21907	----	AN INVESTIGATION INTO THE NATURE OF BLACK PHTHISIS; OR ULCERATION INDUCED BY CARBONACEOUS ACCUMULATION IN THE LUNGS OF COAL MINERS, AND OTHER OPERATIVES. BY ARCHIBALD MAKELLAR, M.D., F.R.S.S.A., FELLOW OF THE ROYAL COLLEGE OF PHYSICIANS OF EDINBURGH; MEMBER OF THE MEDICO-CHIRURGICAL SOCIETY, OF THE HARVEIAN SOCIETY, OF THE OBSTETRICAL SOCIETY, ETC. ETC., AND ONE OF THE PHYSICIANS TO THE NEW TOWN DISPENSARY OF EDINBURGH. REPRINTED FROM THE MONTHLY JOURNAL OF MEDICAL SCIENCE. EDINBURGH: SUTHERLAND & KNOX, 58 PRINCES STREET. 1846. ANDREW JACK, PRINTER, EDINBURGH. PREFACE. An abstract of the investigations into the nature of carbonaceous infiltration into the pulmonary tissues of coal miners, was read by Dr Makellar at a meeting of the Medico-Chirurgical Society of Edinburgh, Wednesday, 8th July, 1845, Dr Gairdner, President, in the Chair. Reference was made, in particular, to the East Lothian coal-miners. The carbonaceous disease described, was stated to be caused by the inhalation of substances floating in the atmosphere of the coal-pit, such as the products of the combustion of gunpowder, the smoke from the miner's lamp, and the other foreign matters with which the air of the mines is heavily charged, in consequence of their defective ventilation. In the mines in which gunpowder is used, the disease is most severe in its character, and most rapid in destroying the pulmonary tissue. The carbon in some cases is expectorated in considerable quantity for some time previous to death; in others, it is retained, and accumulates to a great extent in the lungs. As the disease advances, the action of the heart becomes feeble; and the appearance of the blood indicates a carbonaceous admixture. The carbonaceous deposit seems to supersede or supplant the formation of other morbid bodies in the substance of the lungs--such as tubercle; for in individuals belonging to families in which there exists an undoubted phthisical diathesis, tubercle is never found on dissection. The views expressed in this communication called forth the following remarks. PROFESSOR CHRISTISON called attention to the new and important fact, of the carbonaceous matter being found in the circulating mass. He attached great importance to Dr Makellar's researches. PROFESSOR ALLEN THOMSON remarked, that the presence of this carbonaceous matter in the blood, by no means proved, that it was formed in, or from the blood. DR HUGHES BENNETT said, that the antagonism of this carbonaceous disease to tubercle, was a fact of great interest and importance, especially in connection with two other recent observations; viz. 1st, That the depositions of carbon in the lungs of old people, (which French pathologists describe,) are not found associated with tubercle; and, 2d, That under the supposed cicatrices of pulmonary tubercular cavities, a layer of carbonaceous matter is commonly found. Dr Makellar's paper called forth some interesting observations from the President, Professor Simpson, and others. BLACK PHTHISIS, OR ULCERATION INDUCED BY CARBONACEOUS ACCUMULATION IN THE LUNGS OF COAL-MINERS Among the many diseases incident to the coal-miner, none come oftener under medical treatment, than affections of the respiratory and circulating organs. While the collier is subject--during his short but laborious life--to the other diseases which afflict the labouring classes in this country, such as inflammations, fevers, acute rheumatism, and the various eruptive diseases, he, at last, unavoidably, falls a victim to lesions within the cavity of the chest, arising from the nature of his employment. In the present communication, it is proposed to lay before the profession a series of remarks, which I have been enabled to put together, with a view to elucidate the cause and progress of that very peculiar pulmonary disease, incident to coal-miners, which I shall denominate BLACK PHTHISIS, or Ulceration induced by Carbonaceous Accumulation in the Lungs. The rise and progress of the malady may be thus sketched: A robust young man, engaged as a miner, after being for a short time so occupied, becomes affected with cough, inky expectoration, rapidly decreasing pulse, and general exhaustion. In the course of a few years, he sinks under the disease; and, on examination of the chest after death, the lungs are found excavated, and several of the cavities filled with a solid or fluid carbonaceous matter. During the last ten years, my attention has been much directed, in the course of my professional labours in the neighbourhood of the coal-mining district of Haddingtonshire, to the above phenomena in the pathology of the lungs, which have not hitherto been brought so fully before the profession, as their importance demands. The subject presents a very interesting field of investigation to the physiologist and pathologist. When we consider the difficulties which the medical man has to encounter, in prosecuting his researches in morbid anatomy in a mining district, it is sufficiently explained why the peculiarly diseased structures in the body of the coal-miner should have been left so long uninvestigated. Not many years ago, the obstacles in the way of _post mortem_ examinations among colliers were insurmountable, and consequently, till lately, few medical men could obtain permission to examine, after death, the morbid appearances within the chest of a collier. With the rapid advance in the general improvement which has been going on, the collier's position in society has become greatly elevated; and his deeply-rooted superstitious feelings have been, to a great extent, dissipated. Let us hope that the school-master will find his way into every collier's dwelling, enlightening his too long uncultivated mind; and that the foolish prejudices shall cease, which have been hitherto the barriers to _post-mortem_ examinations in his community. The only medical writers, as far as I am aware, who have brought this subject before the notice of the profession, are, Dr J. C. GREGORY, in the report of a case of peculiar black infiltration of the whole lungs, resembling "Melanosis," (_Edinburgh Medical and Surgical Journal_, No. cix., October 1831); Dr CARSEWELL, in an article on "Spurious Melanosis," (_Cyclopædia of Practical Medicine_, Vol. iii); Dr MARSHALL, in a paper in _The Lancet_ for 1836, entitled "Cases of Spurious Melanosis of the Lungs;" Dr WILLIAM THOMSON, now Professor of Medicine in the University of Glasgow, in two able essays (_Medico-Chirurgical Transactions of London_, Vols. xx. and xxi.), wherein he gives a number of very interesting cases, collected from various coal districts of Scotland, illustrating different forms of the disease; Dr PEARSON, in the _Philosophical Trans._ for 1813, on the "Inhalation of Carbon into the Pulmonary Air Cells;" and in a paper, by Dr GRAHAM, in vol. xlii. of the _Edinburgh Medical and Surgical Journal_. Recently, professional and other writers have directed attention to the influence of various occupations in the production of diseases of the chest. The pernicious employment of the needle-pointers, razor and knife-grinders of Sheffield, and other manufacturing towns in England,[1] have not only engaged the attention of the public at large, but science has been at work to ascertain, with as much accuracy as possible, the relative effects of the different avocations, on the constitutions of those occupied in these destructive employments. Researches of this nature tend much to the well-being of society, as they make us acquainted with the maladies and sufferings peculiar to certain classes of our fellow-men; and point out, also, the causes of their early decay, and premature death. The coal-miners--those in whose behalf I would now solicit the intervention of science--are most valuable in their place, and their exhausting labours promote, in no small degree, our domestic comforts. Some of the diseases of colliers have in past time been very much overlooked by the medical inquirer. There has been, within the last few years, a very searching investigation as to the employment of women and children in coal-mines; and by the laudable exertions of Lord Ashley--a nobleman whose name shall ever be honoured among miners, and by all who have the true interests of that community at heart--an Act of the Legislature has been passed, declaring it unlawful for any owner of any mine or colliery whatever, to allow any female to work therein; and also enacting, that no boy under the age of ten years can be employed in mines. It is to be regretted, however, that his Lordship did not embody in his measure, provisions enforcing the free ventilation of mines under government inspection; for nothing would tend more to improve the health of those employed in them. In the course of the inquiry, which formed the prelude and basis of Lord Ashley's Act, much valuable information regarding the diseases of colliers was elicited; and no one can peruse the voluminous parliamentary report pertaining to these investigations, without being struck with the very general prevalence of affections of the chest among miners. It is to be hoped, that the interesting facts in regard to disease, which this recent most necessary investigation has laid open, will be the means of directing the attention of scientific men to the subject, with a view to obviate, as far as human efforts can, the evils which have been exposed. It may at first appear difficult, to point out the means of removing effectually the causes of the pulmonary carbonaceous disease of miners, but, be the difficulties what they may, humanity encourages us to make the attempt. In the _first place_, let us endeavour to ascertain the cause, and _secondly_, to suggest means for the mitigation or prevention of this scourge. My present remarks do not refer to coal-miners in general, but to a district in Scotland, in the Lothians, east of the river Forth, where the labour is hard, and where its severity is in many cases increased by a want of proper attention to the economy of mining operations. These operations, as at present carried on, are extremely unwholesome, and productive of diseases which have a manifest tendency to shorten life. I draw the materials of my description from what I saw in a part of that district referred to, where the various cases, hereafter to be adduced, came under my medical treatment, and where I had the privilege of examining the morbid appearances after death. The locality[2] in which my observations were made, is that part of the Lothians, extending from south to north, stretching from the foot of the Lammermoors towards the sea-coast, including the coal-works of Preston-Hall, Huntlaw, Pencaitland, Tranent, and Blindwells. In this range of the coal-formation, the seam of coal is variable, but generally exceedingly thin, varying in thickness from eighteen inches, to three or four feet. It is with difficulty that mining operations can be prosecuted, from the extremely limited space in which the men have to move, and from the deficient ventilation. It appears, after thorough investigation, that in the majority of the coal mines above mentioned, ventilation is very much neglected, and that this neglect is partly caused, by the immunity of these mines from carburetted hydrogen gas, which exempts them from the danger of explosion. But though there be no explosive gas, there is generated, to a certain extent, in the more remote recesses of the pit, carbonic acid and other gases, producing the most injurious effects--impairing the constitution by slow degrees, and along with the more direct cause (the smoke from the lamp, candle, and the product of the combustion of gunpowder,) making progressive inroads on the health of the unfortunate miner. And how, I ask, can it be otherwise, in such circumstances? So long as it is possible for him to go on--so long as there is air enough to support the combustion of the lamp or candle, the labourer must proceed with his toil. I say, from there being no fire-damp, less attention is paid to ventilation, and it is a common occurrence with colliers in these localities, to be obliged to leave their work, from there not being a sufficiency of oxygen to keep their lights burning, and support respiration; and this temporary cessation of labour under such circumstances is regarded as a hardship by some proprietors, while the bodily sufferings of the miner, shut up and necessitated to labour in this situation, are little considered. After labouring beyond a given time in those confined situations, there is a much freer action of the respiratory apparatus, the oxygen is considerably exhausted, and to make up for this deficiency, the volume of air inspired, (impure though it be,) is much greater. Every now and then, there is a disposition to draw a deep breath, followed by a peculiar and gradual decrease of strength. Therefore, in these forcible expansions of the chest, it is to be expected that a considerable quantity of the floating carbon will be conveyed to the cellular tissue. The atmosphere of the coal mine at length becomes so vitiated, by the removal of the oxygen in breathing, and the substitution of carbonic acid, that the respiration becomes gradually more difficult, and the exhausted labourer has ultimately to retire from the pit, as there is no other mode by which the noxious air can be removed--owing to the underground apartments being so small--than by gradually allowing purer air to accumulate. The miner is thus enabled to return to his employment. It is about thirty years since miners in this district adopted the use of coarse linseed oil, instead of whale oil, to burn in their lamps; and it is very generally known, that the smoke from the former is immensely greater than that from the latter, and many old miners date the greater prevalence of black spit to the introduction of the _linseed_ oil. This change took place entirely on the score of economy. Any one can conceive how hurtful to the delicate tissues of the respiratory organs, must be an atmosphere thickened by such a sooty exhalation. It is now known, that this disease originates in two principal causes, viz., _First_, The inhalation of lamp smoke with the carbonic acid gas[3] generated in the pit, and that expired from the lungs; _Second_, Carbon, and the carburetted gases which float in the heated air after the ever-recurring explosions of gunpowder, which the occurrence of trap dykes renders necessary. To those acquainted with mining operations, an explanation of the coal and stone hewing process is unnecessary; but, for the sake of the uninitiated, I may be allowed to state, in explanation, that, previous to any coal hewing, it is needful to remove various strata of stone, to open up road-ways, and break down obstructing dykes, by the aid of gunpowder. All coal-miners are engaged exclusively with one or other kind of labour; that is either in removing stone or coal: and the peculiar disease to which each class is liable, varies considerably, according to the employment. For instance, the disease is more severe and more rapid in those who work in the stone, than in those engaged in what is strictly coal-mining, while, at the same time, both ultimately perish in consequence of it. The fact of the disease being more acute in stone-miners, I am disposed to attribute to the carbon and other products of the combustion of gunpowder, being more irritating and more destructive to the lungs. A very striking instance of this occurred, a few years ago, at the colliery of the Messrs Cadell of Tranent. A very extensive coal level was carried through their coal field, where a great number of young, vigorous men were employed at stone-mining, or blasting, as it is called, every one of whom died before reaching the age of thirty-five years. They used gunpowder in considerable quantity:--and all expectorated carbon. It was long a very general belief with medical writers, that the various forms of discoloration in the pulmonary tissue was induced by some peculiar change taking place in the economy or function of secretion, independently of any direct influence from without. They were, therefore, usually supposed to belong to the class of melanotic formations, from presenting, as their distinguishing feature, a greater or less degree of blackness. But, by recent investigations, it has been proved, that the infiltrated carbon found in the bodies of coal miners is not the result of any original disease, or change taking place within the system,[4] but is carbon, which has been conveyed into the minute pulmonary ramifications, in various forms, during respiration; and which, while lodged in these tissues, produces irritation, terminating in chronic ulcerative action of the parenchymatous substance. The very minute bronchial ramifications first become impacted with carbon, and consequently impervious to air; by gradual accumulation, this impacted mass assumes a rather consistent form, mechanically compressing and obliterating the air-cells, irritating the surrounding substance, and promoting the progressive extension of the morbid action, till the whole lobe is infiltrated with carbonaceous matter, which, sooner or later, ends in ulceration and general disorganisation of the part. It is evident, in tracing the disease through its various stages, up to that of disorganisation, that wherever there is an impacted mass in any part of the pulmonary structure, this is followed, sooner or later, by softening, from its irritating effects upon the tissues by which it is surrounded; and as this softening process advances, the innumerable sets of vessels[5] composing the dense network of capillaries are broken down, extending the cyst, so that, as the cysts enlarge, they gradually approximate to each other, till all at last become merged in one great cavity. The majority of colliers, soon after they engage in their mining operations, become afflicted with bronchial disease to a greater or less extent. Those who are hereditarily predisposed to pulmonary irritation, are, it is my decided belief, more liable to "black phthisis" than others; but I cannot suppose it possible, that any constitution, however robust and sound, could resist the morbid effects resulting from carbon deposited in the lungs. Tubercular phthisis is not at all prevalent in any collier community with which I am acquainted, only occasional cases occurring, and that amongst females. It is my impression, that a phthisical person, engaged in the operations of a coal-pit, similar to those in Haddingtonshire, would come under the influence of the carbonaceous disease, instead of the true phthisis; for, in all the _post-mortem_ examinations which I have conducted, connected with this pulmonary affection, I have never found tubercular deposit:--while other members of the same family, having a like predisposition, and who never entered a coal-pit, have died of phthisis. Can carbon inhaled destroy a tubercular formation? I never knew or heard of a case of black spit in a female collier, and this is accounted for by the circumstance, that the women, when permitted to labour, previous to the late prohibitory enactment, were only occupied as carriers; and from their movements towards the pit shaft, in transporting the coals, were enabled to inhale at intervals a purer atmosphere. The boys also, who were employed as carriers to the pit shaft, continued to labour with like impunity, from their occasional change of situation; but the miner, lying on his side in a confined, smoky recess, under ground, gasping for breath, proceeding with his exhausting labour, cannot fail, in his deep inspirations, to draw in the deleterious vapour, to the most minute ramifications of the pulmonary structure, and, as he daily repeats his employment, so does he daily add to the accumulation of that foreign matter which shall ultimately disorganize the respiratory apparatus. In the first stage of the affection, there is an incessant dry cough, particularly at night, and all the prominent symptoms of bronchitis are present. Indeed, from the time a man becomes a coal-digger, and inhales this noxious air,[6] there is ever after a manifest irritation in the lining membrane of the respiratory passages, which is apparent before carbon in any quantity can be supposed to be lodged in the lungs. The mucous membrane of the air passages, by its continually pouring out a viscid fluid, has the power of removing any foreign matter that may be lodged in them. Now, should this membrane, owing to previous irritation, lose to a certain degree this secretory power, then the foreign body adheres to it, and is retained, and this, I think, constitutes the preparatory stage of black deposit. In tracing the progress of the disease, it is my belief, that immediately after the carbon is established in the air-cells, the absorbents become actively engaged, and the glandular structure soon partakes of the foreign substance. One of the peculiar features, as we shall find, when we come to describe cases, is, that the secretory function is ever after so changed in its character, that the gland which formerly secreted mucus, to lubricate the passages, now performs the same service with muco-carbon, and continues to do so during the remainder of the patient's life--even, as I have often seen, long after he has desisted from the occupation of a coal-miner. In fact, it constitutes a striking peculiarity of this disease, that when the carbon is once conveyed into the cellular tissue of the lung, that organ commences the formation of carbon, thus increasing the amount originally deposited, as was strikingly exemplified in the case of Duncan and others, to be afterwards detailed. Duncan had not for fifteen years been engaged in mining operations, nor was there any possibility of his having inhaled more carbon: yet in him it was found to have increased to the greatest possible extent, leaving but a small portion of useful lung. I have been long impressed with the belief, that the carbon is contained in considerable quantity in the blood, particularly in the blood of those far advanced in the disease. This impression arises, not only from its dark and inky appearance, but from its sluggish flow, and non-stimulating effects on the heart and general system; and when we examine the morbid condition of the pulmonary structure,--ascertain the presence of carbon in the glandular system and minute lymphatic vessels of the lungs, and consider the relation existing between them and the circulating fluid, we cannot suppose it possible, that such a mass of foreign matter should be lodged in their parenchymatous substance without imparting a portion to the blood. I was never more struck with this, than in the case of Duncan, where the blood was more like thick brownish ink than vital fluid. No one who has witnessed the economy of these pits, can doubt the inhalation, to a great degree, of lamp and gunpowder smoke into the pulmonary tissue. What may be its chemical action there, is a question for us to attend to as we proceed. If it be considered an established fact, that carbon is inhaled, possessing all the chemical qualities of that substance found floating in the air of the coal-mine, and either expectorated from the lungs during life, or retained in those organs till after death, we cannot but conclude, that the black matter is the result of an external cause, and that that cause is the sooty matter. Another question arises here, in connection with this phenomenon, viz.