Deep Down, a Tale of the Cornish Mines

by R. M. Ballantyne

  CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

  EXHIBITS THE MANAGING DIRECTOR AND THE SECRETARY OF WHEAL DOOEM INCONFIDENTIAL CIRCUMSTANCES, AND INTRODUCES THE SUBJECT OF "LOCALS."

  About this time that energetic promoter of mining operations, Mr GeorgeAugustus Clearemout, found it necessary to revisit Cornwall.

  He was seated in an easy-chair in a snug little back-office, orboard-room, in one of the airiest little streets of the City of London,when this necessity became apparent to him. Mr Clearemout did notappear to have much to do at that particular time, for he contentedhimself with tapping the arm of his easy-chair with the knuckles of hisright hand, while he twirled his gold watch-key with his left, andsmiled occasionally.

  To judge from appearances it seemed that things in general wereprospering with George Augustus. Everything about him was new, and, wemight almost say, gorgeous. His coat and vest and pantaloons had a lookand a cut about them that told of an extremely fashionable tailor, and acorrespondingly fashionable price. His rings, of which he wore several,were massive, one of them being a diamond ring of considerable value.His boots were faultlessly made, quite new, and polished so highly thatit dazzled one to look at them, while his linen, of which he displayed alarge quantity on the breast, was as white as snow--not London snow, ofcourse! Altogether Mr G.A. Clearemout was a most imposing personage.

  "Come in," he said, in a voice that sounded like the deep soft whisperof a trombone.

  The individual who had occasioned the command by tapping at the door,opened it just enough to admit his head, which he thrust into the room.It was a shaggy red head belonging to a lad of apparently eighteen; itschief characteristics being a prolonged nose and a retracted chin, witha gash for a mouth, and two blue holes for eyes.

  "Please, sir, Mr Muddle," said the youth.

  "Admit Mr Muddle."

  The head disappeared, and immediately after a gentleman sauntered intothe room, and flung himself lazily into the empty armchair which stoodat the fireplace _vis-a-vis_ to the one in which Mr Clearemout sat,explaining that he would not have been so ceremonious had he not fanciedthat his friend was engaged with some one on business.

  "How are you, Jack?" said George Augustus.

  "Pretty bobbish," replied Jack. (He was the same Jack whom we havealready introduced as being Mr Clearemout's friend and kindred spirit.)

  "Any news?" inquired Mr Clearemout.

  "No, nothing moving," said Jack languidly.

  "H'm, I see it is time to stir now, Jack, for the wheel of fortune isapt to get stiff and creaky if we don't grease her now and then and giveher a jog. Here is a little pot of grease which I have been concoctingand intend to lay on immediately."

  He took a slip of paper from a large pocket-book which lay at his elbowon the new green cloth-covered table, and handed it to his friend, whoslowly opened and read it in a slovenly way, mumbling the most of it ashe went on:--

  "`WHEAL DOOEM, in St. Just, Cornwall--mumble--m--m--in 10,000 shares.An old mine, m--m--every reason to believe--m--m--splendid lodes visiblefrom--m--m. Depth of Adit fifty fathoms--m--depth below Adit ninetyfathoms. Pumps, whims, engines, etcetera, in good working order--m--little expense--Landowners, Messrs.--m--Manager at the Mine, CaptainTrembleforem--m--thirteen men, four females, and two boys--m--water--wheels--stamps--m--Managing Director, George Augustus Clearemout,Esquire, 99 New Gull Street, London--m--Secretary, John Muddle,Esquire--ahem--'"

  "But, I say, it won't do to publish anything of this sort just yet, youknow," said Secretary Jack in a remonstrative tone, "for there's nothingdoing at all, I believe."

  "I beg your pardon," replied the managing director, "there is a gooddeal doing. I have written to St. Just appointing the local manager,and it is probable that things are really under way by this time;besides, I shall set out for Cornwall to-morrow to superintend matters,leaving my able secretary in charge here in the meantime, and when hehears from me this paper may be completed and advertised."

  "I say, it looks awful real-like, don't it?" said Jack, with a grin."Only fancy if it should turn out to be a good mine after all--what alark _that_ would be! and it might, you know, for it _was_ a real oneonce, wasn't it? And if you set a few fellows to sink thewhat-d'ye-call-'ems and drive the thingumbobs, it is possible they maycome upon tin and copper, or something of that sort--wouldn't it bejolly?"

