The Underworld The Story of Robert Sinclair, Miner / Welsh, James C.

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Title: The Underworld
       The Story of Robert Sinclair, Miner


Author: James C. Welsh

Release Date: March 30, 2005  [eBook #15503]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII)


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THE UNDERWORLD

The Story of Robert Sinclair, Miner

by

JAMES C. WELSH

New York
Frederick A. Stokes Company
Publishers

1920







PREFACE


I have tried to write of the life I know, the life I have lived, and of
the lives of the people whom, above all others, I love, and of whom I am
so proud.

My people have been miners for generations, and I myself became a miner
at the age of twelve. I have worked since then in the mine at every
phase of coal getting until about five years ago, when my fellow workers
made me their checkweigher.

I say this that those who read my book may know that the things of which
I write are the things of which I have firsthand knowledge.

  JAMES C. WELSH.
  DOUGLAS WATER,
  LANARK.




CONTENTS


  CHAPTER

      I. THE THONG OF POVERTY

     II. A TURN OF THE SCREW

    III. THE BLOCK

     IV. A YOUNG REBEL

      V. BLACK JOCK'S THREAT

     VI. THE COMING OF A PROPHET

    VII. ON THE PIT-HEAD

   VIII. THE MANTLE OF MANHOOD

     IX. THE ACCIDENT

      X. HEROES OF THE UNDERWORLD

     XI. THE STRIKE

    XII. THE RIVALS

   XIII. THE RED HOSE RACE

    XIV. THE AWAKENING

     XV. PETER MAKES A DECISION

    XVI. A STIR IN LOWWOOD

   XVII. MYSIE RUNS AWAY

  XVIII. MAG ROBERTSON'S FRENZY

    XIX. BLACK JOCK'S END

     XX. THE CONFERENCE

    XXI. THE MEETING WITH MYSIE

   XXII. MYSIE'S RETURN

  XXIII. HOME

   XXIV. A CALL FOR HELP

    XXV. A FIGHT WITH DEATH





CHAPTER I

THE THONG OF POVERTY


"Is it not about time you came to your bed, lassie?"

"Ay, I'll no' be very long now, Geordie. If I had this heel turned, I'll
soon finish the sock, and that will be a pair the day. Is the pain in
your back worse the nicht, that you are so restless?" and the clicking
of the needles ceased as the woman asked the question.

"Oh, I'm no' so bad at all," came the answer. "My back's maybe a wee bit
sore; but a body gets tired lying always in the yin position. Forby, the
day aye seems long when you are out, and I dinna like to think of you
out working all day, and then sitting down to knit at nicht. It must be
very tiring for you, Nellie."

"Oh, I'm no' that tired," she replied with a show of cheerfulness, as
she turned another wire in the sock, and set the balls of wool dancing
on the floor with the speed at which she worked. "I've had a real good
day to-day, and I'm feeling that I could just sit for a lang while the
nicht, if only the paraffin oil wadna' go down so quick. But the longer
I sit, it burns the more, and it's getting gey dear to buy now-a-days."

"Ay," said the weary voice of the man. "If it's no' clegs it's midges.
Folk have always something to contend against. But don't be long till
you stop. It's almost twelve o'clock, and you ought to be in your bed."

"Oh, I'll no' be very long, Geordie," was the bravely cheerful answer.
"Just you try and gang to sleep and I'll soon finish up. I'll have to
try and get up early in the morning, for I have to go to Mrs. Rundell
and wash. She always gi'es me twa shillings, and that's a good day's
pay. The only thing I grudge is being away all day, leaving you and the
bairns, for I ken they're no' very easy to put up with. They're steerin'
weans, and are no' easy on a body who is ill."

"Ay, they're a steerin' lot, lassie," he answered tenderly. "But, poor
things, they must hae some freedom, Nellie. I wish I was ready for my
work."

"Hoot, man," she said with the same show of cheerfulness. "We might have
been worse, and you will be better some day, and able to work as well as
ever you did."

For a time there was silence, broken only by the loud ticking of the
clock, the clicking of the needles, and occasionally a low moan from the
bed, as the injured miner sank into a restless sleep.

There had been an accident some six weeks before, and Geordie Sinclair,
badly wounded by a fall of stone, had been brought home from the pit in
a cart.

It was during the time known to old miners as the "two-and-sixpenny
winter," that being the sum of the daily wage then earned by the miners.
A financial crisis had come upon the country and the Glasgow City Bank
had failed, trade was dull, and the whole industrial system was in
chaos. It had been a hard time for Geordie Sinclair's wife, for there
were four children to provide for besides her injured husband. Work
which was well paid for was not over plentiful, and she had to toil from
early morning till far into the night to earn the bare necessities of
life. There were times like to-night, when she felt rebellious and
bitter at her plight, but her tired eyes and fingers had to get to the
end of the task, for that meant bread for the children in the morning.

The silence deepened in the little kitchen. No sound came now from the
bed, and the lamp threw eerie shadows on the walls, and the chimney
smoked incessantly.

Her eyes grew watery and smarted with the smoke. She dropped stitches
occasionally, as she hurried with her work, which had to be lifted again
when she discovered that the pattern was wrong, and sometimes quite a
considerable part had to be "ripped out," so that she could correct the
mistake.

The dismal calling of a cat outside irritated her, and the loud
complacent ticking of the clock seemed to mock her misery; but still she
worked on, the busy fingers turning the needles, as the wool unwound
itself from the balls which danced upon the floor. There was life in
those balls of wool as they spun to the tune of the woman's misery. They
advanced and retired, like dancers, touching hands when they met, then
whirling away in opposite directions again; they side-stepped and
wheeled in a mad riot of joyous color, just as they were about to meet:
they stood for a little facing each other, feinting from side to side,
then were off again, as the music of her misery quickened, in an
embracing whirl, as if married in an ecstasy of colored flame,
many-shaded, yet one; then, at last, just as the tune seemed to have
reached a crescendo of spirit, she dashed her work upon the floor, as
she discovered another blunder, and burst into a fit of passionate
weeping.

Suddenly there was a faint tap at the window, and she raised her head,
staying her breath to listen. Soon she heard it again, just a faint but
very deliberate tap, which convinced her that someone was outside in the
darkness. Softly she stole on tiptoe across the room, so as not to
disturb her sleeping husband, and opening the door quietly, craned
forward and peered into the darkness to discover the cause of the tap.

"It's just me," said a deep voice, in uneasy accents, from the darkness
by the window, and she saw then the form of a man edging nearer the
door.

"And who are you?" she asked a little nervously, but trying to master
the alarm in her voice.

"Do you not ken me?" replied the voice with an attempt to speak as
naturally as possible; yet there was something in the tone that made her
more uneasy.

Then the figure of the man drew nearer, and he whispered "Are they all
sleeping?" alluding to the inmates of the house.

"Ay," she answered, drawing back into the shelter of the doorway. "Why
do you ask? And what is it you want?"

"Oh, I just came along to see how you were all getting on," was the
reply. "I ken you must be in very straitened circumstances by this time,
and thought I might be able to help you a bit," and there was an
ingratiating tone in the words now as he sidled nearer. "You must have a
very hard battle just now, and I would like to do something to help
you."

"Come away in," said the woman, with still an uneasy tremor in her
voice, yet feeling more assured. "Geordie is sleeping, but he'll not be
hard to waken up. Come away in, and let us see who you are, and tell us
what you really want."

"No, I'm no' coming in," he whispered hoarsely. "Do you no' ken me? Shut
the door and not let any of them hear. I'm wanting you!" and he stepped
into the light and reached forward his hand, as if to draw her to him.

Mrs. Sinclair gasped and recoiled in horror, as she recognized who it
was that stood before her.

"No," she cried decisively, stepping further back into the shelter of
the house, her voice low and intense with indignation. "No, I have not
come to that yet, thank God. Gang home, you dirty brute, that you are!
I'll be very ill off when I ask anything, or take anything, from you,
Jock Walker!" For it was well known in Lowwood that Jock Walker's
errands to people in distress had always in them an ulterior motive.

He was the under manager at the pits, and his reputation was of the
blackest. There were men in the village of Lowwood who were well aware
of this man's relations with their wives, and they openly agreed to the
sale of the honor of their women folk in return for what he gave them in
the shape of contracts, at which they could make more money than their
neighbors, or good "places," where the coal was easier won. In fact, to
be a contractor was a synonym for this sort of dealing, for no one ever
got a contract from Walker unless his wife, or his daughter, was a woman
of easy virtue, and at the service of this man.

"Very well," replied Walker with chagrined anger. "Please yourself. But
let me tell you that you'll maybe no' ay be so high and mighty; you'll
maybe be dam'd glad yet of the chance that I have given you."

"No, no," protested Mrs. Sinclair. "Go away--"

"Look here, Nellie," he said, his voice changing to a low pleading tone,
"you're in a hole. You must be. Be a sensible woman, and you'll never
need to be so ill-grippet again. I can put Geordie in a position that
he'll make any amount of money as soon as he is able to start. You are
not a bit better than anyone else, and for the sake of your bairns you
should be sensible. And forby," he went on, as if now more sure of his
ground, "what the hell's wrang in it? It's no' what folk do that is
wrong. It's in being found out. Now come away and be sensible. You ken
what is wanted, and you ken that I can make you well off for it."

"No, by heavens," she cried, now tingling with anger at the insult.
"Never! Get out of this, you brute! If Geordie Sinclair had been able
this nicht, I'd have got him to deal with you. Get out of here, or I'll
cleave your rotten body, and let out your rotten heart." And she turned
in, and closed and bolted the door, leaving Walker fuming with anger at
the repulse of his advances. Nellie Sinclair had never felt so outraged
in all her life before. She was trembling with anger at the insult of
his proposals. She paced the floor in her stockinged feet, as if a wild
spirit were raging within her demanding release; then finally she flung
herself into the "big chair," disgust and anger in her heart, and for
the second time that night burst into a passionate fit of weeping, which
seemed to shake her body almost asunder. For a long time she sat thus,
sobbing, her whole being burning with indignation, and her mind in a
fury of disgust and rebellion.

Then there was a faint stirring in the bed where the children slept, and
a little boy's form began to crawl from amongst the rough bedclothes,
his eyes gazing in amazement at the bowed figure of his mother. She was
crying, he concluded, for her shoulders were heaving and it must be
something very bad that made his beautiful mother cry like this. He
crept across the bare wooden floor, his bare sturdy legs showing beneath
the short and meager shirt, and was soon at her side.

"What's wrang wi' you, mother?" he asked, as he put his soft little
hand upon her head. "What's wrang wi' you? Will I kiss you held and make
it better?" But his mother did not look up--only the big sobs continued
to shake her, and the boy becoming alarmed at this, also began to cry,
as he placed his little head against hers. "Oh, mother, dinna greet," he
sobbed, "and I'll kiss your heid till it's better."

At last she lifted her head, and seeing the naked boy, she caught him in
her arms and crushed him to her breast, as if she would smother him.
This was strange conduct for his usually undemonstrative mother; but it
was nice to be hugged like that, even though she did cry.

"What made you greet, mother?" he queried, for he had never before, in
all his four years, seen his mother cry. For answer she merely caught
him closer to her breast, her hair falling soft and warm all over him as
she did so.

"Was you hungry, mither?" he tried again.

"No' very," she answered, choking back her sobs.

"Are you often hungry, too, mither?" he persisted, feeling encouraged at
getting an answer at last.

"Sometimes," she replied. "But dinna bother me, Rob," she continued.
"Gang away to your bed like a man."

He was silent for a time at this repulse, and lay upon her knee puzzling
over the matter.

"Do you greet when you are hungry?" he enquired, with: wide-eyed
earnestness and surprise.

"There noo," she answered, "don't ask so many questions, Daddy'll not be
long till he is better again, and when he is at work there'll be plenty
of pieces to keep us all from being hungry."

"And will there be jeely for the pieces?" pursued the boy, for it seemed
to him that there had never been a time when there was plenty to eat.

"Yes, we'll get plenty o' jeely too," she replied, drying the remaining
tears from her eyes, and hugging him again to her breast.

"Oh, my," he said, with a deep sigh. "I wish my father was better!" and
the little lips were moistened by his tongue, as if in anticipation of
the coming feast.

Another silence; and then came the query--"What way do we not get plenty
o' pieces when my daddy's no' working? Does folk no' get them then?"

"No, Robin," she answered, "but dinna fash your wee noddle with that.
You'll find out all about it when you get big. Shut your eyes and
mother'll sing, an' you'll go to sleep." And he snuggled in and shut his
eyes, while Mrs. Sinclair gathered him softly to her breast and began to
croon an old ballad.

As she sang it seemed to the boy that there were no such things as
"jelly-pieces" to bother about. He liked his mother to sing to him, for
he seemed to get rolled up in her soft, warm voice, and become restful
and happy. Gradually the low crooning song grew fainter in his ears, the
flicker of the fire danced further and further away, until long streaks
of golden thready light seemed to reach out, straight from his eyes to
the fireplace, and all the comfort that it was possible to have flowed
through his soul, and at last he slept. Mrs. Sinclair placed him beside
his brothers and sisters in the bed and went back to finish her
knitting. The night was far gone before she accomplished her task, and
she stood and surveyed her humble home with weariness in her heart.

Through the dim smoke which hung like a blue cloud along the roof, and
made more seemingly thick by the small lamp upon the table, she looked
at her husband lying asleep, and so far free from pain. Then her eyes
traveled to the children in the other bed, and they filled with tears as
she thought that she had had to put them supperless to bed that night,
and again rebellion surged through her blood as she thought of all the
misery of her life. Was it worth living and going on in this way? Was it
worth while to continue? What had she done to reap all this suffering?

She was hungry and weak and exhausted. Perhaps if she could sleep she
would forget it, and in the morning the socks she had finished would
bring her a few pence, and that would mean food.