--Does the carbon increase in the pulmonary tissues after the collier has relinquished the occupation of a miner, and when there can be no further inhalation, and if so, whence comes this increase? It must be admitted, judging from several of the cases which follow, that it does considerably augment. From this remarkable fact, does it not appear probable, that when carbon is once lodged in the pulmonary structure by inhalation, there is created by it a disposing affinity for the carbon in the blood, by which there is caused an increase in the deposit of carbon, without any more being inhaled. _Appearances on Dissection._ In classifying the morbid appearances observed in the pulmonary structure, I arrange them according to divisions corresponding to three stages of the disease. _First_, Where there exists extensive irritation of the mucous lining of the air passages; and the carbon being inhaled, is absorbed into the interlobular cellular substance, and minute glandular system, thereby impeding the necessary change upon the blood. _Secondly_, Where the irritative process, the result of this foreign matter in the lungs, has proceeded so far, as to produce a variety of small cysts, containing fluid and semi-fluid carbonaceous matter, following the course of the bronchial ramifications. _Thirdly_, Where the ulcerative process has advanced to such an extent, as to destroy the cellular texture, and produce extensive excavation of one or more lobes. _Stethoscopic Signs._--In the early stages, the sounds indicate a swollen state of the air-passages, and vary in character according to the part examined. The whistling and chirping sounds are loud and distinct in the large and small bronchial ramifications, and both from the absence of expectoration and the presence of the pulmonary bruit, the highly irritated state of the mucous linings is apparent. The affection ultimately assumes a chronic form, and continues present in the respirable portions of the organ during life. As the carbonaceous impaction advances, the sounds become exceedingly dull over the whole thoracic region, and in many of the cases no sound whatever can be distinguished. Where the lungs are cavernous, it is very easy to discover pectoriloquy, from the contrast to the general dulness, and when pleuritic and pericardial effusion advance much, it is difficult to ascertain the cardiac action. Such is a short account of the _Cause_, _Progress_, and _Morbid Appearances_ of this deadly malady, as they came under my notice. * * * * * From a variety of cases to which my attention was directed, I I have selected _ten_, with the _post-mortem_ appearances in nine of them. These cases extend over a period of eleven years, all of them exhibiting, with some slight variation, the same character of disease, and proceeding from the same cause--inhalation of carbonaceous matter. Some of the cases occurred as far back as the years 1833-34, while the last case came under my notice within these twelve months. Of the ten patients, six were engaged at one period with stone-mining, and four were entirely coal-miners; eight expectorated carbonaceous matter, and two did not show any indication of black infiltration from the sputum; six exhibited, on examination, most extensive excavations of the pulmonary structure; and three only general impaction of these tissues, with numerous small cysts containing black fluid; the body of the tenth, I regret to say, was not examined, owing to neglect in communicating in time the death of the patient, which took place a few weeks ago. These morbid appearances exhibit three stages of the disease in regular progression. The first is that where the carbon is confined to the interlobular cellular tissue, and minute air-cells, producing cough, dyspnoea, slight palpitation of the heart, and acceleration of pulse, while, at the same time, the patient continues able to prosecute his daily employment. The respiratory sounds, in this state of the chest, are loud and distinct. Such a condition of the pulmonary structure is often found on examination in the Carron _iron-moulder_, who has been killed by accident, or has died from some other disease, having been subjected in the course of his employment to the inhalation of carbonaceous particles. The second is that stage where the softening has commenced in the several impacted pulmonary lobular-formed small cysts throughout the substance of one or more lobes, the contents of which may either be expectorated or remain encysted, giving rise to most harassing cough, laborious breathing, and palpitations, dull resonance of chest, and obscure respiratory murmur. The third and last stage, is that in which the several cysts in one or more lobes have approximated each other, forming extensive excavations, the prominent symptoms of the disease becoming considerably aggravated, and the powers of the system sinking to the lowest degree of exhaustion. * * * * * CASE 1. George Davidson, collier from his youth. When I first saw him professionally, in May 1834, he was aged thirty-two. From his earliest years he was employed about the coal-works in Pencaitland parish, and when very young, he went down the pit to assist in conveying coals to the shaft, and ultimately became a coal-miner. For a considerable length of time, he enjoyed good health, having neither cough, nor any other affection. He was well-formed, and robust in constitution. A few months previous to my seeing him, he had taken to the employment of stone-mining in the pit at Huntlaw, where he was accustomed to labour, and soon after being so engaged, he began to complain of uneasiness in the chest, and troublesome short cough, quick pulse, especially at night and in the morning, for which he sought medical advice, and was treated for bronchial affection. He continued to prosecute the employment of stone-mining in this coal-pit so long as his strength would permit, which was a little more than two years, when (August 1836) he was entirely disabled, from general exhaustion. By this time his cough had much increased, and there was considerable dyspnoea, accompanied with sharp pain in the thoracic region, both in walking quickly, and when lying down. Pulse 80. He expectorated bloody tough mucus without any tinge of black matter. All remedial means were adopted with a view to the removal of the irritation of the chest, without producing any very decided effect. The thoracic pain was occasionally subdued, but the cough became incessant; loss of appetite, rapid emaciation, and cold nocturnal sweats, with slow weak pulse, supervened. After a severe fit of coughing, during one of his bad nights, the black expectoration made its appearance, in considerable quantity, by which his sufferings were for a few days alleviated, when the cough returned in the same degree of severity, and was again mitigated by the black sputa, which was expectorated without difficulty, and from this time (October 1836) there was no interruption to a free carbonaceous expectoration. In the early part of this man's illness, the stomach, the alimentary canal, biliary and urinary secretions, continued unimpaired; but as the cough advanced, gastric irritation, which was followed by vomiting during the paroxysms, annoyed him; and for the last eight months of his life, he suffered occasionally from severe attacks of gastrodynia, which, when present, had the effect of considerably modifying the thoracic irritation, and allaying the cough. There was nothing very remarkable in the character of the urine; the quantity voided was small, and very high coloured, with occasionally a lithic deposit. The fæces were natural, and smeared with dark blue mucus. On examining the chest with the stethoscope, the crepitant ronchus was heard in the upper part of each lung. There was general dulness throughout the lower part of both, with the exception of a small space at the inferior angle of the left scapula, where pectoriloquy was distinctly heard, from which was concluded the cavernous state of a portion of that lung. The heart's action was languid, and often intermitting, producing vertigo and occasional syncope. The pulse was gradually becoming slower; and at this time, (Nov. 1836,) it was _forty-three_ in the minute. I was informed by this man, that his chest affection first became manifest, after being engaged with a difficult job in a newly formed coal-pit at Huntlaw, where he had very little room to conduct his mining operations, which were carried on with the help of gunpowder, and where he experienced a sensation of suffocation from the confined nature of the pit,[7] which did not permit of the exit of the evolved carbon, and ever after, his cough and difficulty of breathing had been increasing rapidly. During the greater part of the period he was under my charge, he continued to expectorate black matter, of the consistency of treacle, mixed with mucus in considerable quantity, and I would suppose, taking the average of each week, that he expectorated from ten to twelve ounces daily of thick treacle-like matter. I had the curiosity, during my attendance on this patient, to separate the mucus from the carbon, by the simple process of diluting the sputa with water, and thereafter separating and drying the precipitated carbon. I was enabled by this means to procure about one and a-half drachms of a beautiful black powder daily, and in the course of a week, I had collected near to two ounces of the substance. This process I continued for some weeks, till such time as I had procured a sufficient stock of this remarkable product of the pulmonary structure, and I am certain that the same quantity, if not more, could have been obtained till his death, in Dec. 1836. It is undoubtedly a striking phenomenon, connected with the pathology of the chest, that the human lung can be converted into a manufactory of lamp black! Towards the close of this poor man's existence, the countenance and surface of the body assumed a leaden hue, from the very general venous congestion, and as his system became more exhausted, and he was about to sink in death, the gastric irritation and nocturnal cold sweats which had been long present with him considerably increased, along with a cough so severe as actually to produce vomiting of the black sputa. His tongue and fauces became so coated with the expectoration, that a stranger viewing the patient would have said that he was vomiting black paint.[8] This case resembled in many of its features, one of tubercular phthisis, more than is generally found in the disease before us, there being cough and expectoration, dyspnoea, sharp pain in the thoracic region, colliquative sweats,[9] and great emaciation, while at the same time, the pulse was slow and weak, not exceeding thirty-six in the minute for a week before death. No hectic heat of skin, but an extraordinary depression of the arterial action, arising evidently from the redundancy of carbon deposited in the pulmonary tissue, preventing the proper oxygenation of the blood circulating in the organs, and thereby producing a morbid effect on the whole system, which sufficiently explains the cachectic condition of the body. _Post-mortem examination, twenty-four hours after death._--In removing the anterior part of the thorax, the lungs appeared full and dilated, and of a very dark colour. Both lungs were strongly attached to the pleura costalis, and a very considerable effusion of straw-coloured fluid was found in both cavities of the chest. A few irregularly situated dark glandular bodies were observed on the surface of the costal pleura at each side of the sternum, and on the mediastinum. The lungs were removed with difficulty on account of the strongly adhesive bands attaching them to the ribs, and in handling them they conveyed the impression of partial solidity:--several projecting, irregular firm bodies, were felt immediately beneath the surface of the pleura, and there was also present emphysematous inflation of the margins of the upper lobes. In transecting the upper lobe of the left lung, it was found considerably hollowed out, (to the degree of holding a large orange,) and containing a small quantity of semi-fluid carbon, resembling thick blacking, with the superior divisions of the left bronchus opening abruptly into it. Many large blood-vessels crossed from one side of the cavity to the other, to which shreds of parenchymatous substance were attached. The inferior lobe was fully saturated with the thick black fluid, and it felt solid under the knife, and several small cysts containing the carbon in a more fluid state were dispersed throughout its substance, in which minute bronchial branches terminated, and by which this fluid was conveyed to the upper lobe, and thence to the trachea. In examining the right lung, the upper, and part of the middle lobe were pervious to air, and carried on, though defectively, the function of respiration, while the interlobular cellular tissue contained the infiltrated carbon. The inferior portion of the middle and almost the whole of the under lobe were densely impacted, so that on a small portion being detached, it sank in water. Both lungs represented, in fact, a mass of moist soot, and how almost any blood could be brought under the influence of the oxygen, and the vital principle be so long maintained in a state of such disorganization, is a question of difficult solution. In tracing the various divisions of the bronchi, particularly in the inferior lobes, some of the considerable branches were found completely plugged up with solid carbon; and in prosecuting the investigation still farther, with the aid of a powerful magnifier, the smaller twigs, with the more minute structure of cells, were ascertained to contain the same substance, forming the most perfect _racemes_, some of them extending to the surface of the lung, and to be felt through the pleura. The lining membrane of the permeable bronchial ramifications, when washed and freed from the black matter, exposed an irritated and softened mucous surface, which was easily torn from the cartilaginous laminæ. The interior of the trachea and its divisions gave evidence of chronic inflammatory action of long standing which extended from about midway between the thyroid cartilage and bifurcation to the root of the lungs. A considerable number of lymphatic glands, filled with--to all appearance--the carbon, were situated along the sides, and particularly at the back part of the trachea; which, from their size, must have interfered by pressure both with respiration and expectoration. The mucous membrane of the left bronchus in particular was much swollen and partially ulcerated towards the root of the lung. In examining the heart after its removal from the body, it was found peculiarly large and flabby, its cavities considerably distended, especially the right auricle and ventricle, while the valvular structure seemed natural. The pericardium contained about 10 ounces of straw-coloured fluid. After examining the organ particularly, I could discover nothing abnormal, but the enlarged and softened state alluded to. The liver was large and highly congested with dark thick blood, but otherwise it was healthy. The gall-bladder was empty, and the spleen large and congested. The stomach was smallish and empty. The mucous membrane was smeared with a blackish, tenacious fluid, which, upon removal, appeared to be a portion of the expectoration. The structure, as far as could be ascertained, was healthy. The small and great intestines contained fluid carbon (evidently swallowed), while no disease was manifest. The mesenteric glands were small and rather firm, but they contained no black matter; the mesentery was much congested with dark venous blood. The kidneys were apparently healthy, though soft. The bladder was small and contracted. The head was not examined, as I expected nothing but general congestion of the vessels. This case comes under the third division of the disease, where the lungs were cavernous, and where there was free expectoration of carbon. CASE 2. The following case is one of unsuspected carbonaceous accumulation in the lungs, the history of which proves the fact, that the disease, when once established in the pulmonary structure, continues to advance till it effects the destruction of the organs, although the patient has not been engaged in any mining operations for many years previous to his death. Robert Reid, aged forty-six at his death, had been a collier since his boyhood. He was a short, stout-made man, of very healthy constitution, and never knew what it was to have a cough. He spent the early part of his life at a coal-mine, near Glasgow (Airdrie), where he all along enjoyed good health. In 1829, he removed from Airdrie to the coal-work at Preston-Hall, Mid-Lothian, where he engaged in mining operations; and, from the time he made this change, he dated the affection of which he died, at the end of 1836. Two months after he removed to Preston-Hall colliery, he was seized with bronchial affection, giving rise to a tickling cough in the morning and when going to bed, accompanied by dyspnoea, with a quick pulse (90), and palpitation of the heart. In the first stage of the affection, he had no expectoration of consequence; but soon after, a little tough mucus was coughed up, and when it was difficult to expectorate, the sputum was occasionally tinged with blood. At this period, the appetite continued to be good, and the strength little impaired. During the day, he felt in his usual health; and, therefore, he continued in full employment. At the end of the four months (Jan. 1830), his cough had increased much, his palpitation of heart, dyspnoea, and bronchial irritation had become very oppressive, and general exhaustion had manifested itself. Recourse was had at this period of the affection to bleeding, blisters, and expectorants, which relieved him only temporarily, and while under this treatment, he--having a large family dependent on his exertions for their support--continued to struggle on at his daily vocation so long as he was able to handle the pick-axe. At the close of 1832, which completed three years of labour in this coal-mine, he was obliged to discontinue all work, and take refuge in medical treatment, with a severe cough, palpitation, annoying dyspnoea, small intermitting pulse, and sleepless nights. On inquiring as to his general habits and mode of life, I found that he had been all along a sober, regular-living man, that he never complained of ill health till he engaged in this coal-mine at Preston-Hall, where the work was difficult and the pit confined, he having only twenty-four inches of coal seam which obliged him to labour lying on his side or back.[10] He was also at this time occasionally engaged as a stone-miner, and was consequently subjected not only to the inhalation of the smoke of linseed oil, but to that of gunpowder. For his chest complaint at this stage, he underwent a variety of medical treatment, which produced mere palliation in his symptoms, and though breathing a pure atmosphere in a country situation, he experienced a most painful sensation of want of air, or, as he himself expressed it, "a feeling as if he did not get enough down." By this time the countenance had become livid, the lips and eyelids dark and congested. After undergoing medical treatment in the country, without much relief, he was removed to the Edinburgh Infirmary, in July 1833, in the hope of deriving benefit; but after being a patient in that hospital for some weeks, he returned home much worse. In addition to the aggravation of his other symptoms, there were present oedematous swelling of the extremities, which were generally cold and benumbed, gnawing pain in the right hypochondriac region, and almost total loss of appetite. On examining the right hypochondrium, which he described as swollen, there was evident indication of an enlarged liver, and he complained much of shooting pain in that region during a paroxysm of cough. Hitherto the functions of the stomach and bowels had remained unimpaired; but at this period, (September 1833,) the former became irritated, and the latter obstructed. Tonics and gentle purgatives were administered, and continued for a considerable time. The urinary secretion was all along scanty and high coloured; but, as the disease advanced, the quantity became exceedingly small, (almost none was voided for days together,) for which he was taking diuretics; and on examining it with the application of heat, I repeatedly found it coagulable. General anasarca was now rapidly increasing; and as the cellular effusion advanced, the breathing became more laborious. I understand, that at the commencement of this person's affection, the pulse was frequent, with some heat of skin at night, but from the time he became my patient, there was a tendency to languor in the circulation, and the _beat_ at the wrist, for some months previous to his death, was almost imperceptible. With a view to remove the enlargement of the liver, a slight mercurial course was proposed; but owing to debility, indicated at its commencement, it was discontinued, and no effect produced on the organ. All medical treatment having been given up, except mere palliatives, such as blisters and expectorants, this poor man lingered out a most miserable existence from his pectoral symptoms, and particularly from palpitation of heart. Expectoration continued the same, of tough, ropy mucus, small in quantity, and got up with difficulty from the air-passages. In repeated examinations with the stethoscope, there was considerable dulness over the whole thoracic region, no bruit whatever could be discovered in the left side of the chest, no cavernous indication, although that side of the thorax was fully developed. The mucous râle was heard very strong in the upper lobe of the right lung, and some little crepitation at the inferior angle of the scapula on the same side. The action of the heart under the stethoscope gave rather an uncertain indication as to the state of that organ, for though the sound was evidently communicated to the ear, as being transmitted through a fluid, and not the heart striking the ribs, still, from the very general dulness in the left side of the chest, it was exceedingly difficult to decide whether this obscurity arose from effusion into the pericardium, or from effusion into the cavity of the chest. There was one remarkable symptom manifested in this case,--that though the heart's action was to the observer feeble, the patient's sensations were as if the pulsation was very strong, and painfully difficult to bear, and this peculiar feeling to a great extent prevented him from sleeping. I cannot record this case without the painful recollection of this poor man's sufferings. For six months previous to his death, the dyspnoea and palpitation attendant upon his disease were of such a severe character, as to prevent him at any time lying down; and his sensations would not even permit his maintaining the sitting position, for he found it necessary to get upon his hands and knees, as the only posture affording any alleviation to his uneasiness. This peculiarity in the cardiac action was such, that, as he expressed it, "he lived in continual dread of death," and this being ever present to his mind, he was for weeks known almost never to close his eyes. He died exhausted, in November 1836; and there being doubts entertained regarding some of the symptoms of his disease, he requested that his body should be examined, which was done twenty-six hours after his death. _Post-mortem Examination._--The general anasarca gave the body a bulky appearance. On raising the sternum, the ribs seemed very firm and unyielding. The lungs were of a dark blue colour, and seemed at first appearance to fill completely both sides of the chest. Towards the sternal end of the ribs, on the left side, three or four of the substernal or mammary glands were found enlarged and filled with black fluid. The pleura pulmonalis had (where there wore no adhesions) interspersed over it patches of false exudation, _of a dark brown colour_. The lungs adhered extensively to the pleura costalis, and from the character of the adhesions, they were evidently of some years' standing. In both sides of the chest there was effusion to a considerable extent of a dark-coloured fluid, resembling porter in appearance. On removing the left lung, which was difficult, from the strong adhesive bands, it seemed, from its weight and softness, to contain a fluid; and on making a longitudinal section of both lobes, a large quantity of thick, black matter, similar to black paint, gushed from the opening, exposing an almost excavated interior of both lobes. The carbonaceous matter contained was in quantity about an English pint, and the lung, when emptied, became quite flaccid, and very light. The air-cells of this lung were entirely destroyed, or nearly so, and one of the divisions of the left bronchus opened abruptly into the cavity at the upper part. Both lobes were so completely adherent to each other, from inflammatory action, as to form a continuous sac, containing the above fluid. On examining the internal structure of the cavity, the parenchymatous substance which formed its walls presented a rugged and irregular appearance, resembling a sponge hollowed out, and infiltrated with black paint. At different points, the large pulmonary blood-vessels crossed the cavity in the form of cords, with portions of structure attached, and though these fragments had a black appearance, they exhibited, to a considerable extent, their original cellular structure when washed in water. The process of carbonaceous ulceration had proceeded so far in this lung, that at some points the pleura pulmonalis, which was much thickened, was left the sole medium between the contents of the sac and the cavity of the chest; while in other parts it was thick and spongy. On examining more minutely with the magnifier, open-mouthed bronchial twigs, and very small blood-vessels, were seen plugged up with solid and fluid carbon, and, from the appearance of the morbid structure, it was manifest, that the ulcerative process had effected a complete disorganization of the _bronchial_ tubes of every calibre, while the smaller _arterial_ vessels had alone suffered, leaving the larger ones entire.