt their lesson.
My father always used to say that if you once showed weakness to these people they paid you back fourfold in treachery.'
'Surely there is a middle way, between extreme hardness and foolish weakness?' said Katherine.
'What, for want of a better word, I should call understanding.'
'Don't you believe it,' said Henry. 'The people don't want to be understood, it would spoil their sense of injustice. They revel in their wrongs.
My grandfather was perfectly right. Do you think I shall get any more work out of my Doonhaven miners now I have raised their wages? Not a bit of it. 'Ah, Mr. Brodrick's gone easy,' they'll say; 'we'll take an extra half-hour for dinner, and smoke another pipe of 'baccy.'
'Did you raise the wages to get more out of them?' asked Katherine. 'I thought you did it because we agreed they were too low, and the families were suffering.'
Henry made a penitent face, and felt for her hand.
'Of course I did,' he said, 'but you know the proverb about killing two birds with one stone…
Here, what the devil is Tim up to?'
The carriage lurched suddenly, throwing Henry against his wife. There was a jerk, and a sliding of hoofs as the horses were pulled to a standstill. Tim was shouting to the animals, and the carriage rocked between the wheels. Henry flung open the door and stepped down into the road.
'It wasn't my fault, sir,' said Tim, who, white in the face, was climbing down from his seat.
'He walked right out into the centre of the road, and was under the horses before I could stop him… He must have been drunk, of course.'
He went forward to hold the horses, while Henry bent over the prone figure of the man who had stumbled in front of the carriage. The second carriage had stopped behind them, and Tom and Herbert, realising there had been an accident, came running down the road to assist them.
'What's wrong? Is anyone hurt?' asked Tom.
'Some idiot of a fellow came right out of the hedge and ran straight into us,' said Henry. 'Not Tim's fault at all. It's a mercy we were not all thrown into the ditch. Hand down the carriage lamp, Herbert, and let's see the damage.'
Together he and Tom Callaghan dragged the unfortunate man from under the carriage, and laid him out on his back in the road.
'I'm afraid his back is broken,' said Tom quietly. 'Let me loosen the collar and turn the head to the light. Henry, I think Katherine and your aunt had best get into the other carriage and drive home to Clonmere. This isn't a sight for their eyes. Herbert, will you look after them?'
'What is it? Who is it?' said Katherine, stepping down from the carriage. 'Poor fellow.
Let me help, Henry, please.'
'No, dear one, I want you to go home. Do what I tell you,' said Henry.
Katherine hesitated a moment, and then took Aunt Eliza's arm and turned back to the other carriage.
'Drive on,' called Henry, waving his hand to the groom; 'we shall follow directly.'
Edward had now joined them, and Bill Eyre.
'What a wretched business,' said Edward. 'Is the man dead?'
'I'm afraid so,' said Tom; 'the wheel seems to have passed right over his head… We had better lift him into the carriage, and take him straight away to the surgery and rouse the doctor.
The young fellow, not old Armstrong. Not that he will be able to do anything, I don't recognise the fellow, he's no one I know in Doonhaven. About forty-five, I should say, reddish hair going grey. Give us the light again.'
Once more they looked down into the face of the dead man. It was badly marked and disfigured, but even so there was something about the hair, the staring blue eyes, that awoke recognition in Henry and a flood of memories.
'Good God,' he said slowly, 'it's Jack Donovan.'
The brothers stared at one another, and old Tim, coming close to them, bent down in his turn and examined the dead man.
'You're right, sir,' he said. 'It's him sure enough. I'd heard he was home from America, but I hadn't seen him myself. And what does he do but come home and get drunk and walk straight in under my horse's feet. '?
'Is this the man you told me about once?' asked Tom quietly.
'Yes,' said Henry. 'What a wretched unfortunate business! Why the devil did he have to come back?'
'No use wondering that,' said Tom, '
'we have to get him down to the village. Who's his nearest relative? Hasn't he an aunt, Mrs.
Kelly? And I suppose that old rogue Denny Donovan, who used to keep a pub, is an uncle?'
'Yes, sir,' said Tim, 'Denny is his uncle, but the man's never sober, not much use rousing him. Denny's son, Pat Donovan, has a bit of a farm across the hill here; that's where Jack must have been staying.'