She decided to go to bed, and in passing by the shelf at the window,
her eye caught sight of a plateful of potato skins, the remains of the
meager dinner of boiled potatoes which the children had had; and
clutching them, she began greedily to devour them, filling her mouth and
cramming them in in handfuls, until it seemed as if she would choke
herself. Then, licking the plate clean of every crumb, she undressed and
slipped quietly into bed, to lie and fret and toss, as she thought of
the insult which Black Jock had offered her, and pondered over the
unhappy lot of her children and their injured father.




CHAPTER II

A TURN OF THE SCREW


On the Friday following Jock Walker's visit to Mrs. Sinclair, a notice
was put up at the pit by Peter Pegg and Andrew Marshall, to the effect
that a collection would be taken next day on behalf of Geordie Sinclair.
The notice was posted up before Andrew and Peter descended the pit for
the day.

"Black Jock," as Walker was called by the miners, saw the notice before
it had been ten minutes posted, and deliberately tore it down. He then
visited Peter Pegg and Andrew Marshall at the coal face.

"I suppose you an' Andrew are goin' to gather for Geordie Sinclair the
morn?" he said, addressing Peter.

"Ay," Peter answered, "we were thinkin' it was aboot time somethin' was
done. There's four bairns an' their two selves, an' though times are no'
very guid for ony of us now, it maun be a lot worse for them. Geordie
has been a guid while off."

"Do ye think, Peter, they are in such need?" asked Walker, with a hint
in his voice that was meant to convey he knew better.

"Lord, they canna be aught else!" decisively returned Peter. "How can
they be? I ken for mysel'," he went on, "that if it was me, I wad hae
been in starvation lang syne."

"Weel, wad ye believe me when I tell ye--an' it's a fact--they're about
the best-off family in this place, if ye only kent it."

"What!" cried Peter in surprise, "the best-off family in the place!
Lord, I canna take that in!"

"Maybe no'," said Walker, "but I ken, an' ye're no' the first that's
been taken in by Nellie Sinclair. If ye notice, she never tells any
thin' to anybody; but she lets ye carry the notion in your mind that
she's in great straits. She's a cute one, Nellie."

"Weel, Nellie does keep hersel' to hersel'," admitted Peter. "She's no'
given to clashin' and claverin' about the doors like some o' the rest o'
the women; but I canna' for the life o' me see where she can be onythin'
but ill aff at this time."

"Weel, I ken when folk are bein' imposed on," said Walker, in a knowing
tone, "an' I tore down your notice this mornin'. I didna want to see you
mak' a fool o' yersels. I ha'e been considerin' for a while," he went
on, speaking quickly, "about puttin' a stop to this collectin' business
at the office on pay Saturdays, for it just encourages some men to lie
off work when there's no' very muckle wrong wi' them; after they get the
collection they soon start work again. Ye had better no' stand the morn,
for I might as well begin at once and put a stop to it."

Up till now Andrew Marshall had not spoken; he was a silent man, given
more to thought than speech, but this was a way of doing things he did
not like.

"But ye might let us tak' the collection first, and then put up a notice
yersel sayin' that a' collections have to be stopped. It wad be best to
gi'e the men notice."

"No," said Walker, "there's to be nae mair collections taken. I might as
well stop it this time as wait. So ye'll no' stand the morn."

"Will I no'?" returned Andrew challengingly. "How the hell do ye ken
whether I will or no'?"

"I ken ye'll no'," replied Walker, with quiet menacing tones; "the
ground at the office belongs to the company, and is private. So ye can
do it if ye like, but ye'll be weel advised no' to bother."

"I don't gi'e a damn," cried Andrew explosively, "whether the ground is
private or no'. I'll take that 'gathering' for Geordie Sinclair the
morn, though ye ha'e a regiment o' sodgers at the office."

"Very well," said Walker, as he departed, "if ye do, ye can look out."

Peter took his pipe out of his mouth and spat savagely on the ground;
he then replaced it with great deliberation and looked gloomily at the
stoop-side. He was a man about thirty-five, tall, bony and angular; his
neck was long and thin, and his head seemed always on the point of
turning to allow him to look over his shoulder. His right eye was half
closed, while his left eye looked big and saucer-like, and never seemed
to wink; one eye was ready to laugh and the other to "greet," as his
comrades described it. He had been badly disfigured in a burning
accident in the pit when he was a young man, and a broken nose added
still more to the strangeness of his appearance. Andrew, on the other
hand, was stout and broadly built, with a bushy whisker on each cheek,
and a clump of tufty hair on his head.

"What do ye mak' o' that, Andrew?" enquired Peter, after a few minutes,
as he again spat savagely at the stoop-side.

"What do I mak' o't?" echoed Andrew, as he glowered across the little
bing of dross at his mate, "it's just in keepin' wi' the rest o' his
dirty doin's, the dirty black brute that he is!"

"I wonder what's wrong wi' him?" mused Peter as he sucked quietly at his
snoring pipe. But there was no answer from Andrew, who was sitting
silent and glum, gazing at his little lamp.

"What are ye goin' to do about it, then?" broke in Peter again.

"Just what I said," returned Andrew with quiet firmness. "I'll take that
collection the morn, some way or another, if I should be damned for it.
Does he mean to say that we can let folk starve?" He lifted his pick and
began to hew the coal with an energy that told of the passion raging
within him.

"Does he mean to think I'm goin' to see decent folk starve afore my
e'en?" he asked after a while, pausing to wipe the sweat from his eyes.
"No' damned likely! Things ha'e come to a fine pass when folk are
compelled to look at other folk starvin' an' no' gi'e them a crust."

"Do ye think there's onything in what he said about them bein'
weel-aff?" asked Peter cautiously, while his big eye tried to wink.
"Nellie is a wee bit inclined to be prood an' independent, ye ken, an'
disna say muckle about her affairs. An forby we don't ken very muckle
about her; she's an incomer to the place, and she might ha'e been
weel-aff afore she married Geordie, for aught we ken."

"It disna matter," replied Andrew, "I dinna care though
they had thousan's. What I don't like is this
'ye'll-no'-do-this-an'-ye'll-no'-do-that' sort o' thing. What the hell
right has ony gaffer wi' what a man does? It's a' one to him what I do.
I'm nae slave, an' forby, I dinna believe they are weel-aff. They maun
be hard up."

"But he'll maybe sack ye," suggested Peter, "if ye take the collection."

"Well, let him," cried Andrew, now thoroughly roused, "the bastard! I
would see the greyhounds o' hell huntin' him roun' the rocks o' blazes
afore I'd give in to him!"

Nothing further was said of the matter until well on in the day, when it
suddenly occurred to Andrew that Peter, who had a large family, might
not care to incur the displeasure of Walker by taking the collection the
next day.

"Of course, Peter," he said, after he had thought the matter over, "if
ye don't care to take the collection wi' me, I won't press ye. I'll no'
think ony worse o' ye if ye don't. Ye ha'e a big family, while I ha'e
only the wife to look after. Sometimes I think it's lucky we ha'e nae
weans; I can flit, and ye might no' be able to rise an' run. But I mean
to take the collection onyway, for I don't like a man to order me what I
ha'e to do."

"Oh, I wasna mindin' that, Andra," replied Peter, trying to make Andrew
believe that he had not guessed the truth. "I'll take the collectin wi'
ye, an' Black Jock can gang to hell if he likes."

"No, Peter, ye'll do naethin' o' the kind. I'll take it mysel'." And
Andrew would not move from that decision.

Next day everybody was curiously expectant; it had got noised abroad
that Walker had defied Andrew Marshall to take a collection at the
office, and had threatened him with arrest. There were wild rumors of
other penalties, and when pay-day came everybody was surprised to see
Andrew draw his pay and walk home. They concluded that Andrew had
thought better of it, and had been cowed into submission. When darkness
began to fall, however, Andrew sauntered out and visited every home in
the village, soliciting aid on behalf of Geordie Sinclair. There were
few houses from which he did not get a donation, though the will to give
was often greater than the means. In each house Andrew had to give in
detail the interview between Black Jock and himself in the pit.

"The muckle big, black, dirty brute that he is!" the good-wife would cry
in indignation. "It's a pity but he could ken what starvation is
himsel'. It might make him a bit mair like a human bein'."

"That's true," Andrew would agree.

In one or two houses he met with a blank refusal, but in these he was
not disappointed, for he knew that the men would not risk Walker's
disapproval by contributing. Again, some were wholly hostile. They were
the "belly-crawlers," as Geordie Sinclair had once dubbed them at a
meeting, those who "kept in" with the management by carrying tales, and
generally acting as traitors to the other men.

"No, I'll no' gi'e ye onythin'," would be the reply; "he can just be
like me an' gang an' work for his bairns. Forby, look at yon stuck-up
baggage o' a wife o' his. She can hardly pass the time o' day wi'
ye--she thinks hersel' somethin'."

"Very well," Andrew would reply, "maybe ye ha'e mair need o't for other
things." And he would pass on to the next house.

He had gathered between three and four pounds, contributed sometimes
even in pennies, and going to Geordie's house, he knocked at the door.
This was the most uncomfortable part of his work, and he stood shifting
from one foot to the other, wondering what he would say when he entered.
Mrs. Sinclair was busy washing the floor and cleaning up, after having
been at work all day washing for someone in the village. She wiped her
hands and opened the door.

"How are ye a' keepin' the night?" inquired Andrew, as he stepped inside
at Mrs. Sinclair's invitation, feeling more and more uncomfortable. It
was a hard enough matter to go and ask others whom he knew had little
to spare, but now, having got the money, he did not know how he was
going to hand it over to Nellie. He ruminated for a time as to how he
would break into the subject. He knew that Nellie Sinclair must have
heard of the collection, and guessed his errand, for he saw that she,
too, was uneasy and agitated.

"How are ye a' the night?" he again enquired, to break the silence.

"Oh, I'm no' so bad at a', Andra," replied Geordie. "I'm feelin' a wee
bit easier the night. How's yersel'?"

"No' so bad," answered Andrew, putting his hand in his pocket for his
pipe.

"Dash it! I'm away without my pipe," he said with a show of annoyance.
"Can ye len' me yours, Geordie, to get a smoke? I ha'e my tobacco and
matches. Ye see," he went on, speaking more rapidly, "I thought I would
just slip round to see how ye was keepin'."

Andrew knew that Geordie would not have had a smoke for a long time, and
this was his way of leaving him with a pipeful of tobacco.

"I think my pipe's on the mantelshelf," returned Geordie, "but I doot
it's empty."

Andrew took down the pipe, filled it generously, set it alight, and sat
for a few minutes trying vainly to keep up a connected conversation.
After he had puffed a few minutes at Geordie's pipe he laid it down,
dived his hand into his trousers pocket as he made for the door. He
pulled forth the money, which was in a little bag, and laid it down on
the table, saying: "I'm no' guid at this kind of thing, Geordie. There's
something for ye from the men. Guid nicht!" and he was off, leaving
Nellie in tears and Geordie in glum silence.

Mrs. Sinclair's tears were tears of rebellion as well as of gratitude.
She was touched by Andrew's delicacy, but her independent spirit was
wounded at having to take help from anyone. She thought of the children
and of her husband, who needed nourishment, and taking up the little bag
she poured its contents into her lap, while her hot tears fell upon the
money. Little Robert, who was sitting watching, and who had never in
all his life seen so much money, ran to his mother with a cry of
delight.

"Oh, mammy, will I get sweeties noo?" and the boy danced with glee, as
he shouted, "I'll get jeely-pieces noo, hurray!"

That night there was happiness in Geordie Sinclair's house, for there
was food in plenty, and it seemed as if the children would never be able
to appease their hunger.

The "jeely-pieces," or slices of bread with jam on them, disappeared
with amazing rapidity, and Geordie had some beef-tea, which seemed to
improve him almost as soon as he had taken it. For the first time for
many months Mrs. Sinclair and the children went to bed with satisfied
appetites; and the children's dreams were as the incidents in the life
of a god, exalted and happy, and their mother's rest was unbroken and
full of comfort.

But on Monday morning Andrew Marshall had to pay the price of the
happiness he had been instrumental in giving them, for he was informed
by one of Walker's henchmen that his place was stopped. The excuse given
was that it was too far in advance of the others. Andrew knew what that
meant, and as he went home, fierce rebellious feelings stirred within
him. Peter Pegg, he was glad to know, had got started on "oncost" work,
and Andrew felt he had done right in not allowing Peter to take the
collection with him.




CHAPTER III

THE BLOCK


"I see Andra Marshall's back again," observed Sanny Robertson to Peter
Pegg one evening three months later.

"Ay," said Peter, "he was at Glampy, but his place was stopped, an'
there wasna anither for him."

"Got the sack again, I suppose," said Sanny. "Weel, he maun learn,
Peter, that gaffers are no' gaun to put up wi' his nonsense. If a man
will no' do what he's telt, he maun just take the consequences."

"Ay," said Peter, very dryly, and as Peter knew his man, no more was
said.

Later the same night Matthew Maitland observed to Peter, as they sat on
their "hunkers" at the corner:

"Andra's back again, I suppose."

"Ay," was the answer, "he was telt his place was stopped."

"Imphm," said Matthew, "it's a damn fine excuse. It's a pity but
somethin' could be done."

"It's the Block," said Peter. "I'm telt that a' the managers roun' aboot
ha'e an understandin' with one another no' to gi'e work to onybody they
take a dislike to."

"Ay," agreed Matthew, "I ha'e heard aboot it, but I would soon put a
stop to it."

"Ay, Matthew, it's a union we need up here badly. I'm telt that that
chap Smillie has managed to start one down in the West Country, an' it's
daein' weel. He's got some o' their wages up a hale shillin' a day since
he took it in hand."

"Is that a fact, Peter? The sooner we ha'e him up here the better then.
Black Jock needs a chap back onyway," and Matthew looked like a man who
had suddenly discovered a great truth.