[11] Along the margin of the inferior lobe, indurated accumulations were felt through the pleura, and, on being laid open, they were ascertained to be impacted lobules, which resisted the knife. Previous to the division, both lungs weighed about six pounds. On examining the right lung, which seemed much similar in weight to the left, and on making a section throughout its three lobes, the morbid appearances varied in each. The upper lobe was infiltrated with carbon into the interlobular cellular tissue, leaving the bronchial ramifications respirable, and lubricated with frothy mucus. The middle lobe presented a solid appearance, and contained a mass of indurated black matter, of the size of a largish apple, and consistency of consolidated blacking. The surrounding parenchymatous substance was disorganized, and undergoing the process of softening. In dividing the indurated substance, its internal structure exhibited a variety of greyish lines, forming parallel and transverse ramifications, which resembled small check in appearance, and which, when more accurately examined, was ascertained to be the disorganised walls of the minute air-cells and cellular tissue. The inferior lobe presented a state of complete infiltration, with the air-cells generally entire, and on putting a piece of it into water, it showed its density by sinking. When we examine the morbid appearances in this case, and compare them with the symptoms--when we consider that nearly all the respiration carried on in this man's chest, was performed in the upper lobe of the right lung, we are not surprised at his sufferings, nor is there much difficulty in explaining the very painful dyspnoea, on his attempting the recumbent position; and as death was instantaneous, it was evident that the immediate cause was the bursting of the left pulmonary cyst into the corresponding bronchus; the fluid carbon thus finding its way to the trachea, produced suffocation. The liver was exceedingly large, projecting outwards and downwards from under the ribs, and pushing up the diaphragm. Its substance was soft, engorged with dark blood, and easily torn. There was no carbonaceous deposit throughout its structure, and its weight was upwards of twelve pounds. There was a considerable quantity of very dark bile in the gall-bladder. The heart was large, soft, and pale. There was considerable attenuation of the walls of both auricles and ventricles. The coronary veins were much distended with dark blood. The columnæ carneæ of the right ventricle were exceedingly slender and bloodless; the tricuspid valve was much thickened, and studded on both sides with small cartilaginous granules; the other cavities of this organ were apparently healthy, though thin in substance. The pericardium, which was rough, and much distended, exhibited a variety of false membrane on its internal surface, of a dark brown colour, and contained about eight ounces of dark fluid, similar to that found in the cavity of the pleura. In tracing the bronchi from the lungs to the bifurcation, the mucous membrane, which was smeared with fluid carbon, appeared much irritated, and considerably thickened, diminishing the diameter of these passages; and there were found externally at the root of the lungs, and around the bronchi, several large glands, containing a fluid to all appearance carbonaceous. The trachea showed a similar irritated condition with that of the bronchi. A little above the bifurcation, and at the back part of the trachea, a cluster of lymphatic glands were found, some of them the size of a horse bean, filled with carbon. _The spleen_ was very large, and much darker than usual, highly congested with venous blood, easily torn with the fingers, and weighed about three pounds. Kidneys small, pale, and soft; bladder small, and corrugated; large accumulation of light brown fluid into the cavity of the abdomen, to the extent of two Scotch pints. The viscera were much compressed from effusion. There was a rough brown exudation upon the surface of the peritoneum and intestines. The stomach was contracted to a small size. The mucous membrane was soft, pultaceous, and easily removed, tinged with dark green bile. The lymphatic glands along both curvatures were small and flaccid, and contained no black matter. The intestines appeared empty and contracted. The duodenum showed the same softened state of its mucous membrane as was exhibited by the stomach. The mesenteric glands were free from any disease. The head, on removing skull-cap, dura mater found natural; serous effusion to small extent under the arachnoid; very general congestion of the pia mater, giving both hemispheres of the brain a blackish appearance. The superior longitudinal sinus was filled with dark, inky-looking blood. In removing the pia mater, the convolutions of the brain were firm, and appeared natural. There was a light brown effusion into both lateral ventricles to the extent of about an ounce. Reid, when he first came to Preston-Hall, had inhaled the evolved smoke of the coal-mine, thereby laying a foundation of this infiltrated mass. It must be manifest to every one who follows out the history of this case, and attends to the morbid appearances found within the chest, that there was a progressive accumulation of carbonaceous matter going on in the substance of the lungs from the time the patient engaged in working this difficult seam of coal till his death. * * * * * CASE 3. D. S. was aged 39 years at his death, in August 1838. He had been engaged as a coal-miner so soon as he was able to undertake work. He was a tall, muscular man, and for a long time enjoyed excellent health. He first began mining operations at one of the Pencaitland collieries, and continued to labour there for many years. About six years before his death, he was induced by an increase of wages, to undertake stone-mining in the same pit; and soon after engaging in this employment, he began to be troubled with a slight cough, accompanied by dyspnoea, palpitation, and oppressive headach, which symptoms rapidly increased in severity. He declared that his cough and general ailments first showed themselves after labouring for a considerable time at stone-work, with the aid of gunpowder, in a situation where the air became so impure, both from defective ventilation and carbonaceous particles floating in it, as materially to affect the breathing. Although he repeatedly changed his place of labour from one coal-work to another more healthy in the same parish, he experienced no mitigation of his annoying cough. When I first saw this man for medical advice in July 1834, he had then been about two years engaged as a stone-miner, the bronchial irritation was very general throughout the chest, he had severe cough, hurried breathing, little or no expectoration, and on applying the ear to the thorax, the sibilant and sonorous bronchi were distinctly heard, which indicated a swollen and irritated condition of the mucous linings of the air-passages, and this irritation was also manifest in the mucous membrane of the nostrils, which was much swollen, acutely tender, and impeding considerably the passage of the air. The pulse was rather frequent, about 85 in the minute. There was present much heat of skin during the night, which subsided towards the morning. The remedial measures were blisters and expectorants, which relieved him considerably. The cough recurred in paroxysms, accompanied by severe headachs, with little frothy mucous expectoration, and there was occasionally observed a slight tinge of blood in the sputum. At this period, his appetite was good, and with the exception of his cough and difficulty of breathing at night and morning, he seemed usually very well. Though labouring under his disease, he continued at his employment of stone-mining, and would not be convinced of its injurious effects. _July 1835._ There was considerable increase of the palpitation when he attempted the recumbent position, or moved hurriedly. The remedies ultimately seemed to produce little effect. His general exhaustion advanced rapidly, and obliged him to relinquish all mining occupation. At the end of the summer of 1836, when I saw him more regularly, and was enabled to watch his symptoms with more attention, these having materially changed for the worse, percussion elicited dulness over the chest, with the exception of the upper part of both lungs, where the mucous râle was heard louder than usual. The heart's action was strong and irregular, particularly so for some time after a fit of coughing, when he suffered excessively from headach, succeeded by a tendency to drowsiness. The pulse was slow and languid, not exceeding 50 in the minute. His countenance had assumed a greyish inanimate aspect, his eyes became sunk, his robust frame bent and so emaciated from this peculiar disease, that though his age did not exceed 38 years, a stranger looking at him, supposed him to have attained the age of 70. No treatment seemed to have any effect in allaying the cough, nor was he permitted to lie down. From his feeling of dyspnoea and thoracic oppression, his nights were almost sleepless, his extremities oedematous, usually cold and bloodless. During the greater part of the time he was confined to the house, the bowels were constipated, requiring daily purgatives. The urinary secretion was small in quantity and high coloured, but in neither discharge was there any thing very unnatural. In this almost inanimate condition he lingered on, when about six months before his death, during a paroxysm of cough, he expectorated a mouthful of thick black matter, and continued so to do periodically, at intervals of about three weeks, seeming to experience relief after voiding the carbonaceous sputum. There was little change in the symptoms of this man till death. He took little or no food, from his appetite being almost entirely gone, and from gastric irritation being constantly present. His cough and dyspnoea continued severe, with drowsy headachs and difficulty in keeping the body warm. The arterial action was exceedingly low. The pulse was 40 in the minute, and difficult to discern. The strongest stimulant produced no increase of action, the sitting position was the only one in which he was at all easy, and in which he remained day and night till he ceased to live. _Post-mortem examination, twenty-four hours after death._--The body was much emaciated. The chest large, and integuments tightly drawn over it, the ribs unyielding. In removing the anterior part of the chest, the lungs adhered strongly to the ribs, and were covered very generally with patches of dark-red false membrane, corrugating the pleura. Each side of the thorax contained fully a pint of light-brown fluid. In removing the left lung, it felt firm and developed, and in dividing it throughout its lobes, a variety of small cavities and indurated masses of carbon were found to pervade its substance, exhibiting a sooty appearance, extending throughout the whole structure. The indurated nuclei were ascertained to be impacted lobules, and the small cavities were these disorganized and softened, and communicating with the bronchial tubes. Part of the upper, and the whole of the inferior lobe, were soaked with carbon, and felt indurated. The right lung was similarly disorganized with the left. The greater part of the superior lobe was permeable to air, and the interlobular tissue contained carbon, in small, hard granules. The middle and inferior lobes contained several hard, indurated bodies, progressing to a state of softening, and in separating a portion of the latter lobe, it was found to sink in water. There was emphysema of the margin of the inferior lobes. There appeared considerable irritation and softening of the mucous membrane of both bronchi, extending from the root of the lungs to beyond the bifurcation of the trachea. There were several enlarged bronchial glands at the apex of the lungs, containing black fluid. The pericardium contained about eight ounces of straw-coloured fluid. There was a light-brown exudation, extending over serous lamina of the pericardium and the surface of the heart. The heart was flaccid, the right auricle and ventricle were enlarged and attenuated, and both vena cava at their junction with the heart were much dilated, the valvular structure natural. The liver was large, soft, and easily torn. The abdominal viscera in general appeared healthy; slight effusion into the cavity of the peritoneum. In this case head not examined, but which no doubt would have shown marks of extensive congestion, as in other cases. The above case comes under the second division of this disease, where the irritative process resulting from the foreign body pervading the lungs, had advanced so far as to produce a variety of small cysts, and circumscribed, indurated masses, the former containing _fluid_, and the latter _solid_ carbon, and it is evident in tracing its progress, that there must have been a very rapid increase within the system in the carbon originally deposited in the pulmonary structure by inhalation. There was very limited black expectoration shortly before death, and this merely the contents of a few small cavities communicating with the bronchial ramifications, while both lungs were extensively infiltrated with that matter which, had the patient lived, would have produced general softening, and more extensive excavations by the coalition of the various indurated tubulæ. * * * * * CASE IV. J. T., aged 45 when he died, May 1837. He became a collier in early life, in the neighbourhood of Glasgow, and came, at the age of 22 years, to East Lothian, to engage in collier labour at Blind Wells, near Tranent. From his own account, he was rather of a delicate constitution, and ill-fitted for the work of a coal-pit, consequently, after labouring a few years, he was, at the age of 26,--owing to cough and difficulty of breathing,--obliged to relinquish the employment of a miner. He left East Lothian, and retired to the west of Scotland, where he became a country merchant, and continued so occupied for upwards of fifteen years. During that time, he was occasionally troubled, particularly in the morning, with his cough and hurried breathing, which was increasing in severity, but at no period had he expectorated black matter, nor was there any indication that his sufferings arose from carbonaceous disease. On account of becoming reduced in circumstances, he was under the necessity, though labouring under chest affection, of returning to his former employment of coal-mining at Blind Wells, at the age of 41, August 1834. He had not been long engaged as a miner, after his return to East Lothian, when his cough increased considerably, with laborious breathing, palpitations, and overpowering headach. Both now and formerly, he wrought solely as a coal-miner, and at no time of his life did he work as a _stone-miner_. Having a family to provide for, he struggled on laboriously under much suffering from his chest affection, till general exhaustion compelled him to leave off work, and seek regular medical advice, July 1836. From his statement regarding the cause of the disease, I was led to understand that his cough, which never left him from the time he was first seized, was induced, at an early period, by bad air generated in the coal-pit at Black Wells, from the work being ill ventilated, and from the general use of coarse linseed oil for the lamps. When I first saw this man professionally, he was labouring under general weakness; his pulse was not above 40 in the minute, small and thready. He suffered from drowsy headach, anorexia, cold and slightly oedematous limbs. He had incessant cough, with tough mucous expectoration. During a severe paroxysm, he vomited a mouthful of black paint-like fluid, followed by considerable relief, and ever after till his death, he continued to expectorate the same substance in great quantity, often to the extent of 15 oz. daily. In examining the chest with the ear, the sound, from the distinct pectoriloquy, indicated a cavernous state of both lungs; otherwise the bruit was obscure. The remedies were merely of a palliative character, knowing the patient to be rapidly sinking. In this exhausted state he remained for some months; his appetite was almost entirely gone; the oedema of limbs increasing. There was also a leaden hue over the surface of the body, which was constantly cold. At this stage, the quantity of urine voided was small and dark in colour. Bowels obstinate; occasional vomiting. The pulse ranged from 38 to 40. The lips and ears were livid, and his drowsiness became more overpowering as death approached. _Post-mortem examination._--The body was much emaciated; the ribs were prominent and unyielding. On removing the anterior part of the thorax, the lungs were found firmly adhering to the pleura costalis, and of a dark blue colour. There was an effusion to the extent of about sixteen ounces of light-brown fluid, found in the cavities of the pleura. The greater part of the effusion was into the left side. The lining membrane of the chest was almost wholly covered with false membrane of a dark brown colour. The right lung filled almost completely the right cavity of the thorax, while the left lung appeared much contracted, particularly towards the apex. The pleura of both lungs was much puckered, and interspersed with dark red patches around the adhesions. Three or four of the substernal glands were found considerably enlarged, and filled with black fluid, and a cluster of the anterior mediastinal and lymphatic glands contained fluid having the same appearance. The right lung appeared solid to the feel, when removed from the body. It was rough and irregular over its surface, from a variety of indurated substances projecting from beneath the pleura. In making a section of the whole lung, each lobe was almost completely saturated with thick inky fluid, and was observed to be here and there hard and granular, particularly in the course of the larger bronchi. Portions of this lung were pervious to air and emphysematous, but the greater part was disorganized, and contained carbonaceous matter in a solid and fluid state. The left lung was light and flaccid, when compared to the right. The upper lobe was extensively excavated. The parenchymatous substance was found ragged and unrespirable, and many large blood-vessels crossing from either side of the cavity, pervious to blood. With the aid of the magnifier, a variety of open-mouthed bronchial twigs and minute blood-vessels were visible, communicating with the cavity. The upper part of the inferior lobe was partially excavated, and containing about four ounces of fluid carbon. The lower margin of this lobe was firmly impacted. The mucous membrane of the trachea and bronchial divisions appeared, when washed and freed from the black matter, red and softened. The lining membrane of larynx was partially ulcerated, and the rima glottidis slightly oedematous. There were various small lymphatic glands on the back part of the trachea, which contained black fluid. The pericardium considerably distended, and contained nearly twelve ounces of light-brown fluid. Evident marks of inflammatory action were observed externally. On its internal surface it was thickly coated with false membrane of a brown colour. The heart was pale, soft, and attenuated. The right auricle was much dilated, and its walls exceedingly thin. There were no further morbid appearances. Head,--External congestion of an inky colour was found on the surface of the brain, which was to all appearance otherwise healthy. There was an effusion into both lateral ventricles. The abdominal viscera were natural. The liver was much larger than usual, soft, and highly congested with inky-coloured blood.[12] It is evident, from the symptoms and history of the above case, that the patient had contracted the disease of which he died at an early period of his life, and that during the fifteen years he refrained from mining operations, the pulmonary structure retained the carbon inhaled while labouring in the coal-pit, and this is one of the many cases which can be produced as examples of the fact that the foreign matter once deposited in that structure originates a process of accumulative impaction and ultimate softening of the organ, which is gradually carried on till it is entirely disorganized. This case comes under the third division of the morbid action, viz. where extensive excavation of the structure is produced. * * * * * CASE V. A. G., aged 52 at his death. He was a collier from his boyhood, and wrought during the greater part of his life at Penston colliery in the parish of Gladsmuir. He was a short-set robust man, and while labouring at Penston, he enjoyed usually good health, free from cough or any affection of the chest. When he had attained the age of 48 years, (1833), he removed from the Penston to the Pencaitland coal-work, and about six months after making this change, he began to experience a slight difficulty of breathing, accompanied by a troublesome cough and feverish nights. The pulse was 84. Various soothing remedies were administered, which relieved for a little the pectoral symptoms; and as he felt no decided physical debility, he continued as usual at underground work. In 1835 I saw him often, and found that his pulmonary symptoms were becoming more marked; his cough was excessively annoying in the morning and when going to bed; his expectoration was frothy mucus, with dyspepsia, palpitation, and occasional headach. The resonance of the chest on percussion was very slightly impaired, and the respiratory murmur was variable, being occasionally louder at one time than another, and often much obscured, from the mucous secretion. Labouring under this chest affection he still continued his daily employment till the spring of 1836, when he was entirely laid aside, being unable to go below ground, or to take the slightest fatigue, for the smallest exertion produced a fit of coughing; and during a paroxysm of this kind, he expectorated a few black sputa, which in a few days disappeared, and gave place to the usual frothy mucous expectoration. This bronchial discharge was accompanied by considerable relief to the cough and dyspnoea. By this time, (June 1836), on applying the ear to the chest, the resonance is dull, and respiratory murmur obscure. The action of the heart was slow when compared to its former state. The pulse not beyond 45 in the minute. By the end of this year he appeared in a half dead state,--but a mere shadow in regard to flesh. He was expectorating at intervals of some weeks, when the cough became more severe, a few carbonaceous sputa, and suffering severely from gastric irritation.