The next day, toward evening, he asked Hope to light his own lamp, and come and look at the wall of the tank.
"Not without me," whispered Grace.

"I see him cast looks of hatred at you." They went together, and Burnley bade Hope observe that the water was trickling through in places, a drop at a time; it could not penetrate the coaly veins, nor the streaks of clay, but it oozed through the porous strata, certain strips of blackish earth in particular, and it trickled down, a drop at a time.

Hope looked at this feature with anxiety, for he was a man of science, and knew by the fate of banked reservoirs, great and small, the strange explosive power of a little water driven through strata by a great body pressing behind it.
"You'll see, it will brust itsen," said Burnley, exultantly, "and the sooner the better for me; for I'll never get alive out on t' mine; yow blowed me to the men, and they'll break every bone in my skin." Hope did not answer this directly.
"There, don't go to meet trouble, my man," said he.

"Give me the can, Grace.

Now, Burnley, hold this can, and catch every drop till it is full." "Why, it will take hauf a day to fill it," objected Burnley, "and it will be hauf mud when all is done." "I'll filter it," said Hope.