Andrew Marshall had never been allowed to forget his action in defying
Walker; everywhere he went it was the same story--no work for him. The
"Block" system among the managers was in good working order, and could
easily starve a man into docility. Andrew became more desperate as time
passed, and he knew that he and his wife were nearing the end of their
small savings. He returned home one evening from his usual fruitless
search for employment, and threw himself into the arm-chair by the
fireside.

"No work yet, Andra?" asked Katie.

"Nane," was the gloomy response.

"We have no' very mony shillin's left noo, Andra. I dinna ken what we'll
do."

Savage, revengeful feelings surged through Andrew, and found vent in a
volley of oaths which terrified his wife.

"Dinna talk like that, Andra," she pleaded. "It's no' canny, an' forby,
the Lord disna like ye to do it."

"If the Lord cared He could take Black Jock by the scruff o' the neck
an' fling him into hell oot o' the road. It's Black Jock that's at the
bottom o' this, an' I could twist his dirty neck for him."

"Weel, Andra, it's the Lord's doin', an' maybe things'll soon men'."

"If it's the Lord's doin', I dinna think muckle o' His conduct then,"
and Andrew lapsed into sullen silence.

On Monday morning he was up at five o'clock, desperately resolved to lay
his case before the men. He walked to the end of the village, knowing
the colliery would be idle, for Tam Donaldson was to be "creeled." This
was a custom at one time very prevalent in mining villages. When a young
man got married, the first day he appeared at his work afterwards he was
taken home by his comrades, and was expected to stand them a drink. It
generally ended in a collection being made, after they had tasted the
newly-married man's whiskey, and a common fund thus being established, a
large quantity of beer and whiskey was procured, and all drank to their
heart's content.

Andrew heard the men calling to each other as they made their way to the
pit, the lights from their lamps twinkling in the darkness of the winter
morning.

"Is Tam away yet, Jamie?" he heard wee Allan ask, as he overtook old
Jamie Lauder on his way to the pit.

"Ay, I saw to that," replied Lauder, "I chappit him up at five o'clock,
so that he wadna sleep in. I hinna missed a creelin' for thirty-five
years, an' I wasna' gaun to miss Tam Donaldson's. I heard him goin' oot
two or three minutes afore me. We're in for a guid day, for he telt me
he had in two bottles for the spree."

"That's a' right, then; I was afraid he wad maybe sleep in," and the two
trudged on together towards the pit.

A group of dark figures stood on the pithead, waiting their turn to go
below. The cage rattled up from the depths of the shaft, the men stepped
in, and almost immediately disappeared down into the blackness. Arrived
at the bottom, they walked along towards the different passages,
chaffing and jesting with Tam Donaldson, the newly-married one.

"Ye'll be gaun to do something decent the day, Tam, when we take ye
hame?" said Jamie Allan. "I hear ye ha'e two bottles ready for the
occasion."

"Ay, but I'm damned shair there's no a lick gaun unless ye take me
hame," answered Donaldson. "If I ha'e to be creeled, I'll be creeled
right, an' every one o' ye'll gang hame wi' me afore ye get a taste."

"Oh, but we'll see to that, chaps," said old Lauder. "Here's a hutch,
get him in an' aff wi' him."

The victim pretended to resist, and stoutly maintained that they should
not creel him. He was seized by half a dozen pairs of arms, and with
much expenditure of energy and breath, deposited in the hutch. Some
considerate person had put some straw and old bags in the "carriage" to
make it more comfortable, and a few of the wags had chalked
inscriptions, the reverse of complimentary, all over it.

"There, noo', boys," said old Lauder, who had been busy hanging lighted
pit lamps round Tam's cap, "gi'e him a guid run to the bottom, and see
that he gets a guid bump in the lye."

The men ran the hutch to the "bottom" straight against the full tubs
ready to be sent to the surface.

"Come on, Sourocks, let us up," called Allan to the old man who acted as
"bottomer."

"Hell to the up will ye get!" replied the old fellow, "I'm gaun to put
on these hutches first."

"No, ye'll no', an' if ye do, you'll gang into the 'sump,' an' we'll
chap the bell oorsels"--the sump being the lodgment into which the water
gathered before pumping operations could start.

"Sourocks" thought discretion the better part of valor in this case, and
swearing quietly to himself, he signaled to the engineman at the top to
draw them up.

"He's no gaun to walk hame," said Allan, as they all gathered again on
the pit head. "We'll take the hutch hame wi' Tam in it. Put a rope on
it, and we'll draw the damned thing through the moor, an' maybe Tam'll
mind the day he was creeled as lang as he lives."

This proposal was jumped at, especially by the younger men, to whom an
idle day did not mean so much worry on pay-day as to their married
elders.

Andrew Marshall had waited at the end of the village, knowing that the
creeling was to take place, and that he would get the men on their way
from the pit. Presently old Lauder, who had taken a short cut across the
moor, came up, and Andrew accosted him.

"Will ye wait here, Jamie, so that I can try an' get a meetin' held wi'
the rest o' the men when they come alang?"

"I will that, Andra," replied Jamie, taking the lighted lamp from his
head, and sitting down at the corner on his "hunkers." "They're a'
comin' hame anyway, for we're creelin' Tam Donaldson."

Soon the procession appeared, the hutch jolting along the rough street,
the men shouting and singing as they came. The village had turned out to
see the fun. Andrew and Jamie found themselves in the midst of a crowd
of women and children, as the foremost of the men came to a halt at the
corner.

Andrew quietly stepped out and addressed the men, asking them if they
would wait a few minutes--as they were idle in any case--to have a
meeting. All were agreed.

"Here's Sanny Robertson," said Tam Tate, peering into the breaking
light, "he'll no' likely wait, but we'll see what he says aboot it," and
all waited in silence until Robertson approached. He seemed to guess
what was in the air, and hurriedly tried to pass on, but Andrew stepped
out with the usual question.

"No," he replied uneasily, "I'll ha'e no part in ony mair strife. Folk
just get into bother for nothing. Men'll ha'e to keep mind that gaffers
now-a-days'll no' put up wi' disobedience."

"Ay, but ye maun mind," said Tam Tate hastily, "that men maun be treated
as human bein's, even by a gaffer."

"I can aye get on with the gaffer," replied Robertson, "an' I dinna see
what way ither folk canna do the same."

"That's a' richt," put in old Jamie Lauder, "but a' men are no' just
prepared to do as ye do," and there was a hint of something in his voice
which the others seemed to understand.

"I ha'e no quarrel," sulkily replied Robertson, "an' I dinna see what
way I should get into this one. I can get plenty o' work, an' ither folk
can get it too, if they like to behave themselves."

"Ye're a liar," roared Tam Tate angrily, his usual hasty temper getting
the mastery. "It's no' you that gets the work, it's Mag!"

The others laughed uproariously, for it was common knowledge that Sanny
got his good jobs because of Walker's intimacy with his wife.

"Ye leave the best man in the house every mornin' when ye gang oot!"
roared another amid coarse laughter, whilst Andrew turned to tackle the
next comer.

A few refused to wait, but it was generally known that these were the
men whose houses were always open to Walker by day or night. When they
were all gathered, Andrew Marshall stood up, and for the first time in
his life spoke at a meeting.

"Weel, men," he began, "ye a' ken the position o' things. Ye ken as weel
as me that I got the sack for gatherin' for Geordie Sinclair. Weel, I
ha'e been oot o' work three months; the Block is on against me, an' it
seems I ha'e to starve. I canna get work onywhere, an' I stopped ye a'
the day to ask ye to make my quarrel yours, an' try and put an end to
this business."

That was the whole speech, but its simple sincerity appealed to all, and
many expressed approval and determination to stand by Andrew in his
fight.

"I think it's a damn'd shame," said old Lauder.

"I'll tell ye what it is," said Matthew Maitland, "it's a downricht
barefaced murder, an' I would smash this damn'd cantrip o' Black Jock's.
I ken that he'll get a' that is said at this meetin', an' maybe I'll get
the same dose; but I think it's aboot time somethin' was done to put an
end to his capers," and so Matthew floundered on.

"Ay, an' let us see what can be done for Geordie, too," put in Peter
Pegg, and his long neck seemed to get longer at every syllable, while
his big eye made a great attempt to wink and to look backward, as if he
expected to see someone coming from behind. "We a' ken," continued
Peter, "that Geordie is ready for work noo', this fower week syne, but
Black Jock says he has no places, an' forby two strangers got jobs just
yesterday."

"I ken for yae thing that there's fower places staunin' in Millar's
Level," said Jamie Lauder, "an' I'm telt there's five or six staunin' in
the Black Horse Dook. It's a' a bit of humbug, an' I think we should try
an' put an end to it."

"Weel, I think we're a' agreed on that," said Tam Tate. "Has ony o' you
onything to suggest?"

For a few minutes there was silence, while they sat or stood deep in
thought, trying to find a solution. It was an eerie gathering, with the
gray dawn just beginning to break, while on every head the
indispensable lamp burned and flickered. Men expectorated savagely upon
the ground, staring hard at the stones at their feet, thinking and
wondering how they might serve their comrades.

"It's about time we had a union," said one.

"Ay," replied another, "so that some bigmouthed idiot can pocket the
money an' get a guid saft job oot o' it."

"We've had plenty of unions," put in another. "The last yin we started
here--ye mind Bob Ritchie gaed aff to America wi' a' the money. It was a
fine go for him!"

"Oh, ay, but let us see what can be done wi' this case," said Jamie
Lauder. "Hoo' wad it do if we appointed a deputation to gang an' lay the
hale thing afore Mr. Rundell?"

Jamie was always listened to with the respect due to his proved good
sense, for everyone knew that he was a man who would not intentionally
hurt a fellow creature by word or deed.

"I believe it wad be a guid plan," agreed Tam Tate. "He maybe disna ken
the hauf that gangs on. What do ye a' think o' it, men?"

This was before the days of limited companies and coal syndicates, and
the proprietor of the pits in Lowwood, Mr. Rundell, lived about two
miles out of the village. He was not a bad man, as men go; he was fiery
and quick-tempered, but had a not ungenerous nature withal, and was
usually susceptible to a reasoned statement. Just as they were about to
decide on a course of action, Andrew spoke: "I dinna want ony mair o' ye
than can be helped to get into bother, so, if ye like, Jamie Lauder--if
he's agreeable--could gang wi' me and Geordie Sinclair, and we'll put
the hale case afore him an' see what he mak's o't."

This was received with approval, and it was agreed that Andrew, Jamie
and Geordie should form the deputation.

But Black Jock soon heard of the decision, and, as usual, acted with
alacrity; for, had the men only known it, they had decided on a course
which he did not want them to adopt. He visited Jamie Lauder, and told
him that the day before Rundell and he had agreed that the places in the
Black Horse Dook should be started at once, and that he was angry at
the course taken by the men. He believed that Mr. Rundell would also be
very angry, and if only Andrew and Geordie had come to him the night
before, they could have been working that day. He represented Rundell as
being in an explosive mood, and that he was furious at the men taking
the idle day, and that he had threatened that if they were not at work
next day, he would lock them out. So plausibly did he speak, and so
sincere did his concern appear, that Jamie, who was withal a simple man,
and aware that the circumstances of his comrades would not admit of a
very long fight, began to think it might be as Black Jock had said.

"I think ye'd better ca' a meetin' o' the men, Jamie, and put the hale
case afore them. Let them ken that Rundell decided just yesterday to
start the places, and that Andra and Geordie can start the morn. I ha'e
no ill wull at ony o' the twa o' them, and I'm vexed that things ha'e
been as bad as they've been, but I couldna get the boss to start the
places, and what could I do? They can a' be back at their work the morn
if they like to look at it reasonably. Of course, ye can please
yersel'," he went on, "it's a' yin to me; but if Rundell tak's it into
his head to ha'e a fight, well--ye ken what it means, an' I wouldna like
to ha'e ony strife the noo', for times are very hard for us a'."

Simple and honest as Jamie was, Black Jock's plausibility appealed to
him, and he began to think that Walker perhaps was not so bad as he was
made to appear. Again, Jamie knew that Rundell was a man of hasty temper
and impulsive judgments, and could not brook trouble, and he began to
think that perhaps it might be better to hold the meeting as suggested
and tell the men what he had heard, and appeal to them to go back to
work.

"All right," he said to Walker, "I'll call a meeting to-night and put
the case as you have said, and ask them to go back. But mind, you've not
to go back on your promise. You'll have to start Andrew and Geordie
within twa days, or the men will no' continue to work. Mind, I'm taking
a lot on myself to do this, and you'll have to carry out your part and
start them."

"I'll fill my part, never fear," was the answer, and there was relief in
Walker's voice. "See, there's my hand," he said, extending a big black
limb as he spoke, first spitting on his palm to ensure due solemnity.
"There's no dryness about that, Jamie. I mean it. I'll start Geordie and
Andrew all right. You get the men to go back to work to-morrow, for I'm
afraid Rundell will make trouble if you remain idle anither day. Noo' I
promise." And Jamie took the extended hand in token of the bargain and
returned to summon the meeting, which was duly held, and, as Walker had
anticipated, the men were appeased, and returned to work the next day.

Sure enough, within two days Andrew Marshall and Geordie Sinclair were
both started to work, and matters went smoothly for a time.

But though they had had a lesson, it did not stop their activities as
agitators for the establishment of a union, for they knew that there was
no protection for any of them if they remained unorganized.

"Men never were meant to work and live as colliers do," said Geordie,
thoughtfully. "Life should be good, and free, and happy, with comfort
and enjoyment for all. Look at the birds--they are happy! So are the
flowers, or they wouldn't look so pleased. God meant a' men and weemin
to be glad, even though they have to work. But hoo' the hell can folk be
happy and worship God on two and sixpence a day? It's all wrong, Andrew,
an' I'll never believe that men were meant to live as we live."