[13] During the last week of his life, he expectorated considerable quantities of black fluid, and died exhausted, January 1837. _Post-mortem examination_, which was conducted hurriedly, exhibited extensive effusion into both sides of the chest. The adhesions of the pleura were strong, and evidently of long standing. There was very general carbonaceous infiltration throughout the lungs, without excavations to any extent. Various empty cysts, which could contain a hazel-nut, were found in the superior and middle lobe of the right, and throughout the whole of the left lung; in which bronchial twigs terminated. The pericardium was distended, with limpid effusion. The right side of the heart was dilated, and filled with dark treacly-looking blood; and when washed, it appeared pale and bloodless. Its walls were thin, various patches of brown exudation extending over both pleuræ. There were several enlarged lymphatic glands, found at the root of both lungs, filled with black fluid. In examining the head, the pia mater was found much congested; but there was no effusion discovered into any of the ventricles of the brain, nor any other indication of disease. In tracing the history of this patient, connected with the disease, it will be observed, that until he came to Pencaitland colliery, he had no symptom whatever of chest affection. Penston coal-work is exceedingly well ventilated, and the miners who labour there seldom, if ever, suffer from the black expectoration, owing to the evolved smoke of every kind being freely carried off from its underground works, while it is quite the contrary at Pencaitland, where many colliers, on leaving Penston, are seized with the disease. This case comes under the second division of the disease, where the irritative process, the result of the foreign matter in the lungs, has proceeded so far as to produce a variety of small cysts, containing fluid, or semi-fluid carbon, following the course of the bronchial ramifications. * * * * * CASE 6. D. L., aged twenty-six years at his death, in August 1837. He was the son of a collier, at Pencaitland, and engaged at an early age in putting the coals to his father; and when he was fit for full collier-work, in 1831, he was employed at the same coal-work. He was a tall, well-formed, robust young man, and not at all liable to chest affection. For some time he wrought, as a coal-hewer, but latterly was induced, (1834), for higher wages, to become a stone-miner in the same coal-pit, where gunpowder was used extensively in the operations. About six months after he commenced stone-mining, he became affected with a short tickling cough, expectoration of pearly tenacious phlegm, hurried breathing, tightness across the chest, frequent pulse (95), heat of skin during the night, and occasional throbbing in the head. Being young, and fearless of any danger from the occupation, although warned of the consequences, he continued to prosecute it, and twelve months (May 1835) after he first began, the cough had increased much in severity. The expectoration was diminished, and had become more difficult to void from the bronchi, and the breathing was more oppressive, accompanied by a painful tightness across the chest in the morning. The body was considerably reduced in bulk to what it previously had been. The pulse ranged from 80 to 90; the appetite was impaired, and there was in the morning a tendency to retching. The nocturnal heat of skin continued, without any moisture, though his body was drenched with a clammy sweat during the hours of labour. The respiratory murmur was harsh and extensive at the upper part of both lungs, while the sibilant ronchus was heard occasionally in the lower lobes. The heart's action was regular, but impulse strong, on applying the hand to the cardiac region. The remedies resorted to were blisters, bleeding (at an early stage), expectorants, and tonics, which, to a certain degree, relieved the more urgent symptoms. In October 1835, the disease having made rapid progress, all the symptoms had become more marked. The cough, from its frequency and severity, was extremely exhausting, and the expectoration had become more copious, and of a semi-black colour. The mucous râle was evident in the upper part of both lungs, while the inferior lobes were dull to the ear, and on percussion. The heart's action, at this stage, was less strong, but no peculiarity in its function could be discovered. The cardiac region exhibited every indication of effusion into the pericardium. His body was now considerably emaciated, and the anterior part of his chest was so much contracted, as to oblige him to stoop to a great degree. Under this load of disease, he continued his employment of a stone-miner, gradually losing flesh, with a rapidly increasing black expectoration; and having several dependant on his exertions, he resolved to work, while he could keep on foot, which he did till September of the following year, (1836) when his once powerful body was so reduced, from disease, and his cough so incessant, that he was unable to move or speak without great fatigue. He preferred the sitting position, as giving him most freedom in breathing. The pulse was rather slow and small; the heart's action languid, and there was an evident increase of dulness upon percussion over cardiac region. At this, the closing period of the disease, (November 1836) he first complained of drowsiness, accompanied by headach. The countenance was pallid; the eyes sunk and inanimate, and the body tending to be cold; the urinary secretion of a dark brown colour, and precipitates a dark deposit. The bowels were exceedingly obstinate, with little change in any of the symptoms; he lingered till January 1837. _Post-mortem examination._--The body was much emaciated. The thorax was large, and well arched. On removing the anterior part of the chest, the lungs appeared to be fully developed, and of a dark blue colour. There were several very slight adhesions between the pleuræ, and the effusion into both cavities was small in quantity. The pleura costalis was almost free from any exudation, but there were a variety of small patches of false membrane throughout the pleura pulmonalis. The left lung exhibited general carbonaceous infiltration. The upper lobe was partially excavated. The pulmonary structure, internally, was ragged and easily torn, and these cavities communicated with the bronchial divisions, the walls of which formed various septa. The inferior lobe was almost impervious to air. The minute bronchial ramifications and corresponding lobules were impacted with dense carbon. There were several clusters of small cysts throughout this lobe, containing carbon in a fluid state. A portion of this lobe sank in water from its density, and when squeezed with the hand, thick fluid carbon, containing hardened particles, could be expressed from it. The right lung was similar in external appearance to the left. The upper lobe was crepitant, though infiltrated with carbon into the interlobular cellular tissue. The air-cells were gorged with tenacious mucus. The middle lobe was partially excavated. The cellular tissue was considerably disorganized, and similar in diseased structure to the upper lobe of the left lung, with the exception of a portion affected by vascular emphysema. The inferior lobe was much condensed, and loaded with carbon of a very bright black. The mucous membrane of the bronchial tubes was thickened, and slightly ulcerated. Various lymphatic glands were found at the root of both lungs, containing black fluid. The pericardium was considerably distended from effusion of a straw-coloured fluid. The internal surface of the pericardium was rough, and both laminæ appeared thickened from inflammatory action. Effusion into cavity of chest to the extent of twelve ounces. The heart was natural in appearance, but thin in substance. The tricuspid and mitral valves were thickened, and exhibiting minute granulations on their surface. The right auricle and ventricle were dilated considerably. Aorta, and other vessels proceeding from heart, were natural. The stomach was small, and exceedingly spongy in its mucous lining. The intestines were healthy. The kidneys were small, and peculiarly yellow in the internal structure. The liver was large, and engorged with dark thick blood; several small carbonaceous cysts throughout its substance. The spleen was large, soft, and much congested. The mesenteric glands free from black matter. _Head._--The arachnoid thickened and opaque; there was very general congestion of pia mater with dark black blood, and when removed, convolutions studded over with innumerable dark points. The surface of the brain was apparently healthy, with an effusion of a light pink-like fluid into the lateral ventricles. The internal substance of the brain natural. This case is interesting, as showing the very rapid course, in some instances, of the disease to a fatal termination, and also how soon the strongest man can be brought under its destructive influence. This is the only case in which carbon was discovered in any of the other organs, as exhibited in the liver. The above case comes under the third division, showing extensive excavation of the pulmonary structure. CASE VII. James R. aged 54 at his death, 1836. He was a large muscular man, and wrought as a coal-miner in early life at Pencaitland, and, as far as could be ascertained, he had never been engaged at stone-mining. At the age of thirty he was obliged to desist work, on account of a difficulty in his breathing, which he considered to be asthma, and he was occupied above ground, as the engine-man, during the latter part of his life. The slightest exertion produced exhaustion and palpitation of the heart; his bowels were obstinate, and his urinary secretion small in quantity. His cough was particularly troublesome in the morning, and was relieved by a free expectoration of frothy mucus. In this condition he continued, with the cough gradually increasing, for nearly twenty years, as I understand, when he began to void black sputa, which daily augmented in quantity till his decease, August 1836. For some weeks previous to his death, his pulse had become slow and thready, 36 in the minute. The oedema of the upper and lower extremities was extensive; the dyspnoea increased considerably; the countenance was livid; and the body remarkably cold. Stimulants in considerable quantity were administered without the smallest effect. Drowsiness supervened; and he was for some days previous to dissolution in a torpid condition, while at the same time he was quite collected when roused. _Post-mortem examination._--On examining the body, the chest was large and well formed. The effusion into the cellular substance was very general. The cartilages of ribs were ossified, and both lungs were adhering strongly to the pleura costalis. There was large effusion into both cavities of the chest, to the extent of three English pints in whole. The pleura pulmonalis was much thickened and rough, with false membrane, and many patches of puckering. Several lymphatic glands in the anterior part of the mediastinum contained black fluid. The left lung was carbonaceous throughout its substance. The upper lobe partially excavated and ragged; the inferior lobe infiltrated and emphysematous. The right lung was of corresponding black appearance. The lower lobe had a firm and condensed feel, and when divided, exhibited a mass resembling indurated blacking. The middle lobe was in part permeable to air; and there were several small cysts containing liquid carbon, connected with minute bronchial ramifications. Various indurated knotty bodies were extended throughout its substance. In the upper lobe, the carbon was confined principally to the interlobular cellular tissue, and when pressed in the hand, gave out thick, black, frothy serum. The mucous membrane of bronchial divisions, when freed from the black matter, was swollen and eroded as far up as the bifurcation of the trachea. At several parts these passages were considerably contracted. The heart was enlarged, and dilated in all its cavities. The valves of the right and left ventricles wore thickened, from congestion of very minute veins, and were granular to the feel. The substance of the heart was soft. There were eight ounces of effusion into the pericardium, resembling that formed in the cavities of the thorax. The liver and the spleen were large; the former peculiarly yellow and oily. Several very large veins, containing inky-looking blood, were seen ramifying its substance. The spleen was very friable. The kidneys were small, and apparently healthy. Brain not examined. This case comes under the third division of the disease. R.'s case is peculiarly striking, from the length of time (twenty years or more) that the carbon was concealed within the pulmonary tissue, and also because he had never been engaged, as far as known, as a stone-miner; so that this case, along with others, illustrates the fact, that where the morbid action is the result of lamp smoke, from the combustion of coarse oil, and not gunpowder smoke, the disease is much slower in its progress, but ultimately fatal. * * * * * CASE VIII. R. D., aged 37, at his death, 1839. He was the brother of George Davidson, subject of the first case in this Essay. He began to labour as a miner, with his brother, in early life, at Pencaitland coal-work. He first began as a coal-miner, and after being so engaged for five or six years, he removed to Penston coal-work, which adjoins. He continued healthy for a considerable length of time, and at his brother's death, December 1836, he was free to all appearance from any affection of the chest. He returned, 1836, to Pencaitland coal-work, where he engaged as a stone-miner, knowing that such employment was destructive to life; and from that change he dated the commencement of his disease. Cough, palpitation, dyspnoea, headach, quick pulse (90 in the minute), made their appearance, soon after he began trap labour, and these symptoms gradually increased, till he was laid aside in the course of two years, (1838,) when he first expectorated black sputum.[14] As his exhaustion advanced, the carbonaceous expectoration became more copious, and he discharged from the lungs at an average twelve ounces of fluid, resembling liquid blacking, daily; and he died in a manner similar to his brother, Case No. 1. Some weeks previous to his death, his pulse rapidly sank to about 45 or 50, and became exceedingly feeble;--cold extremities, oedema of the legs and arms, lividity of lips, eyelids, and ears, preceding dissolution. _Post-mortem examination._--The chest was contracted; the ribs unyielding, with extensive adhesions of the pleuræ. Both lungs were of a dark-blue colour, much puckered from patches of false exudation. There was extensive effusion into both cavities of the chest; and the right lung showed carbonaceous infiltration throughout its whole extent. The superior lobe was excavated, so as to contain a small orange; and about six ounces of thick, black matter were found in it. The middle lobe was crepitant, though soaked with black fluid; several impacted lobules were scattered throughout its substance. The inferior lobe was indurated, resembling a piece of moist peat. The left lung was cavernous in both lobes, and the cysts were empty, the contents having been expectorated. A small portion of the upper lobe was pervious to air. There were several enlarged bronchial glands at the root of both lungs; and the tracheal glands contained black fluid. The liver was large, and its substance soft. _Head._--There was extensive congestion of the blood-vessels of the brain, with effusion into the lateral ventricles. The viscera of the abdomen were extensively congested, with slight effusion into the peritoneal cavity. It will be observed in referring to the history of this case, that till the time this man became a stone-miner, and carried on his operations with the aid of gunpowder, he had no symptom of the disease of which he died, and it is evident that the disease, if commenced at all, had made little or no progress till after his return from Penston colliery to Pencaitland, and after he had inhaled the residuum of gunpowder combustion, therefore the disorganization of the pulmonary structure was to all appearance effected between the summer of 1836 and December 1838, showing decidedly the very irritating character of gunpowder smoke upon the delicate tissue of the air-passages. CASE 9. J. D., aged 37, at his death, April 1844. He was a well formed man, with a fully developed chest. At so early an age as seven years, he engaged in the labour of the coal-pit at Preston-Hall, Mid-Lothian, and he continued to prosecute that employment for a period of 15 years, when he was obliged to relinquish the work on account of an affection of the chest, being, as he termed it, "touched in the breath." During the subsequent 15 years of his life, he had never once entered a coal-pit, nor had he any connexion with coal-works, but earned his bread by the trade of a travelling merchant. He had suffered much in his wanderings, from his breathing,[15] for more than two years continuously, while loss of appetite, and thoracic irritation, had rendered his physical frame as weak as that of a child. When I first saw this man, which was about a month before his death, he laboured under rending cough, with a scanty tough mucous expectoration--oppressive dyspnoea, ascites, general anasarca, occasional giddiness, and throbbing headach on motion, or on assuming the standing position. His countenance was of a light blue or slate colour, and his upper and lower extremities had much the same appearance. His lips, eyelids, ears, and nose, were swollen and livid, and his eye-balls effused, and apparently projecting from the sockets. His sight was impaired and hazy. There was continued feeling of cold, with occasional rigors, and difficulty in keeping the extremities warm. There was considerable exhaustion upon the slightest exertion. The half reclining posture was the only one in which he was comfortable. The pulse was exceedingly slow, not above 36 in the minute, it was small, and often imperceptible at the wrist. There was considerable weight and feeling of oppressive fulness in the region of the heart, which was dull on percussion. On applying the ear to the chest, little or no râle whatever was discernible, and the action of the heart was almost inaudible. He had a sensation as of great weight in the head, and difficulty in raising it. Ho suffered from restless nights, short hurried breathing, with a feeling and dread of suffocation, evident fulness and enlargement in the region of liver, and inability to turn to the right side. The urine was small in quantity, of a bluish colour, and coagulable, irritability of stomach, and the bowels were obstinate and difficult to move, even with drastic purgatives. The treatment was merely palliative, no stimulant seemed to have any effect in exciting the system. Ascites and general anasarca were considerable, giving the body a large appearance. For some days previous to his dissolution, there was increased lividity of countenance, and little or no action of heart. He had at no time expectorated carbon, even during many severe paroxysms of cough. Upon inquiry, I found that this man had been a companion in labour to R. R. (whose case No. 2, is fully reported,) at Preston-Hall colliery, and from the morbid appearances found in R.'s chest, and from the character of the coal-work in which both were engaged, I was induced to believe Duncan's to be a similar case. In ascertaining his early history, I found him to be a robust powerful man, though troubled with a cough and hurried breathing from his first becoming a collier, circumstances very usual with those who engage in difficult mining operations, and which they erroneously attribute to want of air, nothing more. _Post-mortem examination, twenty-four hours after death._--The body was much swollen from effusion. On removing the anterior part of the chest, both lungs were much compressed from an immense effusion of a light brown fluid into the cavities of the chest to the extent of a gallon. The lungs were of a deep black colour, and irregularly spotted with dark brown patches of exudation. There were considerable adhesions of the pleuræ, and marks of very general chronic inflammation and false membrane over the greater part of the pleura costalis. There were adhesions of the left lung to the pericardium, which was much thickened, and contained about 14 ounces of a turbid fluid. On removing the left lung, it seemed large, and felt partially consolidated, and on dividing it throughout both lobes, it contained a mass of semi-fluid carbon, of a bright black colour, similar to paint. In this lung, the air-cells were almost entirely disorganized, unfitting it for the function of respiration. The upper lobe was divided into a variety of cysts, filled with carbonaceous matter in a fluid state, into which many of the smaller bronchi opened, and through which various blood-vessels passed uninjured. The inferior lobe, when emptied of its contents, was so much excavated that the parenchymatous substance felt light and flaccid. On dividing the right lung[16] it exhibited a pure black mass, but not so fully disorganized as the left. Portions of each lobe were permeable to air, while other parts formed cysts, containing fluid and solid carbon, the inferior lobe showed an almost solid mass. The mucous membrane of the respiratory passages was inflamed and spongy throughout the divisions, the small ramifications were irritated and choked up with tough, frothy phlegm. There were several large bronchial glands at the root of the left lung. In tracing the divisions of the bronchi more minutely, from the root of the lungs into their substance, clusters of glands were observed filled with inky fluid, and narrowing considerably the air-passages, and in washing carefully a portion of the upper lobe of the right lung, and removing as far as possible the carbonaceous matter, several lymphatic glands were seen with the aid of the magnifier, imbedded in the interlobular cellular tissue, resembling small black beads. The tracheal glands when examined, contained black fluid, similar in appearance to what was found in the bronchial glands. The mucous membrane of the trachea was soft and irritated, smeared with tough bloody mucus, the lining membrane of the rima glottidis was thickened and slightly granular. The heart was much enlarged, and soft, with spots indicating chronic inflammatory action on and about the right auricle. Both auricle and ventricle on the left side of the heart contained a deep-dark blood. There were several large lymphatic glands imbedded around the great vessels proceeding from the base of the heart, containing black fluid, the other cavities appeared healthy, though attenuated in substance. The coronary veins were congested. None of the cervical glands contained black fluid, though several of them were enlarged. The cavity of the abdomen much distended from ascites; the contained fluid was to the extent of about six Scotch pints of a straw colour; the viscera much compressed, and matted together, with light brown exudation. The peritoneum was rough, and coated with the same exudation. The stomach and all the intestines correspondingly contracted; the mesentery appeared healthy; the liver was much enlarged, and darker than usual; the inferior lobe extending downwards, near to crest of ileum; the whole organ loaded with inky-coloured blood; the substance easily torn. The kidneys presented a natural appearance; the adipose substance in which they were imbedded was oedematous; the medullary substance of each presented a yellowish colour. _Head._--The integuments were oedematous. On exposing membranes, considerable effusion under arachnoid; very general venous congestion, extending over the convolutions, and to the base of the brain. Effusion into the lateral ventricles of a light yellow; the choroid plexuses thickened, and of a dark venous appearance; substance of brain firm and apparently healthy. From the history of this case, it will be found that D. had at no time shown any indication that carbon was infiltrated into the lungs. At an early age he came under the influence of the smoke of coarse linseed oil, and of gunpowder, while labouring in an unhealthy and ill-ventilated pit, which produced a cough common amongst colliers, who may be placed in similar circumstances; and it is evident, that during the last fifteen years of his life, the carbon--having previously taken up a lodgment in the pulmonary tissue--was gradually accumulating, and thereby producing painful dyspnoea, and the other formidable symptoms connected with the circulating organs, which followed as results, till it had almost entirely saturated the cellular structure, and rendered the lungs unfit for the functions of respiration, consequently impeding the necessary change, through the medium of that function upon the blood. There was a marked similarity in the morbid appearances between this case and that of Reid, (No. 2). They both wrought in the same pit at Preston-Hall, and were affected in a similar manner. Both had enlarged liver, and the left lung principally disorganised. Both had extensive anasarcous and other effusions, and both had coagulable urine. Neither expectorated black matter, and both died from the bursting of a carbonaceous cyst into the bronchi, producing suffocation. Duncan lived longer under the infiltration than Reid did; and this was no doubt owing to his being younger, and also his healthy occupation latterly. I have preserved a quantity of the contents of a cyst in the left lung of this patient, for chemical analysis; also a portion of the blood from the vena cava, and a little of the black fluid from the bronchial glands.