When Murray, in a mad black rage, goes on to rave an' shout.
"You're sacked," the old man tells him plain. "I've had enough. Get out!"
For close on half a minute I expected Hell to pay;
But Murray glares around the mill—then turns an' walks away.
He stops beside the loaded truck; an' each man in the mill
Watched Murray with a sidelong look; an' each man wished him ill.
I knew Ben Murray for a gab; I knew him for a fool—
A decent man enough at heart when he was calm an' cool—
Wild rage had hold on him that day, an', maybe, madness too;
An' scorn in me changed to dismay at what I saw him do.
He sprang behind the timber load an' leaped up at the back ;
He loosed the rope to start the truck upon the down-hill track;
An' if he meant to jump or stay no man will ever know.
"If I go out," Ben Murray yelled, "this is the way I go!"
"Stop that mad fool!" howled old man Blair. "He'll wreck the track below!"
But now the truck had gathered way, an', as we watched her go,
Ben Murray, with the brake-rope slack, cursed us with all his might.
She took the curve behind the huts, an' then went out of sight.
••••••