"That's true, Geordie," agreed Andrew soberly. "I only wish we could get
everybody to see it as we see it. There's plenty for a' God's
creatures--enough to make everybody happy, an' there need be no ill-will
in the world, if only common-sense was applied to things; but I'm damn'd
if I can see where even the men can be happy who are making their money
oot o' our lives. They're bound to ken surely that what comes from
misery can not make happiness for them."

"True, Andrew, true, and we maun just go on working for it. Sometimes I
have the feeling that we are on the point of big changes: just as if the
folk would awaken up oot o' their ignorance, with love in their hearts,
an' make all things right for everybody. A world o' happiness for
everybody is worth workin' for. So we maun gang on."

And so they talked of their dreams and felt the better for it.




CHAPTER IV

A YOUNG REBEL


About two years after these events little Robert Sinclair went to
school. It was a fine morning in late spring, and Robert trudged the
seemingly long road, clasping an elder brother's hand, for the school
lay about a mile to the north-west of the village, and that seemed to
the boy a very long way.

It was a great experience. Robert's clothes had been well patched, his
face had been washed and toweled till it shone, his eyes sparkled with
excitement, and his heart beat high; yet he was nervous and awed,
wondering what he would find there.

"By crikey," said wee Alec Johnstone to him, "wait till auld Clapper
gie's ye a biff or twa wi' his muckle tawse. Do ye ken what he does to
mak' them nippy? He burns them a wee bit in the fire, an' then st'eeps
them in whusky. An' they're awful sair."

"Oh, but I ken what to do, Rab, if ye want to diddle him," put in
another boy. "Just get a horse's hair--a lang yin oot o' its tail--and
put it across yer haun', an' it'll cut his tawse in twa, whenever he
gie's ye a pammy."

"That's what I'm gaun to do, Jamie," replied another. "I'll get some
hairs frae Willie Rogerson. He's gettin' me some frae his father's when
he's in the stable the morn, an' ye'll see auld Cabbage-heid's tawse
gaun in twa, whenever he gie's me yin." And they all looked admiringly
at this little hero who was going to do this wonderful thing so simply.

"I got four yesterday," said another, "an' I wasna' doin' onything. By
criffens! it was sair, an' gin I had only had a horse's hair, I'd soon
ha'e putten his tawse oot the road."

"I got four yesterday too," said another, "an' a' because I was looking
at yon new laddie wha cam to the schule yesterday. By! they were sair. I
never heard auld Cabbage-heid till he cam up an' telt me to put oot my
haun."

"It's Peter Rundell's his name," chimed in another. "He's the Boss's
laddie. My! if you just saw what fine claes he has on. A new suit, an'
lang stockings, an' a pair o' fine new buits."

"Ay, an' a white collar too," said another, "an' hundreds o' pooches in
his jacket."

"He has a waistcoat wi' three pooches in it--yin for a watch--an' a
braw, black, shiny bonnet."

"He had a white hankey too, an' sweeties in yin o' his pooches."

Robert felt a certain amount of resentment as he listened to the
description, and he grudged Peter Rundell his new suit for he himself
had never known anything of that kind, but had always worn "make-downs"
created by his mother's clever fingers out of the discarded clothes of
grown-ups.

"Auld Cabbage-heid didna' like me looking at Peter Rundell an' that's
the way he gied me four, but I'll get a horse's hair too, an' his tawse
'll soon get wheegh. He's awful cruel, Rab," he said, turning to Robert,
"an' ye'd better look oot."

Each and all had some fearful story to tell of the cruelty of the
headmaster, and all swore they'd get even with him. These stories filled
Robert with a certain fear, for he was an imaginative and sensitive boy.
Still he knew there was no escape. He must go to school and go through
with it whatever the future might hold for him.

So far he had grown wild and free, and loved the broad wide moor which
began even at the end of the row where he lived. It seemed to him that
there never had been a time when he did not know that there was a moor
there. Nothing in it surprised him, even as a child. Its varied moods
were already understood by him, and its silences and its many voices
appealed to and were balm to his soul. The great blue hills which
fringed it away in the far distance were for him the ends of the world,
and if he could go there some day, he would surely look over and
find--what? The thought staggered him, and his imagination would not, or
could not, construct for him what was at the other side. All day, often,
he had lain stretched full length upon the moor, watching the great
white clouds sailing past, seeing himself sometimes sitting astride
them, proudly surveying, like God, the whole world. At times it was so
real that he bounded to his feet when by some misadventure he slipped
from the back of the cloud. He listened to the songs of larks, the cries
of curlews and lapwings and all the other moorland birds, and became as
familiar with each of them as they were with one another.

But this going to school was a break in his freedom, and it stirred him
strangely. He felt already that he would rather not go to school. He had
always been happy before, and he did not know what lay ahead.

In the schoolroom that morning, Robert was called out by the
headmistress to her desk, and while she was jotting down in her register
particulars as to his age, etc., it happened that Peter Rundell was also
on the floor. Robert looked so wonderingly at the white collar and the
shining boots, that Rundell, to fill in the blanks and keep himself
cheerful, promptly put out his tongue. Robert, not to be behind in
respectfulness, just as promptly put out his, at the same time making a
grimace, and immediately they were at it, pummeling each other in hearty
glee before the teacher could do anything to prevent them. It was their
first fight. The whole class was in immediate uproar and cries of--"Go
on, Rob!" and "Good Peter!" were ringing out, as the supporters on
either side shouted encouragement. Both went at it and for a couple of
minutes defied the efforts of the teacher to separate them; but in
response to calls for help, Mr. Clapper, the headmaster, came in, and
taking hold of Robert soon had him across his knee, and was giving him a
taste of the "tawse" he had heard so much about that morning, and Robert
went back to his seat very sore, both physically and mentally, and
crying in pain and anger. Thus his first day began at school, and the
succeeding months were full of many such incidents.

Life ran along in the ordinary ruts for three or four years, but always
Peter and Robert were antagonists. If Rundell happened to get to the top
of the class, Robert never rested till he had excelled and displaced
him; and then it was Peter's turn to do likewise till he too succeeded.

Robert, when in the mood, was eager and brilliant, and nothing seemed
able to stay him. At times, however, he was given to dreaming, and lived
through whole days in the classroom quite unconscious of what was going
on around him. He worked mechanically, living in a strange world of his
own creation, usually waking up to find himself at the foot of the class
with Peter smiling at the top.

Often he went hungry, for times were still hard, and the family had
increased to six. It was a bitter struggle in which Mrs. Sinclair was
engaged to try and feed--let alone clothe--her hungry children. Patient,
plodding, and terrible self-sacrifices alone enabled her to accomplish
what she did. It was always a question of getting sufficient food rather
than aiming at any particular kind. It was quantity rather than quality
that was her biggest problem, for the children had sharp appetites and
could make a feast of the simplest material. A pot of potatoes, boiled
with their "jackets" on, tumbled on to the center of the bare, uncovered
table and a little salt placed in small heaps at the exact position
where each person sat, a large bowl of butter-milk when it could be got,
with a tablespoon for each with which to lift a spoonful of the milk,
and thus was set the banquet of the miner's family.

"Mither, Rob's taken twa sups of milk to yae bite o' tattie," little
Mary would say.

"Ay, an' what did you do?" Robert would reply. "When you thought naebody
was lookin', you took three spoonfu' to yae wee tattie. I was watchin'
you."

"Now that'll do," the mother would admonish them. "Try and make it gang
as far as ye can. Here you!" she would raise her voice to another,
"dinna be so greedy on it. The rest maun get some too." At this the
guilty child would frown and look ashamed at being caught taking more
than his share.

Robert's dreams, however, were always satisfying, and even the sordid
surroundings of the home were gilded by the warmth and glow of his
imagination. Some day, somewhere he seemed to feel, there was a place
for him to fill in the hearts of men. Vague stirrings told him of great
future events which no one could dominate, save the soul that filled his
body.

One day, during the dinner hour, when the school children were all at
play, Robert and Peter again came into conflict. Some girls were playing
at a ring game, and Robert and a few other boys were shamefacedly
looking on. He was by this time at the bashful age of ten, and already
the sweet, shy face of Mysie Maitland had become familiar in every
dream. Mysie's modesty and grace appealed to him and the strange
magnetic power of soul for soul was continually drawing them together,
even at this early age. No voice was like Mysie's voice, no name like
her name to him. If only she chanced shyly to ask if he had a spare
piece of pencil Robert was happy; he'd gladly give her his only piece
and forthwith proceed to borrow another for himself. He saw that Mysie
did certain things, used, for instance, to clean her slate with a bit of
rag, and he instantly procured one, and this kept his jacket sleeve
clean and whole.

  "Choose, choose wha' ye'll tak',
  Wha' ye'll tak', wha' ye'll tak',
  Choose, choose wha' ye'll tak',
  A laddie or a lassie."

So sang the girls, as with hands joined they walked round in a ring,
with Mysie, blushing and sweet, standing in the center--a sweet, shy,
little rosebud--a joy in a cheap cotton frock.

"Come on, Mysie," urged the girls, who had now come to a standstill with
the finish of the song. "Choose an' dinna keep us waiting." But Mysie
stood still, her little heart beating at a terrible rate, her breath
coming in short, quick gasps, and a soft, glowing light of nervous
intensity in her eyes.

"Oh, come on, Mysie Maitland," cried one girl in hurt tones, "choose an'
dinna spoil the game."

"Come on," urged another, "the whistle will be blawn the noo."

"She's feart," said one, "an' she disna need, for we a' ken that she
wants to choose Bob Sinclair."

Something sang uproariously in Bob's ears at this blunt way of stating
what they all felt; a hot wave surged over him, and his whole being
seemed to fill with the energy of a giant. He shifted uneasily, his
senses all acutely alert to pick up even Mysie's faint gasp of shame, as
the hot blood suffused her face. Would she choose him before all these
others? He hoped she wouldn't, and he tried to summon a smile to hide
his uneasiness. Still Mysie hesitated. She wanted to choose Robert, but
if she did, perhaps the other boys and girls would tease them
afterwards.

"Oh, come on, Mysie. It's no' fair," cried one of the girls, getting
more and more impatient. "Choose an' be done wi' it. It's only a game."

Thus urged Mysie stepped forward, and, excited out of all judgment, her
face covered with shame, her heart thumping and galloping, she grabbed
the first hand she saw, which happened to be Peter Rundell's, and
something seemed to darken the day for all. Robert, now that he had not
been chosen, felt murder in his heart. His body felt charged with
energy, a flood of passion poured over him and he lost all discretion.
He saw only Peter's shining collar, his fine boots and good clothes, and
above all the smile, half of shame, half of triumph, upon his face. In
passing Peter staggered against Robert, who let drive with his fist, and
there was a fight before anyone really knew what had happened.

"What are ye shovin' at? Can ye no' watch folk's toes?" And he was on
Peter like a whirlwind. There was the hatred of years between them, and
they pummeled each other heartily.

"A fight, boys!" yelled the others. "Here's a fight!" and a crowd
rapidly gathered to watch operations, while little Mysie, who had been
the cause of it all, shrank back into a quiet corner, the tears running
from her eyes and a sore pain at her heart.

"Go on, Bob! Gi'e him a jelly yin," cried Bob's supporters.

"Watch for his nose, Peter," cried those who pinned their faith to the
coal-owner's son. Amid a chorus of such encouragement, both boys
belabored each other and fought like barbarians.

"Let up, Peter," cried Bob's admirers, "an' gi'e him fair doo," as the
two rolled upon the ground, with Peter, who was much the bigger boy, on
top. "Come on now, he let you up when you was doon," and so they kept
the balance of fair play. But the fight raged on in a terrible fury of
battle, sometimes one boy on top, sometimes the other. Bob was the more
active of the two, and hardier, and what he lacked in weight he made up
in speed. One of Peter's eyes was bruised, while Robert's lip was
swelling, and each strained to plant the decisive blow that would end
the fight.

"Nae kickin', Peter! Ye're bate," yelled one watchful supporter of Bob,
as he noticed the former's booted foot come into violent contact with
Bobbie's bare leg.

"Big cowardie!" cried another, as Peter, crying now with rage and
vexation, hit out with his foot. "Fight fair an' nae kickin'!"

Bob managed to dodge the kick, and flinging himself in before Peter
recovered his balance, planted a heavy blow upon his opponent's nose.

"Ho! a jelly yin! a jelly yin!" roared the crowd in admiration. "Gi'e
him anither yin," and even Peter's supporters began to desert him. Bob,
thus encouraged, laid about him with all the strengthened "morale" of a
conscious victor, finding it comparatively easy now to hit hard--and
often. Peter, blinded by tears and choking with passion, could not see,
but struck aimlessly, till one resounding smack upon his already injured
nose brought the eagerly looked for crimson blood from it, and that of
course, in schoolboy etiquette, meant the end of the fight. Peter was
now lying upon the ground, his handkerchief at his nose, and roaring
like a bull, not so much because of his injured nose, as because of the
hurt to his pride and vanity.

"Haud back yer held," advised one boy, "an' put something cauld doon
yer back."

Suddenly there was silence, and everyone looked awed and shamefaced as
Mr. Clapper, the headmaster, strode into the midst of them. He had heard
the noise of the fight, and had stolen up unobserved just in time to see
Peter get the knockout blow.

"What is the meaning of this?" he demanded sternly, his eyes traveling
all over the children, till they rested finally on Robert. No one
answered, and so he proceeded to question Peter, who had struggled to
his feet. Peter, like many other boys in similar circumstances, poured
forth a great indictment of his adversary, and Mr. Clapper then turned
to Robert.

"What have you to say, Sinclair?" he asked. "Speak out, and give me your
side."

But Robert said nothing. His rebellious spirit was roused, and he
resented the tone of the headmaster's voice. Again Mr. Clapper tried,
but Robert remained silent.

"Come now, tell me what led to the fight? Why were you fighting with
Peter?"