[17] CASE 10. (The subject of the following case is still alive, 1845.) J. S., aged thirty-six. He was born of collier parents, in the parish of Pencaitland, and at as early an age as eight years, went under ground to assist his parents in the transmission of the coal, and when fit for work became a coal-hewer. From his infancy he was rather of a delicate constitution, with flat and contracted chest. When I first saw him, which was about eight years ago, (1837), he was in full employment as a coal-hewer, complaining of shooting pains through his chest, tickling cough in the morning, with scanty tough expectoration, and frequent palpitations. He was repeatedly under treatment for bronchial affection, which was usually relieved by expectorants, blisters, and _continued_ counter-irritants. Each attack of bronchitis was the result, as he expressed it, of "breathing bad air in the pit," in which he was obliged to relinquish labouring, as the lamp would not burn, from the state of the atmosphere. He never wrought at the stone-mining nor blasting. In examining the chest with the ear, at this stage of the affection, the mucous râle was distinctly heard, and exceedingly loud throughout the greater part of the chest. The heart's action was strong, but natural; pulse 70, full and bounding. About four years ago, he removed from Huntlaw to Blindwell, a coal-work towards the sea-coast, an extension of the same coal formation. At this time, 1841, he had very troublesome cough, particularly in bed, scanty frothy expectoration, annoying dyspnoea, preventing him taking sufficient nourishment, headach, obstinate bowels. He continued under all these ailments to labour with much difficulty, till the summer of 1843.[18] In reviewing the morbid appearances in the cases now detailed, it will be observed, that in the majority of them, the left lung exhibited the greater amount of diseased structure. This fact is particularly interesting, as in _tubercular_ phthisis, a similar predominance of disease is found on the left side. In almost all the cases, there was found very extensive effusion into the serous cavities, and particularly into those of the pleura and pericardium. Both pleuræ were much thickened, and all the marks of a long standing pleuritic and pericardial inflammatory action were seen. The substance of the heart, in all the cases, was soft and attenuated; the right auricle and ventricle were dilated; and there was thickening of several of the valves. The liver and spleen were usually large and congested. In all the cases, as the disease advanced, the pulse came down to a very unfrequent and thready beat. From the great extent of the venous congestion, the disease often assumed the aspect of asphyxia; and in some instances the colour of the patients resembled that of persons labouring under cyanosis. The lividity of countenance, and the other concomitant symptoms, which presented themselves, gave decided indications of the morbid effects of this extraneous body. It requires little explanation to show how such a diseased state of the pulmonary organs, as has been described, should produce such results, by impeding the necessary chemical change of the blood. Imperfect oxygenation of the blood, consequent on the altered pulmonary structure, must cause a general depression of all the vital organs. The excess of excrementitious matter in the circulation, must produce effusion of serum into the various cavities, and also into the cellular structure; and the appearances exhibited on the surface of the brain and its membranes, afford a full explanation of the sluggish inanimate condition of all the sufferers towards the close of their existence. From the cases above reported, it must be evident, that black phthisis is the result of foreign matter inhaled and retained within the pulmonary structure. It is a melancholy fact connected with mining occupations in the locality described, that few or none who engage in it, escape this remarkable disease. I have never known one collier in many hundreds, who, even in his usual health, was not, as he expressed it, more or less "touched in his breathing;" and after much experience in auscultation in such pulmonary affections, I am the more convinced that the dyspnoea from which they suffer, arises from impaction of the minute bronchial ramifications induced during their labour below ground, surrounded by an impure atmosphere. The East Lothian colliers, of all miners throughout the kingdom, are certainly most subject to this disease; and those at Pencaitland are so to a fearful extent. In the late inquiry for the Parliamentary report, such has been manifestly brought out, and I am quite able to corroborate the conclusions at which the commissioners have arrived. It has been supposed by many that this carbonaceous affection was caused by inhalation of coal-dust. Now, when it can be proved, that there is as much coal-dust at one coal-work as at another, the question comes to be, why should colliers, labouring at one coal-work, be subject to the disease; while those engaged at another, escape? For instance, there is as much coal-dust at Penston and Huntlaw, where there has never been black spit, as there is at Pencaitland, Preston-Hall, and Blindwells. I conclude, therefore, that this cannot be the cause, otherwise they should all be liable to the disease. Again, those who labour as coal-bankers at the mouth of the shaft, are obliged to inhale much coal-dust in shovelling and arranging the coal received from the pit, and have the sputum tinged to a certain extent by it--which resumes its natural appearance when the collier leaves the labour producing it. They are not subject to the miners' cough, nor is there carbonaceous infiltration found in the lungs of such labourers after death. The females and boys, when, as formerly, both were allowed to labour, could not fail to inhale much of the coal-dust in which they were generally enveloped in their daily occupation; but no carbonaceous deposit has ever been found in the pulmonary tissue of either the one or the other. There are very interesting facts connected with the history of this disease, showing the length of time which the carbon can be retained, brought out by two cases on record, the one published as formerly mentioned by Dr James Gregory, in the _Edinburgh Med. and Surg. Journal_ for 1831, denominated, "Spurious Melanosis;" the other, a case published by Dr William Thomson, (_Medico-Chirurgical Transactions of London_ for 1837), and which was reported to him by Dr Simpson, now Professor of Midwifery in Edinburgh. Dr Gregory's case is that of John Hogg, who had been in the army for more than twenty years, had seen much service as a soldier in America and the West Indies, and had served in Spain during the Peninsular war. On his return to his native country, he was engaged for a short time before his death as a collier at Dalkeith. I understand, upon inquiry, from those who were connected with Hogg, that he wrought in early life as a miner at Pencaitland coal-work, and was obliged, though a young man, to relinquish such employment on account of a chest affection, and exchange the pick for the musket. From the history of this case, and from the character of his occupation in early life, I apprehend that the carbonaceous deposit took place when he was first labouring as a miner at Pencaitland; and that he carried the foreign body in his lungs, throughout his campaigns. The case reported to Dr Thomson by Dr Simpson is that of a George Hogg, who lived at Collinshiel, near Bathgate. In early life, this man laboured at Pencaitland coal-work, where the greater number of the cases now under consideration occurred; and it is stated as a certainty, that he contracted the black phthisis while occupied in that district; for I find from those who knew him at an early period, that his breathing was much affected while at Pencaitland, and he was long supposed by his fellow-miners to have imbibed the disease,--indeed he removed from Pencaitland on account of it. The two Hoggs were relatives, and natives of East Lothian. It is evident, from several of the cases, that it is no uncommon feature of this affection for the carbon to remain concealed in the pulmonary tissue for very many years; and as both the Hoggs were miners at Pencaitland, I have not the smallest doubt that it was then and there that the disease had its origin; for I have never known a collier who was a stone-miner who did not ultimately die of the carbonaceous infiltration. Apart from colliers and coal-mines, as a proof that carbonaceous particles floating in the atmosphere are inhaled and lodged in the bronchial ramifications, I may state the following circumstance, which came under my own observation several years ago. After a gale of wind, which had continued for more than a week, off the coast of America, in the July of 1832, I was applied to for advice by several of the seamen, on account of a tickling cough, followed by a peculiarly dark blue expectoration, which I was told was almost general amongst the crew. I was certainly at a loss, and put to my shifts, to render a reason; but, upon investigating the matter further, I found that, during the gale, the chimney of the cook's apartment in the _'tween-decks_ was rendered inefficient, whereby the sleeping-berths were constantly filled with smoke. I found almost all the seamen, to the number of nearly a hundred, suffering considerably from cough, and expectorating an inky-coloured phlegm, which continued more or less for about a fortnight. I ordered soothing expectorants, and the dark sputa were profusely voided, and ultimately disappeared; but whether any of the carbon had made a permanent lodgment in the pulmonary tissue, is what I have never been able to ascertain. I am now convinced, in recalling this occurrence, that whatever be the situation, should carbon be floating in the air, it can be conveyed into the air-cells; and had these seamen been longer subjected to this foul atmosphere, a permanent lodgment of the carbon would undoubtedly have been the consequence, and the disease now under our consideration to a certainty produced. I further remember seeing, several years ago, a case of partially carbonized lungs in a person who had lived for a length of time in a smoky and confined room in Glasgow. The patient died of dropsy, consequent, no doubt, on the pulmonary affection; and on examining the chest, the upper lobe of both lungs, and the bronchial glands contained black matter, similar in appearance to that found in the colliers. While engaged in committing these remarks to paper, I have been led in my investigations to compare the various kinds of labour carried on in coal-pits with the underground operations of many of the railways now in progress throughout the kingdom; and being convinced of the very injurious effects produced upon miners while prosecuting these operations in confined situations where gunpowder is used, I shall be much surprised if the same results do not follow the hazardous undertakings connected with railway tunnelling, where gunpowder is had recourse to, and in the course of years find in our public hospitals cases of carbonaceous lung arising from this cause.[19] It is no uncommon occurrence, in examining the pulmonary structure of those who have resided in large and smoky towns, to find both the substance of the lungs and bronchial glands containing black matter; and this is the case especially with persons who, in such situations, have passed the prime of life. But few, though not living in crowded towns, have not, at some period of their life, come in contact with smoke, and been obliged to breathe it, minutely combined with the air. It is not, therefore, to be supposed improbable, that a portion of the infinitely small particles, thus suspended in the atmosphere, should effect a settlement in the more minute air-cells, and in course of time, be conveyed to the interlobular cellular tissue by the process of absorption, and thence to the bronchial glands. There are several cases on record, from amongst iron-moulders,[20] where the pulmonary structure has been found heavily charged with carbonaceous matter, from the inhalation of the charcoal used in their processes, and where, during life, there was a free black expectoration.[21] There is, then, little doubt that the bronchial glands, from their appearance in miners, moulders, and others, are the recipients of a portion of impurities which have been carried into the pulmonary structure by inhalation, and also those left after the process of oxygenation of the blood; and when it is fully ascertained, from the character of the atmosphere in the coal mine, that deleterious matter in this form must be conveyed to the air-cells during respiration, there is little difficulty in coming to the conclusion, that the black fluid found to such an extent in these glands in the collier and moulder, is similar to, and a part of, that discovered infiltrated into the substance of the lungs. If we trace the black matter in the lymphatic vessels, (which has been done), from the pulmonary organs to the bronchial, mediastinal, and thoracic glands, and from thence to the thoracic duct, we cannot but admit, that it does find its way into the venous system, and thereby contaminates the vital current.[22] Dr Pearson of London, in his very valuable paper, published in the Philosophical Transactions of 1813, on the coaly matter in the bronchial glands, was convinced beyond a doubt, that it was of foreign origin, and possessed the properties of carbon conveyed into the lungs from without. He, at that period, was not in possession of such facts as have been recently elicited on the subject of deleterious inhalation; but the very interesting materials which he brought to bear on his argument, have, I think, most satisfactorily proved the assertion which he makes, that "the lymphatics of the lungs absorb a variety of substances, especially this coaly matter, which they convey to the bronchial glands, and thus render them of a black or dark-blue colour." "The texture and proportion of the tinging matter of the glands was," he says, "different in different subjects, whether the lungs to which they belonged were in a healthy or diseased condition. In persons, from about 18 to 20 years of age, some of the bronchial glands contained no tinging black matter at all, but were of a reddish colour; others were streaked or partially black." Again, he says, "I think the charcoal in the pulmonary organs is introduced with the air in breathing. In the air it is suspended in invisible small particles, derived from the burning of coal, wood, and other inflammable materials in common life. It is admitted that the oxygen of atmospherical air passes through the pulmonary air-vesicles or cells into the system of blood-vessels, and it is not improbable, that through the same channel various matters contained in the air may be introduced. But it is highly reasonable to suppose, that the particles of charcoal should be retained in the minutest ramifications of the air-tubes, or even in the air-vesicles under various circumstances, to produce the coloured appearances on the surface, and in the substance of the lungs, as above described." "When I compare the black lines and black net-like figures, many of them pentagonal, on the surface of the lungs, with the plates of the lymphatic vessels by Cruikshank, Mascagni, and Fyffe, I found an exact resemblance." Dr Pearson, after various chemical experiments upon the bronchial glands with caustic potash, muriatic and nitric acid, says, "I conceive I am entitled to declare the black matter obtained from the bronchial glands, and from the lungs, to be animal-charcoal in the uncombined state, _i.e._ not existing as a constituent ingredient of organized animal solids or fluids." Dr Graham of London, in his paper on this subject, recorded in the 42d vol. of the _Edinburgh Medical and Surgical Journal_, gives the following opinion, as the result of a series of investigations, with the view of determining the nature of the disease in question. He says, I have had several opportunities of substantiating the carbonaceous matter in a state of extraordinary accumulation in black lungs supplied by my medical friends. The black powder, as derived from the lungs, (after an analysis,) is unquestionably charcoal, and the gaseous products from heated air, result from a little water and nitric acid being retained persistently by the charcoal, notwithstanding the repeated washing, but which re-acting on the charcoal at a high temperature, coming off in a state of decomposition. In regard to another analysis of a lung, he says, "The carbonaceous matter of the lung cannot therefore be supposed to be coal, altered by the different chemical processes to which it has been submitted in separating it from the animal matter. The carbonaceous matter of this lung, appears rather to be lamp black." From the whole results, I am disposed to draw the following conclusions:-- _1st_, The black matter found in the lungs is not a secretion, but comes from without. The _pigmentum nigrum_ of the ox I find to lose its colour entirely, and to leave only a quantity of white flocks, when rubbed in a mortar with chlorine water. Sepia, which is a preparation of the dark-coloured liquor of the cuttle fish, was also bleached by chlorine, but the black matter of the lungs was not destroyed or bleached in the slightest degree by chlorine, it even survived unimpaired the destruction of the lungs by putrefaction in air. _2d_, This foreign matter probably varies in composition in different lungs, but in the cases actually examined, it seems to be little else than lamp black or soot. It does not appear, as far as I can ascertain, that any of the Continental physiologists are familiar with the disease now under our consideration. Several of them, both ancient and modern, discovered black matter in the pulmonary tissues, but not connected with nor exhibiting the black phthisis. It is therefore unnecessary to refer to them in general. The following foreign authors entertain various opinions in regard to the dark appearances in the pulmonary tissue:-- Bichat supposes the black matter in the lungs "to be owing to small bronchial glands extending along the surface of the pleura." Breschet believes that it is formed by the blood exhaled into the cellular tissue, stating that its chemical composition leads him to that conclusion. Trousseau says that it is produced by a misdirection of the natural pigments of the body, resulting from age, climate, or disease. Andral says, that the black appearances are the result of secretion, and that it is more manifest as the individual advances in life. Heasinger's opinion is, that it is analogous to pigment, and therefore he agrees with Trousseau. Lænnec was doubtful as to the real origin of black pulmonary matter. He makes a distinction between melanotic and pulmonary matter. He found that the melanotic matter was composed almost entirely of albumen, while the black pulmonary matter found in the bronchial glands contains a great quantity of carbon and hydrogen, and also that these colouring matters have other distinguishing characters. The melanotic matter is easily effaced by washing, while the other is removed with difficulty. Lænnec further says, that he suspected that this pulmonary matter might arise, at least in part, from the smoke of lamps, and other combustible bodies which are used for heat and light; for some old men are to be met with whose lungs contain very little black matter, and whose bronchial glands are but partially tinged with this colour; and it has struck him that he observed this amongst villagers who had never been accustomed to watch.[23] Mons. Guillot, physician to the hospital for the aged at Paris, has undertaken a series of researches in regard to the black matter found in the lungs of old men of very considerable age. These investigations are published in the January, February, and March numbers of the _Archives Générales de Médecine_.