AT TWENTY-TWO.
"A WEAVER went out to reap but stayed to unravel the corn-stalks. Ha! Ha! Ha! Is there any sense in a weaver?"
The long-drawn dispute had recommenced. Janki Meah glared at Kundoo, but, as Janki Meah was blind, Kundoo was not impressed. He had come to argue with Janki Meah, and, if chance favoured, to make love to the old man's beautiful young wife. For, as everybody knows, the blind man's wife is in God's keeping.
This was Kundoo's grievance, and he spoke in the name of all the five men who, with Janki Meah, composed the gang in No. 7 gallery of Twenty-Two. Janki Meah had been blind for the thirty years during which he had served the Jimahari Collieries with pick and crow-bar. All through those thirty years he had regularly, every morning before going down, drawn from the overseer his allowance of lamp-oil—just as though he had been an eyed miner. What Kundoo's gang resented, as hundreds of gangs had resented before, was Janki Meah's selfishness. He would not add the oil to the common stock of his gang, but would save and sell it.
"I knew these workings before you were born," Janki Meah used to reply; "I don't want the light to get my coal out by, and I am not going to help you. The oil is mine, and I intend to keep it."
A strange man in many ways was Janki Meah, the white-haired, hot-tempered, sightless weaver who had turned pitman. Every day—except on Sundays and Mondays, when he was usually drunk—he worked in the Twenty-Two shaft of the Jimahari Colliery as cleverly as a man with all the senses. At evening, he went up in the great steam-hauled cage to the pit-bank, and there called for his pony—a rusty, coal-