Robert would not speak, and Mr. Clapper, being of an explosive
temperament, with little tact, was fast losing his temper. He turned to
question some of the other boys, finally calling them all into the
school, and putting Robert into the teacher's room, so that he might
"get to the bottom of it."

Mr. Clapper, whatever good points he may have possessed, was not at all
fitted for the teaching profession, for he lacked the sympathy necessary
in dealing with children, and he was a rigid believer in the doctrine of
punishment.

After a time he came into the room where Robert sat, and began once more
to question him. But Robert was still obdurate, and stolidly kept
silent. Mr. Clapper recognized at once that this was a clear case of a
dour nature in the wrong. It needed correction, and that of a severe
kind. That spirit he felt must be broken, or there would be trouble
ahead in after years for Robert Sinclair. Mr. Clapper was determined to
do his duty, and he believed that Robert in later life would probably
feel grateful for this thrashing. He thrashed the boy soundly and
severely upon the most sensitive parts of his body, so that the pain
would help to break his spirit. He saw no indignity heaped upon a
high-spirited, sensitive soul. It was all for the boy's own good, and so
the blows fell thick and heavy upon the little back and hips.

Robert bit his lip to repress the roar of pain that wanted to escape. He
would not cry, and this was another spur to the efforts of Mr. Clapper.
The boy's flesh twitched and quivered at every blow, yet never a cry
came from him. It but served to feed his rebellion, and he struggled and
fought with fury until completely exhausted.

"There now," declared Mr. Clapper, flinging down the "tawse" upon the
table, panting from his exertions and wiping his brow, "I shall leave
you for a time until you decide to speak. If you will not speak when I
return, I shall thrash you again," and he went out, locking the door,
leaving the boy, still proud and unsubdued, but aching in every muscle
and bone of his little body.

Left to himself, Robert very nearly cried, but he dashed the gathering
tears from his eyes, angry at the weakness, and resolved, as he adjusted
his garments, that he would die rather than speak now. He looked round,
and seeing the window raised a little from the bottom, sprang to it, a
sudden resolve in his heart to run away. Just as he got astride the sill
he spied a piece of chalk and the "tawse" on the table, so turning back
he put the "tawse" in his pocket, and with the chalk wrote on the
table:--

"You are an ould pig and I'll not speak, and you'll never put your hands
on your tawse again."

Then he was out of the window, dropped easily to the ground, and was
away to the moors. He ran a long way, until finding that he had not been
detected, he skirted a small wood, dug a hole in the soft moss, put in
the "tawse," and covered them up. There they may be lying to this day,
for no one ever learned from him where they were buried.

The spell of the moor took possession of him, and his wounded soul was
soon wrapped in the soft folds of its silence. The balm of its peace
comforted him, and brought ease and calmed the rebellion in his blood.
He was happy, forgetting that there ever had existed a schoolmaster, or
anything else unpleasant. Here he was free, and no one ever
misunderstood him. He gave pain to no one, and nothing ever hurt him
here.

He flung himself down among the rank gray grass and heather, while the
moor cock called to his mate in an agony of pleading passion, the
lapwing crooned upon a tuft of grass as she prepared a place for her
eggs, the whaup wheepled and twirled and cried in eerie alarm, the
plover sighed to a low white cloud wandering past; while the snipe and
the lark, the "mossie," the heather lintie, and the wandering, sighing
winds among the reeds and rushes of the swampy moss, all added their
notes to soothe and satisfy the little wounded spirit lying there on the
soft moorland. Already he was away upon the wings of fancy in a world of
his own--a world full of dreams and joys unspeakable; a world of calm
comfort, where there was no pain, no hunger, no unpleasantness; a world
of smiles and warm delights and love.

Thus he dreamed as he watched the white clouds trailing their draperies
along the sky, till the shadows creeping over the hills, and the cries
of the heron returning to his haunts in the moor, woke him to a
realization of the fact that the school was long since out, and probably
another thrashing awaited him when he got home. Sadly and regretfully he
dragged his little aching body from its soft mossy bed, felt that his
limbs were still sore, and that he was very, very hungry. Rebellion
again surging within him as he remembered all, he trudged home, fearful
yet proud, resolved to go through with the inevitable.




CHAPTER V

BLACK JOCK'S THREAT


That same day Walker intimated to Geordie, when he was at work
underground, that a reduction was to be imposed on his ton rate, which
meant for Sinclair that it would be more difficult to earn a decent
wage. Geordie had always had it in his head to confront Walker about his
very unfair treatment of him, and on this occasion he decided to do so.

"What way are you breakin' my rate?" he asked, when Walker told him of
the reduction.

"Oh, it's no' me," replied Walker. "It's Rundell. He thinks it can be
worked for less than it's takin', and, of course, I've just to do as I
am tell'd."

"Weel, I don't ken," said Geordie. "But I've thocht for a lang while
back that you had a hand in it. Have I done anything to ye, for I don't
ken o' it?"

"Ye've never done me any harm, Geordie," replied Walker with a show of
sincerity. "What mak's ye think that?"

"Weel, for a lang time noo', I've ay been kept in hard places, or places
wi' nae air, or where there was water to contend wi'. There's ay been
something, an' I ha'e come to the conclusion that there's mair design
than accident in it."

"I dinna think so," was the reply. "But maybe it's because you're ay
agitatin' to have a union started."

"An' what about it," enquired Geordie, getting a bit heated. "If I ha'e
been advocatin' the startin' o' a union? It seems to me to be muckle
needed."

"Oh, I've nothing to say aboot it," replied Walker. "It's the boss, an'
I was merely givin' ye a hint for yer ain guid."

"It's a' richt," exclaimed Geordie, getting still more heated. "I can
see as far through a brick wall as you can see through a whin dyke. The
boss has naething to do wi' it. It's you, an' I'm quite pleased to get
the chance to tell ye to yer face. Ye could, many a time, ha'e given me
a better place, if you had cared. But let me tell you, if there was a
union here, it would soon put an end to you an' yer damn'd cantraips."

"Very weel. Gang on an' start yin. Man, though ye were a' in a union the
morn, I could buy an' sell the majority of them for the promise of a
guid place, or a bottle of whisky--Ay, if they jist thocht they were in
wi' the gaffer, I'd get all I wanted frae the maist o' them. A clap on
the shoulder, a smile, or even a word would do it. The one hauf o' the
men can ay be got to sell the ither. Ye daurna' cheep, man, but I hear
of it."

"Damn'd fine I ken that," replied Geordie, "an' it's mair the peety. But
that's no' to say that men'll ay be like that. If they'd be true an'
stick to yin anither, they'd damn'd soon put an end to sic gaffers as
you."

"Maybe ye'll be the first to be put an end to," said Walker, rising to
leave. "I might ha'e something to say to--"

"You rotten pestilence o' hell," cried Geordie, now fairly roused, and
jumping over the coals on the "roadhead" after him. "I'll cleave the
rotten heart o' ye if I get my fingers on ye, you an' yer fancy women,
yer gamblin' an' yer shebeens!"

But Walker was off; he did not like to hear these matters of his private
life mentioned, and so Geordie, left to himself, lit his pipe, and sat
down to cool his temper.

A few minutes later Matthew Maitland came round to borrow a shot of
powder, and Geordie unburdened his mind to him.

"He's a dirty brute," said Matthew, "an' it's time we had a union
started. I hear great stories aboot how Bob Smillie's gettin' on wi' the
union that he started doon the west country."

"I ken Bob fine," said Geordie. "He's a fine fellow. I worked next wall
to him doon there a while, an' a better chap ye couldna' get."

"I hear that he's gotten as muckle as tippence on the ton to some o'
the miners who ha'e joined. I'm gaun to join whenever it can be
started."

Geordie agreed that it would be good to have a union, but he knew that
whoever led in the matter would very likely have to pay for his courage.
There was the "Block" to consider, and he could not see how they might
start a union just then in such hard times.

He sat and thought after Matthew had gone away, and was still sitting
when Matthew's shot went off. His lot, he knew, was hard. He could not
afford to "flit," even though he did find work somewhere else. His six
children depended upon his readiness to swallow insult and injustice,
and he could see no way but to submit. If only his first boy were ready
for work, it would soon make a difference in the house. It was only a
few months now till that time would come, and perhaps things might
change.

All day he was sullen and angry, and he tore at his work like some
imprisoned fiend, a great rebellion in his heart, and a fury of anger
consuming him. Everything seemed to go wrong that day, and at last when
"knock-off" time came, he felt a little easier, though still silent and
angry. His last shot, however, missed fire, just as he was coming away
home; and that, added to all the other things that day, made him feel
that his whole life was clouded, and was one long trial.

On the way home from the pit he heard the story of Robert's rebellious
outburst at school, and when he came into the house his wife saw by his
face that something had upset him. She proceeded to get him water to
wash himself, and brought in the tub, while he divested himself of his
clothes, flinging each garment savagely into the corner, until he stood
naked save for his trousers. Most miners are sensitive to the presence
of strangers during this operation, and it so happened at that
particular time the minister chose to pay one of his rare visits among
his flock in the village.

"Wha the hell's this noo?" asked Geordie, when he heard the tap at the
door, as he looked up through soapy eyes, his head all lathered with the
black suds. "Dammit, they micht let folk get washed," he said angrily.

When he heard the voice of the minister, he plunged his head into the
tub, and began splashing and rubbing, and lifting the water over his
head.

"Oh, you are busy washing, I see, Mr. Sinclair," observed the minister,
looking at the naked collier.

"Ay," said Geordie shortly, "an' I dinna think you'd ha'e thankit me for
comin' in on the tap o' you, when you were washin' yerself," he said
bluntly--a remark which his wife felt to be a bit ill-natured, though
she said nothing.

"Oh, I am sorry," replied the minister. "I did not mean to intrude. I'll
not stay, but will call back some other time," and his voice was
apologetic and ill at ease.

"I think sae," retorted Geordie, splashing away and spitting the soap
from his mouth. "Yer room's mair to my taste than yer company the noo."

"My! that was an awfu' way to talk to the meenister," said Mrs. Sinclair
when the door was again closed. "You micht aye try to be civil to folk,"
and there was resentment in her voice.

"Ach, dammit, wha can be bothered wi' thae kind o' folk yapping roun'
about when yer washin' yerself. He micht ken no' to come at this time,
when men are comin' hame frae their work," and he went on with his
splashing. "Here, gi'e my back a rub," and he lay over the tub while she
washed his back from the shoulders downward, making it clean and free
from the coal dust and grime. Then she proceeded to dry him all over
with a rough towel, after which he put on a clean shirt, and taking off
his pit trousers, stepped into the tub and began to wash his lower limbs
and make them as clean as the upper part of the body.

"Ach, folk should ha'e a place to wash in anyway," he grumbled, as if to
justify his outburst, for secretly he was beginning to feel ashamed of
it. "The folk that ha'e the maist need o' a bath are the folk wha never
get the chance o' yin," he went on. "Look at that chap wha was in the
noo. He never needs to dirty a finger, an' look at the hoose he has to
bide in, wi' its fine bathroom an' a' things that he needs. Och, but we
are a silly lot o' blockheads!" And so he raved on till he sat down to
his frugal dinner of potatoes and buttermilk, after which he relapsed
into silence again, and sat reading a newspaper.

It was in this mood that Robert found him when he returned from the
moors. Nellie had noticed that something was worrying her husband, and
she suspected some fresh trouble at the pit, though she asked no
questions.

"Where hae ye been?" asked Geordie very calmly, as Robert entered
furtively, and sat down on a chair near to the door. The boy did not
answer. He dreaded that calmness. He seemed to feel there was something
strong, cruel and relentless behind it. But he had something of his
father's nature in him, so he sat in silence.

"What kind o' conduct's this I hear ye've been up to?" was the next
question, with the same studied calm, seemingly passionless and pliable.
Still no answer from the boy, though when he looked at his father he
felt afraid. He turned his eyes appealingly to his mother, but her face
betrayed nothing, and a feeling of hopelessness entered Robert's heart.
There was nothing else but to go through with it.

"Tak' aff yer claes," quietly commanded the father, and the boy
reluctantly began to peel off his scanty garments one by one, till he
stood naked on the bare floor. He was glad that no one except the baby
was in to see his humiliation, his brothers and sisters being all out at
play.

The father rose and went to the corner where his working clothes lay in
a heap. Selecting the belt he wore round his waist at his work, he
grasped it firmly, and with the other hand took the boy by one arm,
saying:--

"Are ye going to answer my question noo', and tell me where ye ha'e
been?"

But Robert did not answer, so down came the hard leather belt with a
horrible crack across the naked little hips, and a thick red mark
appeared where the blow had fallen. A roar of pain broke from the boy's
lips, in spite of his resolution not to cry, as lash after lash fell
upon his limbs and across the little white back. Horribly, cruelly,
relentlessly the belt fell with sickening regularity, while the tender
flesh quivered at every blow, and an ugly series of red stripes
appeared along the back and down across the sturdy legs.

"Oh, dinna' hit me ony mair, faither," he pleaded at last, the firm
resolution breaking because of the pain of the blows. "Oh, dinna hit
me!" and he jumped as the blows fell without slackening. "Oh, oh, oh!
Mother, dinna' let him hit me ony mair!" roared the boy, while the grim,
set face of the parent never relaxed, and the belt continued to lash the
quivering flesh.

Mrs. Sinclair, who by this time was crying too, feeling every blow in
her mother-heart, began to fear this grim, cruel look on her husband's
face. He was mad, she felt, and there was murder in his eyes; and at
last, spurred to desperation, she jumped forward, tore at the belt with
desperate strength, and flung it into the corner, crying, as she gripped
the boy in her arms.

"In the name of Heaven, Geordie, are ye gaun to kill my bairn afore my
een?"

She tore the boy fiercely from his father's grasp and shielded him from
her husband, exclaiming at the same time with indignation, "Ha'e ye nae
humanity aboot ye at a'? Hit me if ye are goin' to hit any more. It's
murder, an' I'll no' stand ony longer an' let ye do it."