[24] It is his belief that death in such cases is owing, in all appearance, more or less to a suppression of the circulation of air and blood by the black substance. His impression is, "that the carbon is not procured from without, but naturally deposited, as life advances, in the substance of the respiratory organs; and that this deposit of carbon causes death, by rendering the lungs irrespirable, while, at the same time, it has much influence in modifying the progress of _tubercular_ disease; so that, if the tubercular affection was not cured, its progress was so far checked, that life has been very long preserved." The black matter envelopes completely both the pulmonary tubercles which have undergone a transformation, and the caverns which no longer contain tuberculous matter. He, while regarding these as the results of black matter in the lungs, throws no light on the cause of the deposit of the particles of carbon within the lungs. Dr William Craig of Glasgow, in a letter to Mr Graham of London, published in the 42d vol. of the _Medical and Surgical Journal of Edinburgh_, states most interesting facts connected with this subject, particularly in regard to black matter found in the pulmonary structure of old people, which deserve considerable attention. He says--"I found that a black discoloration of the lungs was by no means a rare occurrence amongst those old people; and that it was impossible in many instances to decide, whether the black colour was owing to an increase of what is called the healthy black matter,--to a morbid secretion, or to a foreign substance being imbedded with the atmospheric air. After examining a considerable number of lungs, and finding that the division of the black matter into three kinds was not founded upon observation, and that the descriptions of them given by the best authorities were insufficient to enable us to distinguish them from one another, I begin to think, that in every instance in which black matter is found in the lungs, it ought to be considered morbid. If we examine the lungs at different stages of life, we find as a general rule that the quantity of black matter increases with age. In young children we find no traces of it, the lungs being of a reddish colour. At the age of ten years the black matter makes its appearance in the outer surface of the lungs, and in the interlobular spaces. At the age of thirty or forty, the lung presents a greyish or mottled appearance, and the bronchial glands contain more or less black matter. Between the age of seventy and a hundred, the lungs are generally infiltrated with fluid black matter, which can be expressed from the cut surfaces, and stain the hands black." "There are many circumstances which favour the accumulation of this black matter in the lungs; for instance, long-continued living in a smoky atmosphere, like that of this city, the inhalation of coal-dust, as in the case of colliers, or of charcoal-powder, as in the case of iron-founders. There can be no doubt that we inhale foreign substances along with the atmospheric air. "We find the mucus which has remained in the nostrils for some time to be of a dark colour, and if we examine it with a microscope, we find, that this is owing to the presence of small particles of dust or other foreign substances, which the air may have accidentally contained. The mucus first coughed up from the lungs in the morning, is of a dark colour from the same cause, and the facts now maintained prove, that foreign substances suspended in minute particles in the atmosphere, may be inhaled into the lungs. I believe in all the extreme cases which have occurred in colliers and moulders, that there must have existed some previous disease of the lungs which prevented the foreign matter from being thrown off." "According to the views which we have taken of the subject, there are only two ways by which black matters may be deposited in the lungs; first, by a morbid secretion; second, by a foreign substance inhaled with the atmosphere. The former is a rare disease, while the latter is very common. I am inclined to think that the true melanosis generally occurs in the form of rounded tumours, which, when cut in two, present a uniform black colour without any trace of air-cells, while in the spurious melanosis the deposition is general, and black matter flows freely out when the cut surfaces are pressed. At first the lung is crepitous, and swims in water; but as the black matter increases, it becomes solid, and, as in the case of colliers who die of this disease, resembles a piece of wet peat in point of consistence. It is only in the cases of colliers, moulders, or others who inhale great quantities of black matter, that the lungs are rendered perfectly solid." There is an exceedingly interesting and valuable paper, written by Dr Brockmann of Clausthal, upon the pulmonary diseases of a certain class of German miners,--supposed to be in the Hartz mountains,--in _Neumeister's Repertorium_ for December 1844, an abridged translation of which is to be found in the September number of the _Monthly Journal of Medical Science_. It is very evident that the disease there considered is produced by carbonaceous inhalation, and resembles in all its features the black phthisis so general amongst the colliers in Haddingtonshire. The morbid appearances described by Dr Brockmann are very similar to the first and second division of that disease, presenting a very general carbonaceous infiltration of the pulmonary tissues; but in none of the stages are there to be found the extensive excavations discovered in the lungs of the coal-miner. Dr Brockmann makes three divisions of the morbid appearances, "The essential (wesentliche), accidental (zufällige), and secondary. The first shows an entirely black (pechschwärze) colour of the lungs through its whole substance, enclosing not only the air, blood, and lymph vessels, but also the connecting cellular tissue, the nervous substance, pleuræ pulmonalis, and bronchial glands." In such a state, it is usual for the lung to remain perfectly normal, and to exhibit the greatest varieties. The accidental (zufällige) is evidently the disease in a more advanced form, corresponding in a great measure with the second stage of the morbid action, found in the pulmonary organ of the collier. It is to be regretted that no accurate description is given either of the character of the mine, or the nature of the employment in which the miners are engaged, whether they be coal, silver, or lead mines, and if they are in the habit of burning coarse lint-seed oil. There is a very striking similarity between what Dr Brockmann calls the secondary anatomical changes, and many of those exhibited in the collier; first, membranes; second, collections of fluid into the pleuræ and pericardium; third, the softened heart, and very general emaciation; fourth, the extensive venous congestion, with thick black blood. The liver is described by Dr Brockmann as being small:--in the collier it is usually puffy, and much congested. The symptoms do almost in all points accord with those presented in the collier, as will appear from the following quotation, from the paper. "In the first stage, there is no local, functional, or general feature by which we can ascertain that the disease has commenced; probability is all we can reach. In the second stage, the disease is more obvious. And, first, there is a change in the expression of countenance; to a fine blooming appearance, which perhaps the patient previously had, there has succeeded a dark yellowish cast,--a change which gradually spreads over the whole body. For some time the patient may have remarked a gradual loss of strength, and now he complains of want of appetite and disordered digestion, and more particularly of shooting pains in the back and muscles of the chest. Cough likewise supervenes, which may either be quite dry, or at most accompanied with a little pure mucus. There is also a greater or less degree of oppression, accompanied with palpitation of heart, not only after a severe fit of coughing, but after every exertion of the lungs. As yet no local deviation from the normal condition is seen on examination of the chest by percussion or auscultation." "The disease meanwhile passes into the third stage. The features of the patient now become more and more changed and deteriorated, and betray a deep melancholy. The colour of the face, which had been hitherto of an earthly hue, becomes blackish, as also the cornea, whereby the eye loses its lustre. The appearance of the patient becomes still more frightful from the great loss of flesh, and the dark skin hanging loose on his bones. The fat not only seems to have disappeared, but the muscular substance also--the whole frame being shrivelled. The patient complains of increasing weakness, diminished appetite, flying pains often concentrated at the pit of the stomach; and coughs much. The expectoration is for the most part difficult, and consists of masses of mucus, either greyish, or tending to a black colour. A black streak is frequently observed running through the whitish mucus; one half of it may be white, the other black, or occasional black points may be observed throughout the mass, and sometimes, though rarely, blood. Dyspnoea is usually connected with the cough. It now begins to tell upon the patient, and is so characteristic, that the disease has been named asthma metallicum. The disturbance of the digestive organs increases the disease,--the appetite is entirely lost,--the tongue is covered with a white fur--there is an oppression at the stomach after a full meal--frequent eructations, and a tendency to constipation. The distress of the patient becomes increased in consequence of the shooting pains in the muscular system." "In the fourth and last stage, all the external appearances indicate the near approach of dissolution,--the face and members become bloated, and the feet greatly swollen." "The dyspnoea meanwhile, from effusion into the chest and pericardium, becomes so severe, that the patient cannot maintain the horizontal position, the expectoration becomes copious, consisting of a black inky (dintenschwarze), or ash-coloured fluid, sometimes of mere masses of mucus streaked with black." "The disease is never accompanied with colliquative sweats or diarrhoea." I am sorry to find that there is no allusion whatever to the state of the pulse. Dr Brockmann, in his remarks on the essential nature of this pulmonary disease of miners, brought under his notice, seems to entertain the impression that along with the inhaled carbon, resulting from the combustion of gunpowder, there is also an organic pigment-deposit present in the pulmonary tissue, which he supposes must have been formed in the lungs. I have long entertained the belief, which I have stated in another part of this essay, that if the carbon is once conveyed into, and established in the parenchyma of the lungs, that organ commences the formation of carbon; thus increasing the amount originally deposited. Dr Brockmann sets forth, as grounds for this view, that "if the parenchyma of the lungs were filled with carbonaceous dust, their specific gravity ought to be increased; but this is not the case. A completely melanosed lung swims in water, both as a whole and when cut into parts." It is very evident from these remarks, that the author has not seen the disease as it is exhibited in the third division of morbid action in the collier, otherwise he would have both observed the lungs considerably augmented in weight, and also so densely impacted from the accumulation of carbon, as wholly to sink in water. See for instance case No. 2, where the lungs weighed about six pounds, and parts of the cellular tissue were so indurated, as to be cut with difficulty. In this case, the patient did not expectorate. Dr Brockmann, as he advances, puts a question here, which more fully shows that the disease under his consideration was of a mild character compared with that under our notice. "If," says he, "pulmonary melanosis arise entirely from inhalation of carbonaceous dust, why is it not observed in other workmen, who are as much, and even more, exposed to its influence, as for instance, smelters, or moulders, and colliers?" He says, further, "were the carbon inhaled in quantity sufficient to explain the black colour of the lungs, it ought also, from its mechanical irritation, to produce inflammation in the delicate mucous membrane of the organ, but there are no symptoms of this during life, nor any traces of it after death." An answer to these remarks will be most satisfactorily given by a reference to the published cases, where the disease is principally found amongst colliers and moulders, and where the pulmonary organs, particularly in the former, are found to undergo most fearful disorganization from the presence of carbon. It is very remarkable, that the author of these exceedingly interesting observations should never have found excavations of the parenchyma, when it is so general as the result of the same disease in this country, particularly in the locality to which I refer. Not knowing the character of the mine, it is impossible to judge; but I am disposed to conclude that there cannot be the same quantity of carbon floating in the atmosphere breathed by the German miner,--the disease resembles very much that milder form found in the iron moulder. With regard to the carbonaceous state of the blood, I am sorry that I have not yet completed my investigations on that subject. It is still my belief that the carbon being once inhaled, there is an affinity found for that in the circulating fluid, and from its not being consumed, owing to a deficiency of oxygen, there is a progressive increase going on. I am very much gratified to find that Dr Brockmann entertains a somewhat similar opinion in respect to the state of the blood. The effects of such a morbid structure upon the collier population in general is very marked. Previous to the late legislative act, the tender youth of both sexes were at an early age consigned to the coal pit, and obliged to labour beyond their feeble strength, in circumstances ill adapted to their years. Such early bodily exhaustion soon produced in them a pallid countenance, soft and relaxed muscular fibre, and predisposed much to disease as they advanced in life. The miner on this account was generally from his youth, thin; in fact, you never see a fat and healthy-looking collier, and, according to the advance of pulmonary disease, with them, so is the progress of emaciation. Such a state of body may well be looked for in miners, labouring as they do, from ten to twelve hours in the twenty-four under ground, breathing a heated and impure atmosphere, which with difficulty sustains life, and which is demonstrably calculated, from its deleterious qualities, to induce serious disease. The effects manifest in the parent descend, and visible in the youngest children; they are squalid and wretched-looking,--and how can such offspring be otherwise? They are exceedingly subject to all children's diseases, and peculiarly predisposed to pulmonary irritation of one kind or other. With regard to medical treatment, little can be done after the disease has passed its first stage. Early removal from the occupation, and proper attention to nutrition, alone seem to hold out the hope of prolonging the life of the patient; but if there be carbon lodged in the pulmonary tissues, there is a certainty of its sooner or later proving fatal. Attention to the state of the digestive organs, and using every means to remove the dyspeptic symptoms, which are prominently present throughout the various stages of this disease, are indispensably requisite; and, as to nutrition, the nature of the diet should be as generous as possible. Anodynes and expectorants are the only remedies which seem at all efficacious in allaying irritation. With a view to remove urgent symptoms, venesection has repeatedly been had recourse to, but in almost all instances I would say, with decidedly bad effects. Blood-letting does harm, producing general debility and rapid sinking.[25] With regard to the prevention of this disease, ventilation, as has been stated, is very much neglected in the pits now under consideration, where the various cases have occurred; and to that neglect I ascribe the prevalence of the malady. In those pits referred to, the workable apartments are so confined, and become after a time so destitute of oxygen, as, along with the smoke from lamps and gunpowder, to render the air unfit for healthy respiration. The only effectual remedy is a free admission of pure air, so applied as to remove the confined smoke. This remark both applies to coal and stone-mining. The introduction of some other mode of lighting such pits than by oil is required. I know several coal-pits where there is no carbonaceous disease, nor was it ever known; and on examination I find that there is and ever has been in them a free circulation of air. For example, the Penston coal-work, which joins Pencaitland, has ever been free from this disease; but many of the Penston colliers, on coming to work at Pencaitland, have been seized with, and died shortly after, of the black spit: for instance, G. case No. 5, and D. case No. 8, are such. How this is to be accomplished, is for the scientific man to say. With all due deference, I may be allowed to suggest various modes which might be adopted to free the underground atmosphere of the noxious ingredients. Could fresh air not be forced down by the power of the steam-engine, which is at every coal-pit? Could extensive fanners not be erected and propelled by the same machinery?[26] I am much surprised that no attempt has been made to light these pits with portable gas in some way or other. As far as I can understand, such an application of it would not be difficult. A small gasometer could be erected, and the necessary apparatus procured at little expense, and by such means, I would suppose, it could be carried to any part of the mines, which are not extensive. Many proprietors may grudge the expense involved in such improvements, and thus prove a barrier to these necessary alterations; but I would ask any candid and generous mind, what is expense when the object in view is the removal of a disease to which many human beings fall a sacrifice?[27] It must appear to every one that these collier diseases are crying evils, the preventive of which is based, as will be seen, on thorough ventilation; and in order to protect the miner, there should be a vigilant attention paid to the economy of underground works. No one need be surprised at the result of such a noxious atmosphere; and it becomes a duty with the government to protect these poor people by laws, and to adopt those measures which are best calculated to preserve their health; and should there arise difficulties of an insurmountable character in the ventilation of these pits, why continue the mining operation in such situations at such a sacrifice of human life?[28] * * * * * In the course of my investigations in regard to pulmonary carbonaceous infiltration, I was led to consider the circumstances of those engaged in other occupations than coal-mining. Any one who has carefully examined the structure of the human bronchial glands, at different epochs of life, must have been struck with their appearance in those who, from their vocation, are compelled to breathe a sooty atmosphere, or who have lived in ill ventilated dwellings. I am further convinced, from the results of my recent investigations, that the bronchial glands in such persons invariably contain carbonaceous matter which has been inhaled at some period of life. Having long entertained the belief that the lungs of chimney sweeps, for example, would, in all probability, be found to contain carbon, within the last few months two cases, of an exceedingly interesting character, connected with the present inquiry, have presented themselves,--the one of pulmonary disease, evidently resulting from the bronchial and lymphatic glands being impacted with inhaled carbon derived from soot,--the other a case of melanosis occurring in a young person. Though the two diseases differ materially, they have often been confounded with each other and assigned to the same cause. My object in here reporting a case of stratiform melanosis, in connection with a disease having an external origin, is to afford an illustration of the fact, that all black deposits found in the system are not carbon. There exists a marked chemical distinction between the melanotic and the carbonaceous matter; and the anatomical situation of the two is also different. CASE.--A chimney sweep, aged 50, of the name of Campbell, residing at Stockbridge. The short history of his case I procured from his friends, as I did not see him during his illness. He had been a soldier in early life, and had seen much foreign service. After he relinquished the army, he became a chimney sweep, in which capacity he was constantly engaged for nearly twenty years. He had had, for a considerable time, a troublesome cough with tough expectoration. He experienced a difficulty of breathing in making any exertion, and he had considerable oedema of the limbs. From these symptoms he believed that he was subject to _asthma_. He had only been confined to bed for two days previous to his death. _Post-mortem Appearances._--The body exhibited extensive anasarca; the thorax was well arched; the cartilages of the ribs were ossified. On removing the anterior part of the chest, the pleuræ were found to adhere strongly, and appeared rough and puckered from extensive exudation of a brown colour, which extended very generally over the serous membranes. Both cavities contained nearly three gallons of light brown fluid. The pericardium was considerably distended with a straw-coloured fluid, and several flakes of lymph floated throughout the effusion. Both auricles of the heart were enlarged, and distended with exceedingly dark blood. The walls of both ventricles were much thickened. The valvular structure of the auricles was congested and granular. The lungs were removed from the chest with difficulty, owing to the very general pleuritic adhesions. Both exhibited extensive emphysema. In dividing the lungs, and tracing the bronchial ramifications, each lobe was found to contain clusters of enlarged and indurated bronchial glands, impacted with thick black matter; and prosecuting the investigations, the minute lymphatic glands were observed clustered in a similar manner, and containing black fluid. In the substance of the upper lobe of both lungs, the bronchial glands were of a bright black colour; they were particularly large, and so numerous as to press considerably upon and obstruct several of the bronchial tubes. In fact the upper lobe of both lungs exhibited the plum-pudding structure. At the bifurcation and back part of the trachea, the bronchial glands were numerous, and of a deep black colour. A considerable mass of the glandular structure was removed for chemical and microscopic examination. The second case was that of a boy aged six years, who was under treatment for an affection of the heart and kidneys, and who died apparently from disease of these organs. He was, during his whole life, of a relaxed and weakly constitution, exceedingly sallow in the complexion, with a very deep blue tint of the sclerotic coat of the eye. In the course of the post-mortem examination, there was discovered, in the lower and lateral part of the right pleura, a cyst containing about an ounce of semi-fluid melanotic matter; and also the morbid secretion presented the stratified appearance described by Dr Carswell in his article upon Melanosis, extending over the inferior half of the costal pleura and the corresponding part of the diaphragm. It formed a distinct layer on the surface of the serous membrane, resembling ink or blacking, and could with difficulty be removed. The black deposit resembled much in appearance the foreign matter found in the pulmonary organs of the coal-miner, and therefore was submitted, as well as the bronchial glands in the other case, to chemical analysis, with the view of ascertaining if there existed any analogy in the component parts of each. Dr Douglas Maclagan submitted both these substances to the action of concentrated nitric acid, and the results were, that the glandular structure of the chimney sweep contained a very large proportion of carbon, while of the contents of the melanotic cyst, the same process did not leave a vestige of colouring matter,--evidently proving the distinction which exists between those two dark deposits, and making it sufficiently obvious, that melanotic matter is composed of the constituent elements of the blood, and has its origin within the body. There cannot remain a doubt as to the nature of the chimney sweeper's case; for, from the knowledge which we have of his occupation, and from the chemical properties manifest after investigation, I think I am entitled to declare the black matter obtained from the bronchial glands to be carbon inhaled with the air during his labour, and not existing as a constituent ingredient of organized solids or fluids. The microscopic examination showed the carbon most distinctly in a molecular form. It is my intention to return to this subject at a future time. NORTHUMBERLAND STREET, EDINBURGH, January 1846. * * * * * FOOTNOTES: [1] Vide