He snatched the coat from his back, glanced at it, threw it from him and flew back to the tunnel.

He sought the spot where the coat had lain--he had to look close, for the light was waning--then to make sure, he put his hand to the ground and a little stream of water swept against his fingers: "Thank God, I've struck it at last!" He lit a candle and ran into the tunnel; he picked up a piece of rubbish cast out by the last blast, and said: "This clayey stuff is what I've longed for--I know what is behind it." He swung his pick with hearty good will till long after the darkness had gathered upon the earth, and when he trudged home at length he knew he had a coal vein and that it was seven feet thick from wall to wall.
He found a yellow envelope lying on his rickety table, and recognized that it was of a family sacred to the transmission of telegrams.
He opened it, read it, crushed it in his hand and threw it down.

It simply said: "Ruth is very ill.".