Geordie, surprised and amazed at her action, and the fierceness in her
voice, looked up, and immediately reason seemed to steal back into his
mind. A flush of shame overspread his face, and he sat down, burying his
face in his hands.

"Wheesht, sonny. Wheesht, my wee man," crooned the mother soothingly, as
she began to help Robert to get on his clothes, the tears falling still
from her own eyes, as she saw the ugly stripes and bruises upon his back
beginning to discolor. "Wheesht, sonny! Dinna' greet ony mair. There
noo', my wee son. Daddy's no' weel the nicht," she excused, "an' didna'
ken what he was doin'." Then breaking into a louder tone: "I wonder what
in Heaven's name puir folk are born for at a'. There noo'. There noo'.
Dinna greet, my wee man, an' mither'll gi'e ye yer denner."

Sinclair could stand it no longer, so slipping on his boots and
reaching for his cap, he went out, never in all his life feeling more
ashamed of himself.

Left to themselves--for all the other children were still out at
play--Nellie soon had Robert quietened and sitting at his dinner of cold
potatoes and buttermilk. Bit by bit she drew from him the story of the
fight at school; divining for herself the reason for Robert's attack
upon Peter Rundell, she soon was in possession of the whole story with
its termination of revolt against the headmaster and even the confession
of what he had written on the table.

"An' what did ye do wi' the tawse, son?" she enquired, her dark eyes
showing pride in the revolt of her laddie. She was proud to know that he
had sufficient character to stand up to a bully, even though he were a
headmaster.

"I buried them in the muir," he replied simply, "but I dinna' want to
tell naebody where they are. I'll never gi'e them back."

"Oh, weel, if ye dinna' want to tell me, dinna' do it," she said. "I'll
gang with ye to the school the morn, an' I'll see that ye're no' meddled
wi'. But, Robin, while I like to see ye staunin' up against what is
wrong, I dinna want ye to dae wrang yerself. An' I think ye was in the
wrang to strike Peter. He staggered against ye, an' I dinna think he wad
try to tramp on yer taes. An' always when ye're in the wrang, own up to
it, an' make what amends ye can."

Robin did not reply to this, but she could see that he knew she was
right. Before he could say anything she added, "Come awa' noo', if ye
ha'e gotten yer denner, son, I think ye should gang awa' to yer bed.
Ye'll be the better o' a lang sleep. Dinna' think hard o' yer faither;
he's feelin' ashamed o' hittin' ye. There must be something botherin'
him, for I dinna' mind o' him ever leatherin' one o' ye like that."

This was true, for Geordie Sinclair was rather a "cannie" man, and had
never been given to beating his children before. She felt that something
had happened in the pit, and whatever it was it had made her husband
angry.

Robert again stripped off his clothes and crept into bed, while his
mother seemed to feel every pain once more as she looked upon the soft
little body with the ugly black stripes upon it. She placed him under
the rough blankets as snugly as possible, telling him to lie well over
near to the wall, for there were five of them now who lay abreast, and
there was never too much room. He was soon asleep, and Mrs. Sinclair put
fresh coals on the fire, and began to tidy up, so as to have everything
as cheerful as possible when her husband should return. It was no easy
matter to keep a house clean, with only a single apartment, and eight
individuals living in it.

The housing conditions in most mining villages of Scotland are an
outrage on decency. In Lowwood there were no sanitary conveniences of
any kind, and it was a difficult matter for the women folk to keep a
tidy house under these circumstances. But it was wonderful, the
homeliness and comfort found in those single apartment houses. It was
home, and that made it tolerable. In such homes fine men and women were
bred and reared, but the credit was due entirely to our womenfolk; for
they had the fashioning of the spirit of the homes, and the spirit of
the homes is always the spirit of the people.




CHAPTER VI

THE COMING OF A PROPHET


Another year passed, and Robert was now eleven years of age. Though full
of hardship, hunger and poverty, yet they were not altogether unhappy
years for him. There were joys which he would not have liked to have
missed, and in later life he looked back upon them always through a mist
of memory that sometimes bordered on tears.

He had grown "in wisdom and stature," and gave promise of being a fine
sturdy boy; but lately it had been borne in upon him that no one seemed
just to look at things from his point of view. He was alluded to as "a
strange laddie," and the gulf of misunderstanding seemed to grow wider
every day. Old Granny Frame, the "howdie-wife" of the village, always
declared that he would be a great man, but others just took it for
granted that he would never see things as they saw them.

He was already too serious for a boy, and his joys were not the joys of
other children. Sensitive, and in a measure proudly reserved, he took
more and more to the moors and the hills. All day sometimes he roved
over them, and at other times he would lie motionless but happy, for the
moor always understood. If he were hurt at anything which happened, the
moor brought him solace; if he grieved, it gave him relief; and if he
were happy, it too rejoiced. He loved it in all moods, and he could not
understand how its loving silence was dreaded by others.

His parents now found that their battle, though not much easier,
certainly was no worse, and hope shone bright for them in the future.
The oldest boy was already at work and one girl was away "in service."
Robert, too, would soon be ready, and in quick succession behind him
there were three other boys. Geordie Sinclair was often told by his
workmates that he would "soon ha'e naethin' to do but put in wicks in
the pit lamps." But Geordie merely smiled. How often before had he heard
that said of others who had families like his own and he knew that he
would never see them all working. Fifty years was a long time to live
for a collier in those days of badly ventilated and poorly inspected
pits and many men were in their graves at forty.

Walker still indulged in petty persecution, whilst Geordie agitated for
the starting of a union, and many a battle the two had, until the enmity
between them developed into keen hatred.

"I wonder what Black Jock really has against me," he had said over and
over again, unable to understand his persistent hostility, but his wife
had never dared tell him.

One night, however, after he had been out of work a week, because, as
Black Jock had said, "there was nae places," she decided to tell him the
real reason of Walker's antipathy.

"Man, it's no' you, Geordie, that Black Jock has the ill will at," she
ventured to say, "it's me, an' he hits me an' the bairns through you."

"You," said Geordie in some surprise, "hoo' can that be?"

Bit by bit, though with great reluctance, she told her husband how and
when Black Jock had attempted to degrade her. When she had ended, he sat
in grim silence, while the ticking of the clock seemed to have gained in
loudness, and so, too, the purring of the cat, as it rubbed itself
against his leg, first on one side and then the other, drawing its
sleek, furry side along his ankle, turning back again, and occasionally
looking up into his face for the recognition which it vainly tried to
win.

The fire burned low in the grate as Nellie busied herself with washing
the dishes; while outside the loud cries of the children, playing on the
green, mingled occasionally with a clink, as the steel quoits fell upon
each other, telling of some enthusiastic players, who were practicing
for the local games. Loud cries of encouragement broke from the
supporters, and Geordie and Nellie heard all these--even the plaintive
wail of a child crying in a house a few doors farther up the "row," and
the mother's attempts to soothe it into forgetfulness of its temporary
pain or disappointment.

The little apartment seemed to have become suddenly cheerless. Nellie
felt the silence most oppressive, for she was wondering how he was
taking it all. Soon, however, he rose and reached for his cap. Looking
at his wife with eyes that set all her fears at rest--for she saw pride
in them, pride in her and the way she had acted--he said:--

"Thank ye, Nellie; ye are a' the woman I always thocht ye was, an' I'll
see that nae dirty brute ever again gets the chance to insult ye," and
he was out of the door before she could question him further.

Geordie went straight to where Walker lived and knocked at the door. A
girl of fourteen came in answer to his knock, for Walker was a widower,
his wife having died shortly after the birth of their only child.

"Is yer faither in?" enquired Geordie quietly, hardly able to control
the raging anger in his heart.

"No, he's no' in," replied the girl. "Oh, is that you, Geordie?" she
asked, recognizing him in the darkness. "My father said when he went oot
that if ye cam' to the door, I was to tell ye he had nae places yet."

"That's a' richt," said Geordie, still very quietly. "Do ye ken onything
aboot where he is this nicht?"

"No, unless he's up in Sanny Robertson's, or maybe in Peter Fleming's."

"Thank ye," said Geordie, turning away, "I'll go up an' see if he is
there."

He knew that Peter Fleming was working that night, and had stopped on an
extra shift to repair a road, by special instructions from Walker; so
Geordie went direct to Fleming's house and knocked at the door. After an
interval a woman's voice enquired, "Wha's that?" and Geordie thought
there was anxiety in it.

"Open the door," said Geordie quietly. "What the hell are ye afert for?"
and the woman, thinking it was her husband returned from work,
immediately opened the door.

"You're shairly early," she said; then suddenly recognizing who the
intruder was, she tried to shut the door.

"Na, na," said Geordie, now well in the doorway, "I want to see Black
Jock."

"He's no' here," she lied readily enough, but with some agitation in her
voice.

"You're a liar, Jean," replied Geordie, "that's him gaun oot at the room
door," and Geordie withdrew hurriedly, determined that Black Jock should
not escape him. He hurried to the end of the "row," and waited with all
the passion of long years raging through his whole being. He stepped out
as Walker advanced, and said: "Is that you, Walker?"

"Ay," came the answer, "what do ye want?" as he came to a halt.

"Just a meenit," said Geordie, placing himself in front of Walker,
barring his way. "I want to warm yer dirty hide. It ought to have been
done years ago, but I never kent till the nicht, and I'm gaun to dae it
the noo," and the tones of his voice indicated that he meant what he
said.

"Oh! What's wrang?" asked Walker in affected surprise. "I'll get ye a
place," he went on hurriedly, "just as soon as I can--in fac' there's
yin that'll be ready by the morn."

"I'm no gi'ein' a damn for yer place. It's you I'm efter the nicht. Come
on, face up," and Sinclair squared himself for battle.

Thus challenged, Walker, who was like all bullies a coward at heart,
tried to temporize, but Sinclair was in no mood for delay.

"Come on, pit them up, or I'll break yer jaw for you," he said
threateningly.

"Man, Geordie, what ails ye the nicht?" asked Walker in hurried alarm,
wondering wildly how he could stave off the chastisement which he knew
from Geordie's voice he might expect. "Talk sensibly, man. Try an' ha'e
some sense. What's the matter wi' ye?"

"Matter," echoed Geordie, "jist this. The wife has jist telt me a' aboot
the nicht ye cam' chappin' to the door when I was lyin' hurt. She kent
I'd break yer neck for it, and she was feart to tell me. So put up yer
fists, ye black-hearted brute that ye are. I'm gaun to gi'e ye what we
should hae gotten seven years syne, an' it'll maybe put ye frae preyin'
on decent women. Come on."

"Awa', man, Geordie, an' behave yersel'," began Walker, trying to evade
him.

"Tak' that, then, ye dirty brute!" and Geordie smashed his fist straight
between Walker's eyes.

Roused at last, Walker showed fight and swung at Sinclair. He was the
younger man by about two years, and had not had the hard work and bad
conditions of the other, but Sinclair was a strong man, and was now
roused to a great pitch, so he struck out with terrific force. Then the
two closed and swayed about, struggling, cursing and punching each other
with brutal might. Sinclair's extra weight and more powerful build soon
began to tell, and he was able to send home one or two heavy blows on
Black Jock's face and body. Panting and blowing, they separated, and as
they did so, Sinclair caught his opponent a straight hard crash on the
jaw that sent him rolling to the muddy road, and feeling as if a
thousand fists had struck him all at once.

Walker lay for a short time, then gathering himself together, he rose to
his feet and set off at a quick pace in the direction of his house,
whilst Geordie, too, turned homewards, feeling that it was useless to
follow him.

Mrs. Sinclair did not hear what had happened till a week later, when
Geordie, being in a communicative mood, told her of the affair in
simple, unaffected terms.

Shortly afterwards a great event happened in Lowwood, which made the
deepest impression on Robert's mind. His father still being out of work,
had sent a letter to Robert Smillie, who was then beginning to be heard
of more and more in mining circles. In the letter Geordie explained, to
the best of his ability, the local circumstances, and he mentioned his
own case of persecution, and his agitation for the starting of a union.
Smillie sent word in reply that he would come in two days, and Geordie
enthusiastically set to work to organize a meeting, going round every
house in the district, telling the folks that Smillie was coming, and
exhorting them to turn out and hear him.

"I dinna think it'll do any guid," said old Tam Smith, when Geordie
called upon him. "It's a' richt talkin' about a union, but the mair ye
fecht the mair ye're oppressed. The bosses ha'e the siller, an' they can
ay buy the brains to serve them."

Geordie made no reply, for he knew from experience that it was only too
true.

"Just look at young Jamie Soutar," continued Tam. "He is yin o' the
cleverest men i' the country. He wrocht wi' me as a laddie when he went
into the pit, an' noo' he's travelin' manager for that big company doon
the west country, an' I'm telt he's organizin' an' advocatin' the
formin' o' what he calls a Coal Combine."

"That's a' richt, Tam. I admit it a', though I dinna jist ken what a
Coal Combine means; but I ken that Bob Smillie is makin' great wark wi'
the union he has formed. I ken he has gotten rises in wages for a' the
men who ha'e joined, an' that he is advocatin' an eight hours day. If
that can be done doon there, it can be done here; for there's naebody
has ony mair need o' a eight hours day than miners."

"Oh, I'll turn oot a' richt at the meetin'," said Tam, who was always
credited with seeing farther than most of his workmates, "an' I'll join
the union, too, if it's formed; but ye'll see if ye live lang enough
that the union'll no' be a' ye think it. The ither side will organize to
bate ye every time." And with this encouraging prophecy, Geordie went on
to the next house.

"No, I'm no' comin' to nae meetin'. I want naethin' to dae wi' yer
unions. I can get on weel enough without them," curtly said Dan Sellars,
the inmate. He was what Geordie somewhat expressively called a
"belly-crawler," a talebearer, and one who drank and gambled along with
Walker, Fleming, Robertson and a few others.