  "Of course it would, and that is the very thing that gives zest to it.It's a speculation, not a swindle by any means, and admirably suits oureasy consciences. But, I say, Jack, you _must_ break yourself offtalking slang. It will never do to have the secretary of the GreatWheal Dooem Mining Company talk like a street boy. Besides, I hateslang even in a blackguard--not to mention a black-leg--so you must giveit up, Jack, you really must, else you'll ruin the concern at the verybeginning."

  Secretary Jack started into animation at this.

  "Why, George," he said, drawing himself up, "I can throw it off when Iplease. Look here--suppose yourself an inquiring speculator--ahem! Iassure you, sir, that the prospects of this mine are most brilliant, andthe discoveries that have been made in it since we commenced operationsare incredible--absolutely incredible, sir. Some of the lodes (that'sthe word, isn't it?) are immensely rich, and upwards of a hundred feetthick, while the part that runs under the sea, or _is_ to run under thesea, at a depth of three thousand fathoms, is probably as rich in copperore as the celebrated Botallack, whose majestic headland, bristling withmachinery, overhangs the raging billows of the wide Atlantic, etcetera,etcetera. O George, it's a great lark entirely!"

  "You'll have to learn your lesson a little better, else you'll make agreat mess of it," said Clearemout.

  "A muddle of it--according to my name and destiny, George," said thesecretary; "a muddle of it, and a fortune _by_ it."

  Here the secretary threw himself back in the easy-chair, and grinned atthe opposite wall, where his eye fell on a large picture, which changedthe grin into a stare of surprise.

  "What have we here, George," he said, rising, and fitting a gold glassin his eye--"not a portrait of Wheal Dooem, is it?"

  "You have guessed right," replied the other. "I made a few sketches onthe spot, and got a celebrated artist to put them together, which he hasdone, you see, with considerable effect. Here, in the foreground, youobserve," continued the managing director, taking up a new whitepointer, "stands Wheal Dooem, on a prominent crag overlooking theAtlantic, with Gurnard's Head just beyond. Farther over, we have thecelebrated Levant Mine, and the famous Botallack, and the great WhealOwles, and a crowd of other more or less noted mines, with CapeCornwall, and the Land's End, and Tolpedenpenwith in themiddle-distance, and the celebrated Logan Rock behind them, while wehave Mounts Bay, with the beautiful town of Penzance, and St. Michael'sMount, and the Lizard in the background, with France in the remotedistance."

  "Dear, _dear_ me! quite a geographical study, I declare," exclaimedSecretary Jack, examining the painting with some care. "Can you reallysee all these places at once from Wheal Dooem?"

  "Not exactly from Wheal Dooem, Jack, but if you were to go up in aballoon a few hundred yards above the spot where it stands, you mightsee 'em all on a very clear day, if your eyes were good. The fact is,that I regard this picture as a triumph of art, exhibiting powerfullywhat is by artists termed `bringing together' and great `breadth,'united with exceedingly minute detail. The colouring too, is high--veryhigh indeed, and the _chiaroscuro_ is perfect--"

  "Ha!" interposed Jack, "all the _chiar_ being on the surface, and the_oscuro_ down in the mine, eh?"

  "Exactly so," replied Clearemout. "It is a splendid picture. Theartist regards it as his _chef_ _d'oeuvre_, and you must explain it toall who come to the office, as well as those magnificent geologicalsections rolled-up in the corner, which it would be well, by the way, tohave hung up without delay. They arrived only this morning. And now,Jack, having explained these matters, I will leave you, to study them atyour leisure, while I prepare for my journey to Cornwall, where, by theway, I have my
eye upon a sweet little girl, whose uncle, I believe, haslots of tin, both in the real and figurative sense of the word.Something may come of it--who knows?"

  Next morning saw the managing director on the road, and in due time hefound his way by coach, kittereen, and gig to St. Just, where, asbefore, he was hospitably received by old Mr Donnithorne.

  That gentleman's buoyancy of spirit, however, was not quite so great asit had been a few months before, but that did not much affect thespirits of Clearemout, who found good Mrs Donnithorne as motherly, andRose Ellis as sweet, as ever.

