CHAPTER XXV
A FIGHT WITH DEATH
Robert Sinclair seemed to be the one man who knew what to do--at least,
he seemed to be the only one who had a definite aim in view and as if by
some natural instinct everyone was just ready to do his bidding. He was
the leader of the herd towards whom everyone looked ready for a new
order to meet any new situation which might arise. Initiative and
resource were a monopoly in his hands. He was silent, and worked to get
ready to descend the old air-shaft, with grim set lips. Yet there seemed
to be no sense of bustle, only the work was done quickly and orderly,
his orders being issued as much by signs as by speech, and soon a
windlass was erected with ropes and swing chair fastened, into which he
at once leaped, followed by another man. Tools and explosives were
packed in and lamps lit and the order given to lower the chair.
Robert felt a queer sort of feeling as he stood waiting on the first
motion of the little drum round which the rope wound. He was cool and
clear brained--in fact he wondered why he was so collected. He felt he
was standing out of all this maelstrom of suffering and terror. Not that
he was impervious to anxiety for the men below, not that he was unmoved
by all that it meant to those standing round; but after that first wild
throb of terror that had clutched at his heart when his mother had told
him the dread news and that his two brothers were imprisoned in the
mine, something seemed suddenly to snap within him, the load and the
intensity of the pain lifted, and from that moment he had been master of
the situation.
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