The sense of locality
must be singularly in abeyance in the case of Ronalds.
That same evening, supper comfortably over, Joe Strong busy at work
on a drawing of the dump and the opposite hills, we were all out on
the platform together, sitting there, under the tented heavens,
with the same sense of privacy as if we had been cabined in a
parlour, when the sound of brisk footsteps came mounting up the
path. We pricked our ears at this, for the tread seemed lighter
and firmer than was usual with our country neighbours. And
presently, sure enough, two town gentlemen, with cigars and kid
gloves, came debauching past the house. They looked in that place
like a blasphemy.
"Good evening," they said. For none of us had stirred; we all sat
stiff with wonder.
"Good evening," I returned; and then, to put them at their ease, "A
stiff climb," I added.
"Yes," replied the leader; "but we have to thank you for this
path."
I did not like the man's tone. None of us liked it. He did not
seem embarrassed by the meeting, but threw us his remarks like
favours, and strode magisterially by us towards the shaft and
tunnel.
Presently we heard his voice raised to his companion. "We drifted
every sort of way, but couldn't strike the ledge." Then again:
"It pinched out here." And once more: "Every minor that ever
worked upon it says there's bound to be a ledge somewhere.
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