  It happened at this time that Oliver Trembath had occasion to go toLondon about some matter relating to his deceased mother's affairs, sothe managing director had the field all to himself. He therefore spenthis time agreeably in looking after the affairs of Wheal Dooem duringthe day, and making love to Rose Ellis in the evening.

  Poor Rose was by no means a flirt, but she was an innocent,straightforward girl, ignorant of many of the world's ways, and of atrusting disposition. She found the conversation of Mr Clearemoutagreeable, and did not attempt to conceal the fact. Mr Clearemout'svanity induced him to set this down to a tender feeling, although Rosenever consciously gave him, by word or look, the slightest reason tocome to such a conclusion.

  One forenoon Mr Clearemout was sitting in Mr Donnithorne's dining-roomconversing with Rose and Mrs Donnithorne, when the old gentlemanentered and sat down beside them.

  "I had almost forgotten the original object of my visit this morning,"said the managing director, with a smile, and a glance at Rose; "thefact is that I am in want of a man to work at Wheal Dooem, a steady,trustworthy man, who would be fit to take charge--become a sort ofoverseer; can you recommend one?"

  Mr Donnithorne paused for a moment to reflect, but Mrs Donnithornedeeming reflection quite unnecessary, at once replied,--"Why, there aremany such men in St. Just. There's John Cock, as good a man as youcould find in all the parish, and David Trevarrow, and James Penrose--he's a first-rate man; You remember him, my dear?" (turning to herworse half)--"one of our locals, you know."

  "Yes, my dear, I remember him perfectly.--You could not, Mr Clearemout,get a better man, I should say."

  "I think you observed, madam," said Mr Clearemout, "that this man is a`local.' Pray, what is a local?"

  Rose gave one of her little laughs at this point, and her worthy auntexclaimed,--"La! Mr Clearemout, don't you know what a local preacheris?"

  "Oh! a _preacher_? Connected with the Methodist body, I presume?"

  "Yes, and a first-rate man, I assure you."

  "But," said Mr Clearemout, with a smile, "I want a miner, not apreacher."

  "Well, he is a miner, and a good one too--"

  "Allow _me_ to explain, my dear," said Mr Donnithorne, interrupting hisspouse. "You may not be aware, sir, that many of our miners are men ofconsiderable mental ability, and some of them possess such power ofspeech, and so earnest a spirit, that the Wesleyan body have appointedthem to the office of local preaching. They do not become ministers,however, nor are they liable to be sent out of the district like them.They don't give up their ordinary calling, but are appointed to preachin the various chapels of the district in which they reside, and thus weaccomplish an amount of work which could not possibly be overtaken bythe ordinary ministry."

  "Indeed! but are they not untrained men, liable to teach erroneousdoctrine?" asked Mr Clearemout.

  "They are not altogether untrained men," replied Mr Donnithorne. "Theyare subjected to a searching examination, and must give full proof oftheir Christianity, knowledge, and ability before being appointed."

  "And good, excellent Christian men many of them are," observed MrsDonnithorne, with much fervour.

  "Quite true," said her husband. "This James Penrose is one of our bestlocal preachers, and sometimes officiates in our principal chapel. Iconfess, however, that those who have the management of this matter arenot always very judicious in their appointments. Some of our young menare sorely tempted to show off their acquirements, and preach_themselves_ instead of the gospel, and there are one or two whom Icould mention whose hearts are all right, but whose brains are somuddled and empty that they are utterly unfit to teach their fellows.We must not, however, look for perfection in this world, Mr Clearemout.A little chaff will always remain among the wheat. There is no systemwithout some imperfection, and I am convinced that upon the whole oursystem of appointing local preachers is a first-rate one. At all eventsit works well, which is one of the best proofs of its excellence."

  "Perhaps so," said Mr Clearemout, with the air of a man who did notchoose to express an opinion on the subject; "nevertheless I had ratherhave a man who was _not_ a local preacher."

  "You can see and hear him, and judge for yourself," said MrDonnithorne; "for he is, I believe, to preach in our chapel to-morrow,and if you will accept of a seat in our pew it will afford my wife andmyself much--"

  "Thank you," interrupted Mr Clearemout; "I shall be very glad to takeadvantage of your kind offer. Service, you say, begins at--"

  "Ten precisely," said Mr Donnithorne.