"Man, it'll no' do muckle guid," said another, "ye mind hoo' big Geordie
Ritchie ran awa' wi' the money o' the last union we started? It'll gi'e
a wheen bigmouths a guid job and an easy time. That's a' it will do."

"Oh, ay," answered Sinclair, "but that's no' to say that the union'll
ay fail. Folks are no' a' Geordie Ritchies, an' they're no' a' bigmouths
either. We're bound to succeed if we care to be solid thegither."

"I'll come to the meetin', Geordie, although I was sayin' that, but I'll
no' promise to join yer union," was the answer, and Sinclair had to be
content with that.

Thus went Geordie from house to house, meeting with much discouragement,
and even downright opposition, but he was always good-humored, and so he
seldom failed to extract a promise to attend the meeting.

The night of the meeting arrived, and the hall--an old, badly lit and
ill-ventilated wooden erection--was packed to its utmost. There were
eager faces, and dull, listless ones among the audience; there were eyes
glad with expectancy, and eyes dulled with long years of privations and
brutal labor; limbs young and supple and full of energy, and limbs stiff
and sore, crooked and maimed.

Geordie Sinclair was chairman, and when he rose to open the meeting and
introduce Smillie, he felt as if the whole world were looking on and
listening.

"Weel, men," he began, halting and hesitating in his utterance, "for a
lang time now there has been much cryin' for a union here. There has
been a lot of persecution gaun' on, an' it has been lang felt that
something should be done. We ha'e heard of how other men in other places
ha'e managed to start a union, and how it has been a guid thing in
risin' wages. Mr. Smillie has come here the nicht to tell us how the
other districts ha'e made a start, and what thae other districts has
gotten. If it can be done there, it can be done here. I ha'e wrocht
aside Bob Smillie, an' I ken what kind of man he is. He has done great
wark doon in the west country, an' he is weel fitted and able to be the
spokesman for the miners o' Scotlan'. I'm no gaun' to say ony mair, but
I can say that it gie's me great pleasure to ask Mr. Smillie to address
ye."

A round of applause greeted Smillie as he rose to address them. Tall and
manly, he dominated his audience from the very first sentence, rousing
them to a great pitch of enthusiasm, as he proceeded to tell of all the
many hardships which miners had to endure, of the "Block" system of
persecution, and to point to the only means of successfully curing them
by organizing into one solid body, so that they might become powerful
enough to enforce their demands for a fuller, freer, and a happier life.
Never in all his life did he speak with more passion than he did that
night in Lowwood.

Little Robert was present in the hall--the only child there; and as
Smillie spoke in passionate denunciation of the tyrannies and
persecutions of the mine-owners and their officials, his little heart
leapt in generous indignation. Many things which he had but dimly
understood before, began to be plain to him, as he sat with eyes riveted
upon Smillie's face, drinking in every word as the speaker plead with
the men to unite and defend themselves. Then, as his father's wrongs
were poured forth from the platform, and as Smillie appealed to them in
powerful sentences to stand loyally by their comrade, the boy felt he
could have followed Smillie anywhere, and that he could have slain every
man who refused to answer that call. Away beyond the speaker the boy had
already glimpsed something of the ideal which Smillie sketched, and his
soul throbbed and ached to see how simple and how easy it was for life
to be made comfortable and good and pleasant for all. Bob Smillie never
won a truer heart than he did that night in winning this barefooted,
ragged boy's.

Round after round of applause greeted the speaker when he had finished,
and in response to his appeal to them to organize, a branch of the union
was formed, with Geordie Sinclair as its first president. At the request
of the meeting Smillie interviewed Black Jock next morning, and as a
result Sinclair got started on the following day.

Smillie stayed overnight with Geordie. They were certainly somewhat
cramped for room, though Geordie had just lately got another apartment
"broken through," which gave them a room and kitchen.

The two men sat late into the night, discussing their hopes and plans,
and the trade union movement generally.

"It's a great work, Bob, you ha'e set yersel', an' it'll mean
thenklessness an' opposition frae the very men you want maist to help,"
said Sinclair as they talked.

"Ay, it will," was the reply, spoken in a half dreamy tone, as if the
speaker saw into the future. "I ken what it'll mean, but it must be
done. I have long had it in me to set myself this work, for no
opposition ought to stand in the way of the uplifting of the workers. I
... It's the system, Geordie!" he cried, as if bringing his mind back to
the present. "It is the system that is wrong. It is immoral and evil in
its foundations, and it forces the employers to do the things they do.
Competition compels them to do things they would not have to do if there
were a cooperative system of industry. Our people have to suffer for it
all--they pay the price in hunger, misery and suffering."

"Ay," said Geordie, "that's true, Bob. But what a lang time it'll tak'
afore the workers will realize what you are oot for. They'll look on
your work wi' suspicion, and a wheen o' them'll even oppose you."

"Ay," was the reply, "I know that. It will mean the slow building up of
our own county first, bit by bit, organizing, now here, now there, and
fighting the other class interests all the time. It will divide our
energies and retard our work, and the greatest fight will be to get our
own people to recognize what is wanted and how to get it. Then through
the county we'll have to work to consolidate the whole of Scotland; from
that to work in the English and Welsh miners, while at the same time
seeking to permeate other branches of industrial workers with our ideas.
And then, when we have got that length, and raised the mental vision of
our people, and strengthened their moral outlook, we can appeal to the
workers of other lands to join us in bringing about the time when we'll
be able to regard each other, not as enemies, but as members of one
great Humanity, working for each other's welfare as we work for our
own."

"That's it, Bob," agreed Geordie, completely carried away with Smillie's
enthusiasm. "That's it, Bob. If we can only get them to see hoo' simple
and easy it a' is ... Oh, they maun be made to see it that way!" he
burst out. "We'll work nicht an' day but in the end we'll get them to
see it that way yet."

"Yes, but it won't be easy, Geordie," he replied. "Our people's lives
have been stunted and warped so long, they've been held in bondage and
poverty to such an extent, that it will take years--generations,
maybe--before they come to realize it. But we must go on, undeterred by
opposition, rousing them from their apathy, and continually holding
before them the vision of the time we are working to establish. Ay,
Geordie,"--and a quieter note came into his voice, "I hope I shall be
strong enough to go on, and never to give heed to the discouragements I
shall undoubtedly meet with in the work; but I've made up my mind, and
I'll see it through or dee."

The talk of the two men worked like magic upon the impressionable mind
of young Robert, who sat listening. Long after all had retired for the
night he lay awake, his little mind away in the future, living in the
earthly paradise which had been conjured up before him by the warm,
inspiring sentences of this miners' leader, and joyful in the
contemplation of this paradise of happy humanity, he fell asleep. Could
he have foreseen the terrible, heartbreaking ordeals through which
Smillie often had to pass, still clinging with tenacity to the gleam
that led him on, praying sometimes that strength would be given to keep
him from turning back; of the strenuous battle he had, not only with
those he fought against, but of the greater and more bitter fights he
too often had with those of his own class whom he was trying to save;
and of the fights even with himself, it would have raised Smillie still
more in the estimation of this sensitive-hearted collier laddie.




CHAPTER VII

ON THE PIT-HEAD


"Hooray, mither, I've passed the examination, an' I can leave the school
noo!" cried Robert one day, breaking in upon his mother, as she was
busily preparing the dinner. She stopped peeling the potatoes to look up
and smile, as she replied: "Passed the fifth standard, Robin?" she said,
lovingly.

"Ay," said the boy proudly, his face beaming with smiles. "It was quite
easy. Oh, if you had just seen the sums we got; they were easy as
winking. I clinked them like onything."

"My, ye maun hae been real clever," said Mrs. Sinclair encouragingly.

"Sammy Grierson failed," broke in Robert again, too full of his success
to contain himself. "He couldna' tell what was the capital of
Switzerland! Then the inspector asked him what was the largest river in
Europe, an' he said the Thames. He forgot that the Thames was just the
biggest in England. I was sittin' next him an' had to answer baith
times, an' the inspector said I was a credit to the school. My, it was
great fun!" and he rattled on, full of importance at his success.

"Ay, but maybe Sammy was just nervous," said his mother, continuing her
operations upon the potatoes, and trying to let him see that there might
have been a cause for the failure of the other boy to answer correctly.

"Ach, but he's a dunce onyway," said the boy. "He canna spell an easy
word like 'examination,' an' he had twenty-two mistakes in his dictation
test," he went on, and she was quick to note the air of priggish
importance in his utterance.

"Ay, an' you're left the school now," said Mrs. Sinclair, after a
pause, during which her busy fingers handled the potatoes with great
skill. "Your faither will be gey pleased when he comes hame the day,"
she said, giving the conversation a new turn.

"Ay, I'll get leavin' the school when I like, an' gaun to the pit when I
like."

"Would ye no' raither gang to the school a while langer?" observed the
mother after a pause, and looking at him with searching eyes.

"No," was the decisive reply. "I'd raither gang to work. I'm ready for
leaving the school and forby, all the other laddies are gaun to the pit
to work."

"But look at the things ye micht be if ye gaed to the school a while
langer, Robin," she went on. "The life of a miner's no' a very great
thing. There's naething but hard work, an' dangerous work at that, an'
no' very muckle for it." And there was an anxious desire in her voice,
as if trying to convince him.

"Ay, but I'd raither leave the school," he answered, though with less
decision this time. "Besides, it'll mean more money for you," he
concluded.

"Then, look how quick a miner turns auld, Rob. He's done at forty years
auld," she said, as if she did not wish to heed what he said, "but
meenisters an' schoolmaisters, an' folk o' that kin', leeve a gey lang
while. Look at the easy time they hae to what a collier has. They dinna
get up at five o'clock in the mornin' like your faither. They rise aboot
eight, an' start work at nine. Meenisters only work yae day a week, an'
only aboot two hoors at that. They hae clean claes to wear, a fine white
collar every day, an' sae mony claes that they can put on a different
rig-oot every day. Their work is no' hard, an' look at the pay they get;
no' like your faither wi' his two or three shillin's a day. They hae the
best o' it," she concluded, as she rested her elbows on her knees and
again searched his face keenly to see if her arguments had had any
effect upon him.

"Ay, but I'd raither work," reiterated the boy stubbornly.

"Then they hae plenty o' books," continued the temptress, loth to give
up and keen to draw as rosy a picture as possible, "and a braw hoose,
an' a piano in it. They get a lang holiday every year, and occasional
days besides, an' their pay for it. But a collier gets nae pay when he's
idle. It's the same auld grind awa' at hard work, among damp, an' gas,
an' bad air, an' aye the chance o' being killed wi' falls of stone or
something else. It's no' a nice life. It's gey ill paid, an' forby
naebody ever respects them."

"Ay, mither; but do you no' mind what Bob Smillie said?" chipped in the
boy readily, glad that he could quote such an authority to back his
view. "It's because they dinna respect themselves. They just need to do
things richt, an' things wadna' be sae bad as they are," and he felt as
if he clinched his argument by quoting Smillie against her.

"Ay, Robin," she replied, "that's true; but for it a', you maun admit
that the schoolmaister an' the meenister hae the best o' it." But she
felt that her counter was not very effective.

"My faither says meenisters are nae guid to the world, but
schoolmaisters are," said the boy, with a grudging admission for the
teaching profession. "But I dinna care. I'd raither gang to work. I
dinna want to gang ony langer to the school. I'm tired o' it, an' I want
to leave it," and there was more decision in his voice this time than
ever.

"A' richt, Robin," said Mrs. Sinclair resignedly, as she emptied the
peeled potatoes into a pot and put them on the fire.

There were now seven of a family, and she knew that Robert was needed to
increase the earnings, and that meant there was nothing but the pit for
him.

"You maun hae been real clever, though, to pass," she said again, after
a pause. "How many failed?"

"Four, mither," he cried, again waxing enthusiastic over the
examination. "Mysie Maitland passed, too. She was first among the
lasses, and I was first in the laddies."

"Eh, man, Bob, learnin' is a gran' thing to hae," she said wistfully,
looking at him very tenderly.

"Ay, but I'm gaun to the pit," he said decisively, fearing that she was
again going to enlarge upon the schoolmaster's life.

"Very weel," she said after a bit, "I suppose ye'll be lookin' for a
job. Your faither was saying last nicht that ye're too young to gang
into the pit. Ye maun be twelve years auld afore ye get doon the pit
noo, ye ken. So I suppose it'll be the pithead for ye for a while."

She had often dreamed her dream, even though she knew it was an
impossible one, that she would like to see her laddie go right on
through the Secondary School in the county town to the University. She
knew he had talents above the ordinary, and, besides, her soul rebelled
at the thought of her boy having to endure the things that his father
had to go through with. She was an intelligent woman, and though she had
had little education, she saw things differently from most of the women
of her class. She had character, and her influence was easily traced in
her children, but more especially in Robert, who was always her favorite
bairn. She was wise, too, and had fathomed some secrets of psychology
which many women with a university training had never even glimpsed.

She often maintained that her children's minds were molded before she
gave them birth, and that it depended upon the state of mind she was in
herself during those nine months, as to what kind of soul her child
would be born possessing. It may have been merely a whim on her part,
but she held tenaciously to her belief, acted in accordance with it, and
no one could dissuade her from it. Robert was her child of song, her
sunny offspring, stung into revolt against tyranny of all kinds. His
soul, strong and true as steel, she knew would stand whatever test was
put upon it. Incorruptible and sincere, nothing could break him.
Generous and forgiving, he could never be bought.

"I'll gang the nicht, mither, an' see if I can get a job. I micht get
started the morn," he said breaking in upon her thought.

"A' richt, Robin," she replied with a sigh of resignation. "I suppose
it'll hae to be done. It'll be yer first start in life, an' I hope
ye'll aye be found doin' what's richt; for guid never comes o' ill
thinkin' or ill doin."