an admirable series of papers on this subject in the volume of this Journal for 1843, by Dr Calvert Holland. [2] About ten miles east from Edinburgh. [3] Generated from the decay of vegetable and other substances in the _formerly wrought_ pits, which communicate with those at present in use. [4] It is proved, from the difference in the chemical character possessed by the melanotic matter, as compared with the matter found in the lungs of miners. [5] It will be observed, that, though the small blood vessels are destroyed, no hemorrhage takes place, owing to the formation of a carbonaceous plug. [6] The air of the coal-pit is so charged with carbon as to prevent the collier from distinguishing his neighbour when at work. [7] Note from the evidence of a collier examined before the Government Commissioners in 1842, No. 147 of Report. "Colliers in this part of the country are subject to many oppressions; first, Black spit, which attacks the men as soon as they get the length of 30 years of age;" second, Note 150, "The want of proper ventilation in the pit is the chief cause, and no part requires more looking after than East Lothian," the men die off like rotten sheep. Note, 153, the witness, 32 years old, says, "I am unable to labour much now, as I am fashed with bad breathing--the air below is very bad, and till lately no ventilation existed." [8] The black sputum retains its colour after being submitted for some days to the action of nitric acid. [9] This is the only case in which I at any time observed colliquative sweats as a symptom of this disease. [10] To convey an impression of the nature of the labour in which the man was engaged I shall simply extract a few remarks from the evidence of the miners at this coal-work, taken by Mr Franks for the Government's Commissioners, Note 105. "At all times the air is foul, and the lamps never burn bright. The seam of coal is 24 inches, and the road only three feet high." Note 108--"Experienced colliers do not like the work, and many are touched in the breath." And in such a situation man is doomed to labour! Note 114--"Most of the men here are _fashed_ with _that trouble_; Foster, Miller, Blyth, and Aitken are all clean gone in the breath together. Colliers here drop down very soon." [11] It is evident in this disease that the bronchial ramifications are destroyed, while the arteries, with the exception of the minute twigs, are preserved. [12] One of the lungs (the left one) now described, I sent to Dr John Thomson, late Professor of Pathology, and will probably be found in his collection, which I understand is in the College of Surgeons. [13] After a free expectoration of black matter, there was an evident mitigation of all the pectoral symptoms, and as the carbon again accumulated in the lungs, the sufferings of the patient were very considerably increased. [14] This sputum was subjected to the action of nitric acid, which produced no effect upon its colour. [15] When pulmonary disorganization has proceeded far, from the presence of carbon, there is a languor in the vital action from defective oxygenation of the blood, which produces a gradual reduction in the temperature of the body, requiring double clothing, and even that addition is, with the aid of stimulants, not sufficient to keep the patient warm. [16] This lung is in the possession of Sir James Clark, of London. [17] The above substances were submitted separately to the action of nitric acid and caustic potash, and the result was that a large proportion of carbon was precipitated. [18] Since writing the above the patient has died; and I regret that, owing to neglect in communicating with me, I have been prevented examining the morbid appearances. [19] Several of the Pencaitland colliers are at present engaged in the tunnelling operations near to Edinburgh, connected with the North British Railway. [20] Dr Hamilton's of Falkirk paper in the Edin. Med. and Surgical Journal, Vol. xlii. [21] I have very lately, through the kindness of Mr Girdwood, surgeon at Falkirk, had an opportunity of examining two or three iron-moulders in that district. Both from the nature of the employment in those iron works, and the character which the pulmonary affection exhibits, the fact of inhalation is fully established. The moulder is at a certain stage of his labour enveloped in a cloud of finely-ground charcoal, a portion of which cannot fail to find its way to the lungs in breathing. He is subject to tickling cough, and as the disease advances, the respiratory sounds, which indicate considerable bronchial irritation, present themselves, and ultimately become dull, and in some parts obscure. Of the several cases which I saw with Mr Girdwood, one, who has not been labouring for some years as a moulder, occasionally expectorated black matter, and in the other two, there was general dullness of both lungs; and, I doubt not, impaction. [22] It has not been in my power hitherto to procure so satisfactory a chemical analysis of the blood as I would wish, but through the kind assistance of Dr Douglas Maclagan, who has undertaken to conduct the process, I expect very soon to be able to lay it before the profession. [23] I found little or no black matter in the lungs of farm servants, who are much in the open air. [24] _Vide_ MONTHLY JOURNAL for 1845, p. 702. [25] At any time when these colliers required venesection, particularly towards the last stage of the disease, the blood appeared peculiarly dark and treacle-like. [26] Could oxygen not be prepared and forced down? [27] I am happy to find that the attention of the noble proprietor of the Newbattle coal works is now directed to this subject. [28] I cannot pass from this subject without an observation on the beneficial results which have been the consequence of Lord Ashley's valuable colliery Act. The female Labourers, and particularly the unmarried, have improved not only in their appearance, but also in general physical development, since they have abandoned the unhealthy labour of the coal-mine. They are no longer the squalid, filthy, and ill-favoured race they formerly were. There is now exhibited on the face of the collier girl the bloom of health and cheerfulness; and when we descend to their domestic economy, there is observed a comfort in the management of their households, which formerly did not exist. Their children are now particularly cared for, both in health and when suffering from disease; and we must regard this early watching as an important step to the removal of that predisposition to pulmonary irritation, so general in the collier community. 
15503	----	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 industry, there were two bright threads--threads of great beauty and high worth--threads which the very gods seemed proud of seeing there, twisted and twined, and lending color of richest hue to the whole design--threads of glorious fiber and rare quality, which sparkled and shone like the neck of a pigeon in the sunshine. These threads in the web of industry, which had shone that day for the first time, were the lives of two little children. CHAPTER VIII THE MANTLE OF MANHOOD Months passed, and Robert still worked on the pithead. Much of the novelty had passed, and he was accustomed to the noise and clamor, though he never lost the feeling that he was working with, or, indeed, was part of, some giant monster, imprisoned and harnessed, it is true, but capable of titanic labors and fall of unexpectedness. It was ever-present, implacable and sinister, yet so long as its fetters held, easily controlled. The warm weather had come, and the lure of the moors called to him at his work. Away out over there--somewhere--there were strange wonders awaiting him. He watched the trains, long, fast, and so inevitable-looking, rushing across the moor about a mile and a half from where he worked, and often, he thought that perhaps some day one of those flying monsters would bear him away from Lowwood across the moors into the Big City. What was a city like? And the sea? How big would it be? It was a staggering thought to imagine a stretch of water that ended on the sky-line--no land to be seen on the other side! What a wonderful world it must be! But a touch of bitterness was creeping into his character, and for this his mother's teaching was responsible. Nellie was always jealous of the welfare of the working class, and was ever vigilant as to its interests. She did not know how matters could be rectified, but she did know that she and her like suffered unnecessarily. "There's no reason," she would say, "for decent folk bein' in poverty. Look at the conditions that puir folk live in!" "Hoot ay! Nellie, but we canna' help it," a neighbor would reply. "It's no' for us to be better." "What way is it no'?" she would demand indignantly. "Do you think we couldna' be better folk if we had no poverty?" "Ay, but the like o' us ken no better, an' it wadna' do if we had mair. We micht waste it," and the tone of resignation always maddened her to greater wrath. "There's mair wasted on fancy fal-lals among the gentry than wad keep many a braw family goin'. Look at the hooses we live in; the gentry wadna' keep their dogs in them. The auld Earl has better stables for his horses than the hooses puir folk live in!" "That's maybe a' richt, Nellie, but you maun mind that we're no' gentry. We havena' been brocht up to anything else. Somebody has got to work, an' we canna' help it," and the fatalistic resignation but added fuel to her anger. "Ay, we could help it fine, if we'd only try it. It's no' richt that folk should hae to slave a' their days, an' be always in hardships, while ither folk who work nane hae the best o' everything. I want a decent hoose to live in; I want to see my man hae some leisure, an' my weans hae a chance in life for something better than just work and trouble," and her voice quivering with anger at the wrongs inflicted upon her, she would rattle away on her favorite topic. "There you go again. You are aye herp, herpin' at the big folk, or aboot the union. I wonder you never turn tired, woman," the reply would come, for sometimes these women were unable to understand her at all. "I'll never turn tired o' that," she would reply. "If only the men wad keep thegither an' no' be divided, they'd soon let the big folk see wha' was the maist importance to the country. Do you think onybody ever made a lot o' money by their ain work? My man an' your man hae wrocht hard a' their days. They've never wasted ony o' their hard-earned money, an' yet they hae naething." "No, because it takes it a' to keep us," would be the reply, as if that were a conclusive answer, difficult to counter. "Well, how do ye think other folk mak' a fortune? Do ye think they work harder than your man does? No! It's because our men work so hard that other folk get it aff their labor. Do they live a better life than your man or mine? They waste mair in yae day, whiles, than wad keep your family or mine for a whole year. Is it because they are honester than us? No. You ken fine your man or yoursel' wadna' hae the name o' stealin'. But they steal every day o' their lives, only they ca' it business. That's the difference. It's business wi' them, but it wad be dishonest on oor pairt. Awa', woman! It's disgraceful to think aboot. Naebody should eat wha disna work, an' I dinna care wha hears me say it," and the flashing eyes and the indignant voice gave token of her righteous wrath. "That's a' richt, Nellie, but it has aye been, an' I doot it'll aye be. We just canna help it," would come the reply. "I tell you it's everybody's duty to work for better times. We've no richt to allow the things that gang on. There's nae guid in poverty and disease an' ill-health, an' we should a' try to change it; and we could if only you'd get some sense into your held, an' no' stand and speak as if you felt that God meant it." "Ay, Nellie, that's a' richt, but it's the Lord's will, an' we maun put up wi' it." At this juncture Mrs. Sinclair's patience would become exhausted, and she would flare up, while the neighbor would suddenly break off the discussion and go off home. Her children were taught that it was a disgrace not to resent a wrong, and Robert, though only a boy, was always sturdily standing up against the things he considered wrong at the pit-head. Robert dreamed and built his future castles. There was great work ahead to do. He never mentioned his longings and visions to anyone, yet Mysie's sweet, shy face was creeping into them always, and already he was conscious of something in her that thrilled him. He was awkward, and his speech did not come readily, in her presence. Whole days he dreamed, only waking up to find it was "knocking-off" time. There was an hour's break in the middle of the day, and then he wandered out on the moor. Its silence soothed him, and he would lie and dream among the rough yellow grass and the hard tough heather, bathing his soul in the brooding quietness of it all. He was now twelve years of age, and longing to get at work down the pit. It was for him the advent of manhood, and represented the beginning of his real work. One night in the late summer, after the pit had knocked off and the "day-shift" was returning home, he and Mysie were walking as usual behind the women. He had meant to tell her the great news all day, but somehow she was so different now, and besides a man should always keep something to himself as long as possible. It showed strength, he thought. "I'm goin' doon the pit the morn, Mysie," he said, now that he had come to the point of telling her, and speaking as casually as he could. "Oh, are you?" said Mysie, and stopped, disappointingly, and remained silent. "Ay. I'm twelve now, you ken, an' I can get into the pit," feeling a bit nettled that she was silent in the face of such a happening. "Oh!" and again Mysie stopped. "My faither has got a place a week syne that'll fit John an' him an' me. The three o' us are a' goin' to work thegither. If he could have gotten yin sooner, I'd hae been doon a month syne. But he's aye been waitin' to get a place that wad suit us a'," he said, volunteering this information to see if it would loosen her tongue to express the regret he wanted her to speak. But again Mysie did not answer. She only hung her head and did not look up with any interest in his news. "It's aboot time I was in the pit now, ye ken. You used to get doon the pit at ten. My faither was in it when he was nine, but you're no' allowed to gang doon now till you are twelve year auld. I'm going to draw aff my faither and John," and he was feeling more and more exasperated at her continued silence. Yet still Mysie did not speak, and merely nodded to this further enlightenment. "I've never telt onybody except yoursel'," he said, hurt at her seeming want of interest, and feeling that what he was going to say was less manly than he intended it to be. Indeed he was aware that it was decidedly childish of him to say it, but, like many wiser and older, he could not keep his dignity, and took pleasure in hurting her; for there is a pleasure sometimes in hurting a loved one, because they are loved, and will not speak the things one wants them to say, which if said might add to one's vanity and sense of importance. "So ye'll just be by yoursel' the morn, unless they put Dicky Tamson owre aside you," he added viciously. "I dinna want Dicky Tamson aside me," she said with some heat, and a hint of anxiety in her voice, which pleased him a little. "He's an impudent thing," and again she relapsed into silence, just when he thought his pleasure was going to be complete. "Oh, they'll maybe put Aggie Lowrieson on your side o' the table," he volunteered, glad that at last she had shown some feeling. "They can keep Aggie Lowrieson too," she said shortly. "I dinna' want her. I'll get on fine mysel'," and she said no more. He talked of his new venture all the way home, and he felt more and more hurt because she did not reply as eagerly and volubly as he wished. "It'll be great goin' doon the pit," he said, again feeling that he was going to be priggish. "Pickin' stanes is a' guid enough for a laddie for a wee while, an' for women, but you're the better to gang into the pit when you're the age. You get mair money for it. Of course, it's hard work, but I'll be earnin' as much as twa shillin's a day in the pit, and that'll be twelve shillin's a week." But Mysie could not be drawn to look at his rosy prospects, and still kept silent, so that the last few hundred yards were covered in silence. At the end of the row where they always parted, he could not resist adding a thrust to his usual "good-night." "Guid nicht then, Mysie. I thocht may be ye'd be vexed, seem' that Dickie Tamson can torment you as muckle as he likes now." And so he went home feeling that Mysie didn't care much. But Mysie had a sore heart that night. She knew only too well that Dick Tamson would torment her, and would be egged on by the other women to kiss and tease her, and they would laugh at it all. Robert had always been her champion, and kept Dick, who was a mischievous boy, at a distance. She was sorry that Robert was going down the pit, and it seemed to her that she'd rather go to service now. The harsh clamor and the dirty disagreeable work were bearable before, but it would not be the same with Robert away. She knew that she would miss him very much. She thought long of it when she lay down in her bed that night. He had no right to think that she was not vexed, and she cried quietly beneath the blankets. "Here's Mysie greetin'," cried her little brother, who lay beside her. "Mither, Mysie's greetin'." "What's wrang wi' her?" called the mother anxiously from the other bed. "I dinna' ken," answered the boy, "she'll no' tell me." "What is't that's wrang with you, Mysie?" again called the mother more sharply. "I've a sore tooth," she answered, glad to get any excuse, and lying with promptitude. "Well, hap the blankets owre your head," the mother advised, "and it'll soon be better. Dinna' greet, like a woman." But Mysie still continued to cry softly, choking back the sobs, and keeping her face to the wall, so as not to disturb the other sleeper beside her--cried for a long hour, until exhaustion overcame her, and at last she fell asleep, her last thought being that Robert had no right to misjudge her so. Robert, on the other hand, as is the prerogative of the man, soon forgot all about his disappointment at Mysie's seeming want of interest in his affairs, and was busy with his preparations for the next day. He had a lamp to buy, for Lowwood was an open-light pit, and was soon busy on the instructions of his father learning the art of "putting in a wick" to the exact thickness, testing his tea flask, and doing all the little things that count in preparing for the first descent into a coal mine. He was very much excited over it all, and babbled all the evening, asking questions regarding the work he would be called upon to do, and generally boring his father with his talk. But his father understood it all, and was patient with him, answering his enquiries and advising him on many things, until latterly he pleaded for a "wink o' peace," and told the boy "for any sake" to be quiet. Geordie Sinclair knew that this enthusiasm would soon evaporate. Only too well he knew the stages of disappointment which the boy would experience, and for this reason he was kindly with him. He was now looking forward with better prospects. Robert was the second boy now started, and already matters were somewhat easier; but he shuddered to think of the lot of the man who was battling away unaided, with four or five children to support, and depending on a meager three and sixpence or four shillings of a daily wage to keep the house together. For himself the prospect was now better, and in looking back he realized what a terrible time it had been--especially for his wife; for hers was the more difficult task in laying out the scanty wages he earned. It never had seemed to strike him with such force before, even when matters were at their worst, what it had meant to her; and as he looked at her, sitting knitting at the opposite side of the fire, he was filled with compassion for her, and a new beauty seemed to be upon her lined face, and in the firm set of her mouth. Thus he sat reviewing all the terrible struggle, when she had slaved to keep him and the children, during the time he was injured, and a pang shot through, as the conviction came to him, that perhaps he had not been as helpful as he might have been to her, when a little praise even might have made it easier for her. Impulsively he rose to his feet and crossed to where she sat, taking her in his arms and kissing her. "Losh, Geordie, what's wrong with you!" she enquired, looking up with a pleased sparkle in her eyes, for he was usually very undemonstrative. "Oh, just this, Nellie," he said with embarrassment in every feature of his face, "I've been thinking over things, and I feel that I havena' given you encouragement as I should have done, for all that you have done for me and the bairns." "You fair took my breath away," said Nellie with a pleased little laugh; then, as she looked at his glowing face, something came into her throat, and the tears started. "There now, lassie," he said, again gathering her into his arms, and kissing her tenderly, "it's all past now, my lass, and you'll get it easier from this time forth. God knows, Nellie, you are worth all that I can ever do for you to help," and the happy tears fell from her eyes, as she patted his rough, hairy cheek, and fondled him again, as she had done in their courting days. "I'll wash the floor for you, lass," he said impulsively, almost beside himself with happiness, as he realized that this little act of his had made them both so happy. "You've been in the washing tub all day, and I ken you'll be scrubbin' on the floor first thing in the morning, as soon as we are away to the pit. But I'll do it for you the nicht. The bairns are all in bed, and I'll no' be long. You sit an' tak' a rest," and he was off for the pail and a scrubbing brush, and was back at the fireside pouring water from the kettle before his wife realized it. "Oh, never mind, Geordie," she said remonstratingly, "I'll do it myself in the morning. You've had your own work to do in the pit, an' you need all the rest you can get." "No," he said decisively. "You sit doon, lass. I'll no' be lang. Just you sing a bit sang to me, just as you used to sing, Nellie, an' I'll wash out the floor," and he was soon on his knees, scrubbing away as if it were a daily occurrence with him. And Nellie, pleased and happy beyond expression, sat in the big chair by the fireside and sang his favorite ballad, "Kirkconnel Lea." Oh, that I were where Helen lies, For nicht and day on me she cries, Oh, that I were where Helen lies On fair Kirkconnel Lea. Oh, Helen fair, beyond compare, I'll mak' a garland o' your hair Shall bind my heart for evermair Until the day I dee. And Nellie Sinclair never in all her life sang that song so well as she did that night; and she never sang it again. Robert, who was lying in the room, heard her glorious voice, and marveled at the complete mastery she showed over the plaintive old tune. It was as if her very soul reveled in it, as the notes rose and fell; and it stirred the boy into tremendous emotional excitement, as the tragedy was unfolded in the beautiful words and the sadness of the old tune. It was a memorable night of quiet happiness for all, and there was so much of tragedy lying behind it unseen and unknown. But so often are the sweetest moments of life followed by its sadness and its sorrow. CHAPTER IX THE ACCIDENT Next morning at five o'clock Robert leapt from his bed, full of importance at the prospect of going down the pit. Stripping off his sleeping shirt, he chattered as he donned the pit clothes. The blue plaid working-shirt which his mother had bought for him felt rough to his tender skin, but unpleasant as