He was a man about thirty-five, tall, bony and angular; his
neck was long and thin, and his head seemed always on the point of
turning to allow him to look over his shoulder. His right eye was half
closed, while his left eye looked big and saucer-like, and never seemed
to wink; one eye was ready to laugh and the other to "greet," as his
comrades described it. He had been badly disfigured in a burning
accident in the pit when he was a young man, and a broken nose added
still more to the strangeness of his appearance. Andrew, on the other
hand, was stout and broadly built, with a bushy whisker on each cheek,
and a clump of tufty hair on his head.
"What do ye mak' o' that, Andrew?" enquired Peter, after a few minutes,
as he again spat savagely at the stoop-side.
"What do I mak' o't?" echoed Andrew, as he glowered across the little
bing of dross at his mate, "it's just in keepin' wi' the rest o' his
dirty doin's, the dirty black brute that he is!"
"I wonder what's wrong wi' him?" mused Peter as he sucked quietly at his
snoring pipe. But there was no answer from Andrew, who was sitting
silent and glum, gazing at his little lamp.
"What are ye goin' to do about it, then?" broke in Peter again.
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