“Ain’t much more of the low top. Set down a few minutes, then you won’t feel that way.”
They sat down, she panting and convulsively straightening her aching back. He didn’t look at her. But he was thoroughly aware of her now — of every detail of her slim shape, of those places where her dress was torn, of the heady, sweetly sensuous scent that hung about her. Presently they went on. The top lifted, and he turned again. She gasped at what she saw.
A dead entry is indeed a terrifying spectacle, and could serve as a chamber in some horrible inferno. Untended by man, the top erodes from the air and forms great blisters, like the blisters on paint, except that each blister is five or six feet across and five or six inches thick. The blisters then crack and fall, piece by piece, to the floor, which is thus covered with jagged shards of stone that look like gigantic shark teeth. Add that one touch can bring a blister crashing down; that the fragments underfoot can cut through the thickest shoe; that wiring, timber, rails, and all other signs of human activity have long since been removed; and that in fact nothing human ever comes here — and you can form some idea of what the abandoned parts of a coal mine are like. They proceeded slowly, hugging the wall, he ahead, she at his heels, holding tight to his denim jacket. Then they turned into another, worse than this, and then into still another. They had gone only a short distance in this when there was a report like a cannon shot and the lamp went out. She screamed.
“It’s all right. Some top fell down, that’s all. Stick close to the rib, like I do. It generally falls in the middle.”
“Is the lamp busted? Why did it go out?”
“Air. Concussion blew it out.”
“Please light it. The dark scares me so.”
“Sure.”
He had, in fact, already unhooked the lamp from his hat and was banging the flint with the palm of his hand. Sparks appeared, but no light. She moaned: “I knew it was busted.”
“It ain’t busted. Carbide needs water, that’s all.”
He opened his lunch bucket, to pour in water. Then he remembered he had drunk all his water. He waited, hoping a few drops might still be left. Nothing happened.
He closed the bucket, set it down, puckered his lips, preparatory to priming the lamp with spit. Then his mouth went dry with fright and he couldn’t spit. For what he had touched, when he set down the bucket, was a hand, cold and unmoving. She felt his breath stop. “What’s the matter?”
“We took the wrong turn.”
“Are we lost?”
“No, we ain’t lost. But we’re in the haunted entry.”
“The—”
He placed her hand over the cold thing he had touched. She screamed, and screamed again. “That’s the stone — the stone they put up for him because they couldn’t get him out. With the hand chiseled on it, holding a palm. And he’s in there, and he keeps tamping his powder.”
“I don’t hear nothing,” she whispered.
“You will... He tamped in his powder, and lit his fuse, and started out here to wait for the shot. Then the whole room caved in. And he keeps going back there to see why it don’t go off, and then he tamps in his powder again, and—”
“I still don’t hear—”
But her words froze in her throat, for off in the rock somewhere began a faint clink, clink, clink. Then it stopped. “That’s it — that’s the needle. Now comes the tamping iron.” The sound resumed, reached a brisk crescendo, and stopped again. “Now he’s coming out! Now he’s coming this way! And we can’t move; we got no light!”
They were crouched on the floor now, locked in each other’s arms, in an ecstasy of terror. Several times the sound was repeated, and they strained closer as they listened and waited. But fear is a peculiar emotion: it cannot be sustained indefinitely at the same high pitch. In spite of his horror of the ghost, he gradually became aware that there was something distinctly pleasurable about this: lying in the dark with this girl in his arms, shuddering in unison with her, mingling his breath with hers; indeed, with an almost exquisite agony he began to look forward to each repetition of the sound. He thought of her flesh again, and in a moment his hand was touching her side, patting the torn place in her dress, as though this were what the circumstances called for. She didn’t seem to mind. On the contrary, his thick paw apparently soothed her; so that she relaxed slightly, and put her head on his shoulder, and sighed. He patted and patted again, and each time the sound would resume they would draw together.
Suddenly, though, she sat up, listened, and turned to him. “That ain’t no miner.”
“Oh, yes, it is. He—”
“That ain’t no miner. That’s water. I can tell by how it sounds.”
“Gee, if we could only get some! But I can’t even start the lamp. I’m scared so bad I can’t spit.”
“Give me that lamp. I can spit.”
She took the lamp, and he heard it hiss from plenty of good wet spit. He struck the flint, and flame punctured the darkness. “We got to hurry. That won’t last long.”
“Keep still, so I can hear.”
He held the light, and she crawled on her hands and knees, cocking her head now and then to listen. The flame grew smaller and smaller. Suddenly she thrust her hand under a slab of rock. “There it is.”
“You sure?”
“Give me the bucket.”
She took the bucket and thrust it under, and at once came the loud clank of water on tin. They looked at each other, and he spoke breathlessly: “That’s it! That’s how it sounded, only now it’s in the bucket.” The lamp went out, and they waited in the dark while there came a few drops, then a pause, then a few more drops, then the rapid staccato of a full trickle, then a long pause, then the separate drops again. After a long time she shook the bucket, and they heard the water slosh. “That’s enough. That’ll get us out.”
They poured water in the lamp, struck the flint, and a fine big flame spurted out. They were off at once. They went through more dead entries, then came to where the going was better. He laughed — a high nervous giggle. “Ain’t that a joke? Won’t them miners feel silly when I tell them that haunt ain’t nothing but water?”
“It come to me, just like that, that them was drops.”
“And think of that — that was why they stopped working that coal. That’s why the company had to close down them entries. Not no miner would work in there.”
“Gee, that’s funny.”
When, still laughing at this, they popped suddenly on to the old drift mouth, it was nearly dark outside, and snowing. They said stiff good-byes; she thanked him for helping her out, and promised to protect him in his guilty secret. She started down the mountain toward the part of the camp where she lived. He watched her a moment, and then something rose in his throat, an overwhelming recollection — of a naked patch of flesh, lovely smell, and brave, hissing spit.
He called in a queer strained voice: “Yay!”
“What?”
“Come back here a minute.”
She ran back and stood in front of him. He wanted to say something; didn’t know what it was; then heard himself talking, in the same queer voice, about his hope there was no hard feelings about what he had said, back there in the mine, before they started out. She didn’t answer. She kept looking at him. And then, to his astonishment, she came up and put her arms around him. Then he said it. He pulled her to him, pushed his lips against hers for the first time, and the words came jerkily: “Listen... The hell with going home... Let’s not go home... Let’s get married... Let’s... be together.”
She stayed near him, touched his face with her fingers, then looked away. “We can’t get married.”