"If I get a job, mither, maybe I'll get one-an'-tippence a day like Dick
Tamson. If I do it'll be a big help to you, mither. My! I'll soon mak' a
poun' at that rate," and he laughed enthusiastically at the thought of
it. A pound seemed to represent riches to his boyish mind. What might
his mother not do with a pound? Ever so many things could be bought. And
that was merely a start. His wages would soon increase with experience,
and when he went down the pit, which would be soon, he'd earn more, and
his mother would maybe be able to buy new clothes for all the family.

He wondered what it would be like to have a new suit of clothes--real
new ones out of a shop. Hitherto he had only enjoyed "make downs," as
they were called--new ones made out of some one's cast-off clothing. But
a real new suit, such as he had seen the schoolmaster's boy sometimes
wearing! That would be a great experience! And so, lost in contemplation
of the things big wages might do, the day wore on, and he was happy in
his dreams.

That same night Robert went to call on the "gaffer," Black Jock, and as
he neared the door he met Mysie Maitland.

"Where are ye goin', Rab?" she enquired shyly.

"To look for a job," he replied proudly, feeling that now he was left
school, and about to start work, he could be patronizing to a girl.
"Where are you gaun?" he asked, as Mysie joined him in the direction of
Walker's house.

"I'm gaun to look for a job, too," she replied. "I'm no' gaun back to
the school, an' my mither thinks I'll be as weel on the pit-head as at
service. An' forby, I'll be able to help my mither at nichts when I come
hame, an' I couldna' do that if I gaed to service," she finished by way
of explanation. As Mysie was the oldest of a family of six, her parents
would be glad to have even her small earnings, and so she, too, was
looking for a job.

When Walker came to the door, Robert took the matter in hand, and became
spokesman for both himself and Mysie.

"We've left the school the day, Mr. Walker, an' Mysie an' me want to
ken if ye can gie us a job on the pitheid?" and Walker noted with
amusement the manly swagger in the boy's voice and bearing.

"We dinna' usually start lasses as wee as Mysie," replied Walker, eyeing
the children with an amused smile, "but we need twa or three laddies to
the tables to help the women to pick stones."

Mysie's face showed her keen disappointment. She knew that it was not
customary for girls to be employed as young as she was; and Robert noted
her disappointed look as well.

"Could ye no' try Mysie, too?" he asked, breaking in anxiously. "She's a
guid worker, an' she'll be able to pick as many stanes as the weemen.
Willn't ye, Mysie?" And he turned to the girl for corroboration with
assurance.

As Mysie nodded, Walker saw a hint of tears in the girl's eyes, and the
quivering of the tiny mouth; and as there is a soft spot in all men's
hearts, even he had sympathy, for he understood what refusal meant.

"Weel, I micht gie her a trial," he said, "but she'll hae to work awfu'
hard," and he spoke as one conferring an especial concession upon the
girl.

"Oh, she'll work hard enough," said Robert. "Mysie's a guid worker, an'
you'll see ..."

"Oh, then," said Walker hurriedly breaking in upon Robert's outburst of
agreement, "ye can both come oot the morn, and I'll try and put ye both
up."

"How muckle pay will we get?" asked Robert, who was now feeling his
importance, and felt that this was after all the main point to be
considered.

"Well, we gie laddies one an' a penny," replied Walker, still smiling
amusedly at the boy's eagerness, "an' lasses are aye paid less than
callants. But it's all big lasses we hae, an' they get one an' tippence.
I'll gie Mysie a shillin' to begin wi'," and he turned away as if that
settled the matter, and was about to close the door.

"But if she picks as many stanes as a laddie, will ye gie her the same
pay as me?" interrupted Robert, not wishing the interview to end without
a definite promise of payment.

"She's gey wee," replied Walker, "an' she canna' expect as much as a
laddie," and he looked at Mysie, as if measuring her with a critical eye
to assess her value.

"But if she does as muckle work, would ye gie her the same money?"
eagerly questioned the boy, and Mysie felt that there was no one surely
so brave as Robert, nor so good, and she looked at him with gratitude in
her eyes.

"Very weel," said Walker, not desiring to prolong the interview. "Come
oot the morn, an' I'll gie ye both one an' a penny."

"Six an' sixpence a week," said Mysie, as they tramped home. "My, that's
a lot o' money, Rab, isn't it?"

"Ay, it's a guid lot, Mysie," he replied, "but we'll hae to work awfu'
hard, or we'll no' get it. Guid nicht!" And so the children parted,
feeling that the world was about to be good to them, and all their
thought of care was bounded by six and sixpence a week.

Mysie was glad to tell the result of the whole interview to her parents.
She was full of it, and could talk of nothing else as she worked about
the house that night. Her mother had been in delicate health for a long
time, and so Mysie had most of the housework to do. Matthew Maitland and
his wife, Jenny, were pleased at the result, and gave Robert due credit
for his part--a credit that Mysie was delighted to hear from them.

The next morning the two children went to work, when children of their
years ought to have been still in bed dreaming their little dreams.

The great wheels at the pithead seemed terrible in their never-ending
revolutions, as they flew round to bring up the loads of coal. The big
yawning chasm, with the swinging steel rope, running away down into the
great black hole, was awesome to look at, as the rope wriggled and
swayed with its sinister movements; and the roar and whir of wheels,
when the tables started, bewildered them. These crashed and roared and
crunched and groaned; they would squeal and shriek as if in pain, then
they would moan a little, as if gathering strength to break out in
indignant protest; and finally, roar out in rebellious anger, giving
Robert the idea of an imprisoned monster of gigantic strength which had
been harnessed whilst it slept, but had wakened at last to find itself
impotent against its Lilliputian captor--man.

An old man instructed them in their duties.

"You'll staun here," he panted, indicating a little platform about two
feet broad, and running along the full length of the "scree." "You'll
watch for every bit stane that comes doon, an' dinna' let any past. Pick
them oot as soon as you see them, an' fling them owre there, an' Dickie
Tamson'll fill them into the hutch, an' get them taken to the dirt
bing."

"A' richt," said Robert, as he looked at the narrow platform, with its
weak, inadequate railing, which could hardly prevent anyone from falling
down on to the wagon track, some fifteen or twenty feet below on one
side, or on to the moving "scree" on the other.

"Weel, mind an' no' let any stanes gang past, for there are aye
complaints comin' in aboot dirty coals. If ye dinna work an' keep oot
the stanes, you'll get the sack," and he said this as if he meant to
convey to them that he was the sole authority on the matter.

He was an old man, and Robert, as he looked at him, wondered if he had
ever laughed. "Auld Girnie" they called him, because of his habit of
always finding fault with everything and everybody, for no one could
please him. His mouth seemed to be one long slit extending across his
face, showing one or two stumps sticking in the otherwise toothless
gums, and giving him the appearance of always "grinning."

The women workers' appearance jarred upon Robert. So far women to him
had always been beings of a higher order, because he had always thought
of them as being like his mother. But here they were rough and untidy,
dressed like goblins in dirty torn clothes, with an old dirty sack
hanging from the waist for an overall. Instinctively Robert felt that
this was no place for women. One of them, who worked on the opposite
side of the scree from Robert--a big, strong, heavily-built young woman
of perhaps twenty-five--in moving forward tore her petticoat, which
caught in the machinery, and made a rent right up above her knee.

"Ach, to hell wi' it," she cried in exasperation, as she turned up the
torn petticoat, displaying a leg all covered with coal grime, which
seemed never to have been washed.

"Is that no' awfu'? Damn my soul, I'll hae to gang hame the nicht in my
sark tail," and she laughed loudly at her sally.

"I'll put a pin in it, it'll do till I gang hame," she added, and she
started to pin the torn edges together. But all day the bare leg shone
through the torn petticoat, and rough jokes were made by the men who
worked near by--jokes which she seemed to enjoy, for she would hold up
the torn garment and laugh with the others.

The women and boys never seemed to heed the things that filled Robert
and Mysie with so much amazement. The two children bent over the
swinging tables as the coal passed before them. They eagerly grabbed at
the stones, flinging them to the side with a zeal that greatly amused
the older hands.

"Ye'll no' keep up that pace lang," said one woman. "Ye'll soon tire, so
ye'd better take it easy."

"Let them alone," broke in the old man, who had a penny a day more for
acting as a sort of gaffer. "Get on wi' yer own work, an' never mind
them."

"Gang you to hell, auld wheezie bellows," replied one woman coarsely,
adding a rough jest at his breathlessness, whilst the others laughed
loudly, adding, each one, another sally to torment the old man.

But after a time Robert felt his back begin to ache, and a strange dizzy
feeling came into his head, as a result of his bent position and the
swinging and crashing of the tables. He straightened himself and felt as
if he were going to break in two. He glanced at Mysie, wondering how she
felt, and he thought she looked white and ill.

"Take a wee rest, Mysie," he said. "Are ye no' awfu' dizzy?"

Mysie heard, but "six and sixpence a week" was still ringing in her
head. Indeed, the monotonous swing of the tables ground out the refrain
in their harsh clamor, as they swung backwards and forwards. "Six and
sixpence a week," with every leap forwards; "six and sixpence a week" as
they receded. "Six and sixpence" with every shake and roar, and with
each pulsing throb of the engine; and "six and sixpence a week" her
little hands, already cut and bleeding, kept time with regular beat, as
she lifted the stones and flung them aside. She was part of the
refrain--a note in the fortissimo of industry. The engines roared and
crashed and hissed to it. They beat the air regularly as the pistons
rose and fell back and forth, thump, thud, hiss, groan, up and down, out
and in: "Six and sixpence a week!"

Mysie tried to straighten herself, as Robert had advised, and
immediately a pain shot through her back which seemed to snap it in two.
The whole place seemed to be rushing round in a mad whirl, the roof of
the shed coming down, and the floor rushing up, when with a stagger
Mysie fell full length upon a "bing" of stones, bruising her cheek, and
cutting her little hands worse than ever. This was what usually happened
to all beginners at "pickin' sklits."

One of the women raised Mysie up, gave her a drink from a flask
containing cold tea, and sat her aside to rest a short time.

"Just sit there a wee, my dochter," she said with rough kindness, "an'
you'll soon be a' richt. They mostly a' feel that way when they first
start on the scree."

Mysie was feeling sick, and already the thought was shaping in her mind
that she would never be able to continue. She had only worked an hour as
yet, but it seemed to her a whole day.

"Six and sixpence a week" sang the tables as they swung; "six and
sixpence a week" whirred the engines; "six and sixpence a week" crashed
the screes; and her head began to throb with the roar of it all. "Six
and sixpence a week" as the coal tumbled down the chutes into the
wagons; "six and sixpence" crunched the wheels, until it seemed as if
everything about a pit were done to the tune of "six and sixpence a
week."

It was thundered about her from one corner, it squealed at her from
another, roared at her from behind, groaned at her in front; it wheezed
from the roof, and the very shed in which they stood swayed and shivered
to its monotonous song. "Six and sixpence a week" was working into every
fiber of her being. She had been born to it, was living it, and it
seemed that the very wheels of eternity were grinding out her destiny to
its roar and its crash, and its terrible regular throb and swing.

She grew still more sick, and vomited; so one of the women took her by
the hand and led her down the narrow rickety wooden stair out across the
dirt "bing" into the pure air. In a quarter of an hour she brought her
back almost well, except for the pain in her head.

"Where the hell hae ye been, Mag?" wheezed the old gaffer, addressing
the woman with irritated authority.

"Awa' an' boil yer can, auld belly-crawler," was the elegant response,
as she bent to her work, taking as little notice of him as if he were a
piece of coal.

"Ye're awa' faur owre much," he returned. This was an allusion to
clandestine meetings which were sometimes arranged between some of the
men in authority--"penny gaffers," as they were called--and some of the
girls who took their fancy.

After all, gaffers had certain powers of advancement, and could increase
wages to those who found favor in their eyes, to the extent of a penny
or twopence per day, and justified it by representing that these girls
were value for it, because they were better workers. Again, matters were
always easier to these girls of easy virtue, for they got better jobs,
and could even flout the authority of lesser gaffers, if their relations
with the higher ones were as indicated.

Mag replied with a coarse jest, and the others laughed roughly, and
Mysie and Robert, not understanding, wondered why the old man got angry.

Thus the day wore on, men and women cursed while familiarities took
place which were barely hidden from the children. Talk was coarse and
obscenely suggestive, and the whole atmosphere was brutalizing. Long,
however, before the day was ended, Robert and Mysie were feeling as if
every bone in their little bodies would break.

"Just take anither wee rest, Mysie," said Robert. "I'll keep pickin' as
hard as I can, an' ye'll no' be sae muckle missed."

"Oh, I'll hae to keep on, too," she replied, almost despairingly, with a
hint of tears in her voice. "Ye mind I promised to work hard, an' ye
said I was a guid worker, too. If I dinna' keep on I micht only get a
shillin' a day."

"But I'll pick as much as the twa o' us can do," pursued Robert, with
persuasive voice. "I'll gang harder, until ye can get a wee rest."

So Mysie, in sheer exhaustion, stopped for a little, and the dizzy
feeling was soon gone again. Yet the horrible pain in the back troubled
them all day, and the dizziness returned frequently, but the others
assured them that they'd soon get used to it. Their hands were cut,
bruised and dirty, and poor little Mysie felt often that she would like
to cry, but "six and sixpence a week" kept time in her heart to all her
troubles, and seemed to drive her onward with relentless force.

With rough kindness the women encouraged the two children, and did much
to make their lot easier. But it was a trying day--a hard, heartbreaking
day, a day of tears and pains and discouragement, a horrible Gethsemane
of sweat and agony, whose memory not even "six and sixpence a week"
would ever eradicate from their minds, though it made the day bearable.

The great wheels groaned and swished like the imprisoned monster of
Robert's imaginings, and at last came to a halt at the end of the shift;
but in the pattern which they had that day woven into the web of
industr