it was, he donned it with a sense of bigness. Then the rough moleskin trousers were put on and fastened with a belt round the waist, and a pair of leg-strings at the knees. The bundles of clothes, separately arranged the night before, had got mixed somewhat in Robert's eagerness to dress, with the result that when his brother John rose, with eyes half shut, and reached for his stockings, he found those of Robert instead lying upon his bundle. "Gie's my socks," he ordered grumpily, flinging Robert's socks into the far corner of the kitchen. "You've on the wrong drawers too. Can ye no' look what you're doin'?" and the drawers followed the socks, while Robert looked at his mother with eyes of wonderment. "Tak' aff his socks, Rob," she said, "he's a thrawn, ill-natured cat, that, in the mornin'." "Well, he should look what he's doin' an' no' put on other folk's claes," and immediately the others burst out laughing, for this advocate of "watchin' what he was doin'" had in his half sleepy condition failed to see that he had lifted his jacket and had rammed his leg down the sleeve in his hurry and anger. "Noo, that'll do," said Geordie, as John flung the jacket at Robert, because he laughed. "That'll do noo, or I'll come alang yer jaw," and thus admonished John was at once silent. Robert soon had his toilet completed, however, even to the old cap on his head, upon which sat the little oil-lamp, which he handled and cleaned and wiped with his fingers to keep it bright and shiny, whilst all the time he kept chattering. "For ony sake, laddie, hand your tongue," said Geordie at last, as he drew in his chair to the table to start upon the frugal breakfast of bread and butter and tea. "Your tongue's never lain since you got up." Robert, thereupon, sat down in silence at the table, though there were a hundred different things he wanted to ask about the pit. He could not understand why everyone felt and looked so sleepy, nor divine the cause of the irritable look upon each face, which in the dim light of the paraffin lamp gave a forbidding atmosphere to the home at this time of the day. At last, however, the meal was over, and when Geordie had lit his pit lamp and stuck his pipe in his mouth, all three started off with a curt "Good morning" to Mrs. Sinclair, who looked after her boys with a smile which chased away the previous irritability from her face. Arrived at the pit-head, they found a number of miners there squatting on their "hunkers," waiting the time for descending the shaft. As each newcomer came forward, the man who arrived immediately before him called out: "I'm last." By this means--"crying the benns,"--as it was called--the order of descent was regulated on the principle of "First come, first served." Much chaffing was leveled at little Robert by some of the younger men regarding his work and the things which would have to be done by and to him that day. At last came the all important moment, and Robert, his father and two men stepped on to the cage. After the signal was given, it seemed to the boy as if heaven and earth were passing away in the sudden sheer drop, as the cage plunged down into the yawning hole, out of which came evil smells and shadows cast from the flickering lamps upon the heads of the miners. The rattling of the cage sent a shiver of fear through Robert, and with that first sudden plunge he felt as if his heart were going to leap out of his mouth. But by the time he reached the "bottom," he had consoled and encouraged himself with the thought that these things were all in the first day's experience of all miners. That morning Robert Sinclair was initiated into the art of "drawing" by his brother John. The road was fairly level, to push the loaded "tubs," thus leaving his father to be helped with the pick at the coal "face." After an hour or two, Robert, though getting fairly well acquainted with the work, was feeling tired. The strange damp smell, which had greeted his nostrils when the cage began to descend with him that morning, was still strong, though not so overpowering as it had been at first. The subtle shifting shadows cast from his little lamp were becoming familiar, and his nervousness was not now so pronounced, though he was still easily startled if anything unusual took place. The sound of the first shot in the pit nearly frightened him out of his wits, and he listened nervously to every dull report with a strange uneasiness. About one o'clock his father called to him. "Dinna tak' that hutch oot the noo, Robert. Just let it staun', an' sit doon an' tak' yir piece. Ye'll be hungry, an' John an' me will be out the noo if we had this shot stemmed." "A' richt," cheerfully replied the boy, withdrawing down to the end of the road, where his clothes hung upon a tree, and taking his bread from one of his pockets, he sat down tired and hungry to await his father and John. Geordie's "place" was being worked over the old workings of another mine which had exhausted most of the coal of a lower seam many years previously, except for the "stoops" or pillars, which had been left in. This was supposed to be the barrier beyond which Rundell's lease did not go. It would be too dangerous to work the upper seam with the ground hollow underneath, so the "places" had all been stopped as they came up, with the exception of Geordie Sinclair's. Sinclair was puzzled at this, and he often wondered why his place had not been stopped with the others. He was more uneasy, too, when he began to find large cracks or fissures in the metals, and spoke of this to Andrew Marshall a few nights before; but he did not like to seem to make too much of it, and the matter was passed over, till the day before, when Walker visited the place for a few minutes, when Geordie accosted him. "What way is my place going on?" he asked, and was told that it was a corner in the barrier, which extended for one hundred yards and must go on for that distance, and that there was really no danger, as the ground below was solid. So, busily working away, and finding still more rents in the floor and roof, Sinclair thought it must just be as he had seen it in other places of a like kind, the weight of the upper metals which were breaking over the solid ground by reason of the hollow beneath between the stoops, though in this case it did not amount to much as yet. The coal was easy to get; he had one boy "forrit to the pick," with Robert as "drawer," and his prospects seemed good, he thought, as he was busily preparing a shot, ramming in the powder, and "stemming" up the hole. He was busy ramming the powder in the prepared hole, while the elder boy prepared clay, with which to stem or seal it up after the powder had been pressed back, leaving only the fuse protruding. "Here's a tree cracking," said the boy, drawing his father's attention to a breaking prop; but as this is a common occurrence in all mines where there is extra weight after development, Geordie thought nothing of it at the time, intending merely, before he lighted his shot, to put in a fresh prop. "Bring in another prop, sonny," he said to the boy, "and I'll put it in when I have stemmed this hole," and the boy turned to obey his order. But suddenly a low crackling sound, caused by the breaking of more props, was heard, then a roar and a crash as of thunder, followed by a long rumbling noise, which left not a moment for the two trapped human beings to stir even a limb or utter a cry. The immensity of the fall created a wind, which put out little Robert's lamp; the great rumbling noise filled him with a dreadful fear, and he sprang involuntarily to his feet. "Faither! Faither!" he called, terror in his voice and anxiety in his little heart, but there was no reassuring answer. He felt his breathing getting difficult; the air was thick with dust and heavy with the smell of rotting wood and damp decaying matter. "Faither! Faither!" he called again louder in his agony, darting forward, thinking to go to their assistance, and knocking his head against a boulder. "John! Faither! I'm feart," and he began to cry. Afraid to move, unable to see, he staggered from one side to another, bruising his face and arms against the jagged sides, the blood already streaming from his bruises, and his heart frantic with fear. "Oh, faither! faither! Where are ye?" and he began to crawl up the incline, in desperate fear, while still the rumbling and crashing went on in long rolling thunder. "Oh! oh!" he moaned, now almost mad with terror. "Faither! John! Where are ye! Oh! oh!" and he fell back stunned by striking his head against a low part of the roof. Again he scrambled to his feet, certain now that some disaster had happened, since there was no response to his appeals, and again he was knocked to the ground by striking his head against the side of the roadway. But always he rose again, frantically dashing from side to side, as a caged lark, when first caught, dashes itself against the bars of its prison; until finally, stunned beyond recovery, he lay in a semi-conscious condition, helpless and inert, his bruises smarting but unfelt, and the blood oozing from his nose and mouth. Andrew Marshall, working about fifty yards away, heard the roar and the crash, and the boy's cries, and at once ran to Geordie's place. In his haste and anxiety he nearly stumbled over the prostrate boy, who lay unconscious in the roadway. "Good God! What has happened?" he exclaimed, anxiously bending over the boy and raising him up, then dashing some cold tea from Robert's flask upon him, and forcing some between his lips. Then, when the boy showed signs of recovery, he plied him with anxious questions. "Where's yir faither? What's wrang?" But the boy only clung to him in wild terror, and nothing connected could be got from him. Andrew lighted the boy's lamp and tore up the brae, leaving Robert shrieking in nervous fright. "Great Christ! It has fa'en in!" he cried, when he had got as far as he could go. "Geordie! Geordie! Are ye in there?" and as no answer came, he began tearing at the great blocks of stone, flinging them like pebbles in his desperation, until another warning rumble drove him back. Immediately he realized how helpless he was alone, so he went back to the boy and hurried him down the brae and out to where some other men were at work. A few hasty words, and Robert was passed on, and Andrew went back with the men, only to find how hopeless it all was; for occasionally huge falls continued to come away, and it seemed useless to attempt anything till more help was procured. Andrew hurried off to the bottom and overtook Robert, sending back others to help, and he ascended the shaft and was off to break the news to Mrs. Sinclair; after which he returned to the pit, determined to get out all that remained of Geordie and the boy John. CHAPTER X HEROES OF THE UNDERWORLD Matters were now much easier and more comfortable for Geordie Sinclair and his wife. They had long since added another apartment to their house, and the "room" was the special pride of Nellie, who was gradually "getting a bit thing for it" just as her means permitted. They had two beds in each apartment, and the room was furnished. Mrs. Sinclair had long set her mind upon a "chest of drawers," and now that that particular piece of furniture stood proudly in her room, much of her day was given to polishing it and the half-dozen stuffed bottomed chairs, which were the envy of every housewife in the village. A large oval mirror stood upon the top of the drawers, and was draped with a piece of cheap curtain cloth, bleached to the whiteness of new fallen snow. This mirror was a much-prized possession, for no other like it had ever been known in the village. The floor was covered with oilcloth, and a sheepskin rug lay upon the hearthstone, while white starched curtains draped the window. The getting of the waxcloth had been a wonderful event, and dozens of women had come from all over the village to stand in gaping admiration of its beauty. This was always where Mrs. Sinclair felt a thrill of great pride. "Ye see," she would explain, "it's awfu' easy to wash, and a bit wipe owre wi' soap an' watter is a' it needs." "My, how weel aff ye are!" one woman would exclaim, "I'm telt that ye maunna use a scrubbin' brush on't, or the pattern will rub off." "Oh, ay," Nellie would laugh with a hint of superior wisdom in it. "Ye'll soon waste it gin ye took a scrubber to it. An' ye maunna use owre hot water to it either," she would add. "Oh my!" would come in genuine surprise. "Do you tell me that. Eh, but you're the weel-aff woman now, to hae a room like that, an' rale waxcloth on the floor!" "I thocht it was a fine, cheerie bit thing," Nellie would say. "It mak's the hoose ever so much mair heartsome." "So it is," would come the reply. "It's a fine, but cheerie thing. You're a rale weel-aff woman, I can tell ye," and the woman would go home to dream of one day having a room like Mrs. Sinclair's, and to tell her neighbors of the great "grandeur" that the Sinclair's possessed, whilst Nellie would set to, and rub and polish those drawers and that mirror, and the stuff-bottomed chairs till they shone like the sun upon a moorland tarn, and she herself felt like dropping from sheer exhaustion. She even took to telling the neighbors sometimes, when they came on those visits that "working folk should a' hae coal-houses, for coal kept ablow the beds makes an awfu' mess o' the ticks." "Oh, weel," would be the reply, made with the usual sigh of resignation, "I hae had a house a gey lang while now, an' I dinna think I've ever wanted ony sic newfangled things as that." "That's what's wrang," Mrs. Sinclair would reply. "We dinna want them. If we did, we'd soon get them. What way would the gentry hae a' thae things, an' us hae nane?" "That's a' richt, Nellie," would be the reply. "We wadna ken what to do wi' what the gentry has got. They're rich an' can afford it, an' forby they need them an' we don't. I think I'm fine as I am." "Fine as ye are!" with bitter scorn in her tones. "Ye'll never be fine wi' a mind like that." "Wheesht, woman Nellie! You're no feart. Dinna talk like that. We micht a' be strucken doon dead!" This usually ended the discussion, for Scots people generally--and the workers especially--are always on very intimate terms with the Deity, and know the pains and penalties of too intimate allusions to His power. Yet, with all her discontent, Mrs. Sinclair found life very much easier than it had been, for now that she had some of the boys started to work, she had made her house "respectable," and added many little comforts, besides having a "bit pound or twa lyin' in the store." So she looked ahead with more hope and a more serene heart. Her children were well-fed and clothed, and the old days of hunger and struggling were over, she thought. Geordie was now taking a day off in the middle of the week to rest, as there was no need for him to slave and toil every day as he had done in the past. After all it would only be a very few years till he would no longer be able to work at all. Rosy looked the future then, as Mrs. Sinclair, on the day on which young Robert went down the pit, showed off her room "grandeur" to an admiring neighbor. "My, what braw paper ye hae, Nellie. Wha put it on for ye? Was it yirsel'?" asked the visitor with breath bated in admiration. "Ay, it was that. I just got the chance o' the bargain, an' I thocht I'd tak' it," she replied, with subdued pride. "Oh, my! it's awful braw, an' sae weel matched too! I never saw anything sae well done. You're rale weel-off, do ye ken." "My God! What's wrang?" cried Nellie suddenly, gazing from the window with blanched cheeks. "I doot there's been an accident. I heard the bell gang for men three tows a' rinnin', an' I see a lot o' men comin' up the brae. I doot the pit's lowsed." Both of them hurried to the door, and found that already a crowd of women had flocked to the end of the row, and were standing waiting anxiously on the men, in order to learn what had happened. They did not talk, but gazed down the hill, each heart anxious to know if the unfortunate one belonged to her. The sickening fear which grips the heart of every miner's wife, when she sees that procession from the pit before the proper quitting hour, lay heavy upon each one. The white drawn faces, the set firm lips, and the deep troubled breathing told how much the women were moved. Wives and mothers, sweethearts and sisters, oh, what a hell of torture they suffered in those few tense moments whilst waiting for the news, which, though to a great extent it may relieve many, must break at least one heart. No man, having once seen this, ever wants to witness it again. Concentrated hell and torture with every moment, stabbing and pulling at each heart and then--then the sad, mournful face of Andrew Marshall as he steps forward slowly past Mag Robertson, past Jean Fleming, past Jenny Maitland, past them all, and at last putting a kindly hand on the shoulder of Nellie Sinclair, he says, with a catch in his voice that would break a heart of granite: "Come awa' hame, Nellie. Come awa' hame. Ye'll need to bear up." Then it is whispered round: "It's Geordie Sinclair killed wi' a fa'." And hope has died, and dreams have fled, and the world will never again look bonnie and fresh and sweet and full of happiness, nor the blood dance so joyously, nor the eyes ever again sparkle with the same soft loving glance. No more happy evenings, such as the night before had been, when the glamor and romance of courtship days had come back, and they had found a new beauty of love and the glory of life, in the easier circumstances and rosy hopes ahead. Misery and suffering, and the long keen pain, the sad cheerless prospect, and over all the empty life and the broken heart. Lowwood was plunged into gloom when the news of the accident was known, and every heart went out in sympathy to Nellie Sinclair and her young family. It was indeed a terrible blow to lose at one and the same time her husband and her eldest boy. It was two days later, and the bodies had not yet been recovered. Men toiled night and day, working as only miners fighting for life can work, risking life among the continually falling débris to recover all that remained of their comrades. "It couldna ha'e been worse," said Jenny Maitland sorrowfully to her next door neighbor. "It's an awfu' blow." "Ay," rejoined her neighbor, applying the corner of her apron to her eyes. "It mak's it worse them no' bein' gotten yet. I think I'd gae wrang in the mind if that happened to our yin," and then, completely overcome, she sat down on the doorstep and sobbed in real sorrow. "I suppose it's an awfu' big fall. He had been workin' on the top o' some auld workin's, an' I suppose they wadna ken, an' it fell in. It maun hae been an awfu' trial for wee Rob, poor wee man. His first day in the pit, an' his father an' brither killed afore his een!" "Hoo has Nellie taken it, Jenny?" enquired the neighbor, after a little, when her sobs had subsided. "Ye'd break yir heart if ye could see her," replied Jenny sorrowfully. "I gaed owre when oor yin gaed out wi' the pieces--he cam' hame at fower o'clock to get mair pieces, for they're goin' to work on to ten the nicht--an' I never saw onything sae sad-lookin' as her face. She has never cried the least thing yet. Never a tear has come frae her, but she'd be better if she could greet." "Do ye tell me that! Puir Nellie! It's an awfu' hand fu' she is left wi', too," commented the neighbor. "Ay, she jist looks at ye sae sad-like wi' her big black een; never a word nor a tear, but just stares, an' she's that thin an' white lookin'. I look for her breakin' doon a'thegither, an' when she does I wadna like to see her. The bits o' weans gang aboot the hoose wonderin' at her, and she looks to them too, but ye'd think she'd nae interest in onything. She jist looks out o' the window an' doon the brae to the pit. It's awesome to look at her." "Oh, puir body!" and again the kindly neighbor was overcome, and Jenny joined her tears too in silent sympathy. "The minister was owre last nicht," said Jenny after a little, "but I dinna think she ever spoke to him. He cam' in just when I was comin' oot, an' I dinna like to leave her. He talked away a wee while an' then put up a prayer; but there was nae consolation in't for onybody. I think the sicht o' her face maun hae been too muckle for him. He didna stay very lang, and gaed awa' saying he'd come back again. Nellie has everything ready--the bed a' made, wi' clean sheets an' blankets on them--an' there she stan's always at that window, lookin' doon the brae. It would break yer heart to see her, Leezie, she's that vexed lookin'." So they wept and sorrowed together. * * * * * Down in the pit, Andrew Marshall, Matthew Maitland, Peter Pegg, and a number of others toiled like giants possessed. Their naked bodies streamed with sweat and glistened in the light of their lamps. Timber was placed in position, and driven tight with desperation in every blow from their hammers; blocks of rock were tossed aside, and smashed into fragments, ere being filled into the tubs which were ever waiting ready to convey the débris to the pit-head. Few words were spoken, except when a warning shout was given, when some loose rubble poured down from the great gaping cavern in the roof, and then men jumped and sprang to safety with the agility of desperation, to wait till the rumbling had ceased, only to leap back again into the yawning hell, tearing at the stones, and trying to work their way into the place where they knew Geordie and the boy were lying. It seemed impossible that human efforts would ever be able to clear that mountain away. "Wait a minute, callans," said Andrew, almost dropping with exhaustion, and drawing his hands across his eyes to wipe the sweat from them, whilst he "hunkered" down, his back against a broken tree which stood jutting out from the building, supporting a broken "baton" (cross-tree), which bent down in the center, making the roadway low and unsafe. "Let us tak a minute's thocht, and see if we can get a way o' chokin' up that stuff fear fallin' doon. We'll never get it redd up goin' like this." So they sat down, tired but still desperate, to listen to each one suggesting a way of stopping the débris from continuing to fall. Baffled and at their wits' end, they could think of nothing. At last in came a number of other men to relieve them--men equally anxious and desperate as they, burning with the desire to get to grips with this calamity which had come upon two of their comrades. "I'm no' goin' hame," said Andrew decisively, "till I see Geordie out." He was almost dropping with exhaustion, but he could not think of leaving his dead friend in there. So at last it was agreed that he should stay, and at least give the benefit of his advice. The others, more tired than ever they had been before in all their experience of the mines, where hard work is the rule, trudged wearily home, to be met by the waiting groups of women and children, who at all times stood at the corners of the village eagerly asking for news, "If they'd been gotten yet." After a few minutes' deliberation a plan was decided on by Andrew and his comrades of trying to choke up the hole in the roof with timber, and the work went on desperately, silently, heroically. Time and again their efforts were baffled by new falls, but always the same persistent eager spirit drove them back to their toil. So they worked, risking and daring things of which no man who never saw a like calamity has any conception, and which would have appalled themselves at any other time. "Look out, boys," called Tam Donaldson, springing back to the road as the warning noise again began, and great masses of rock came hurtling down, filling the place with dust and noise. A cry of pain and horror broke upon them as they ran, and brought them back while the crumbling mass was still falling. "Great God! It's wee Jamie Allan," roared one man above the din. "He's catched by the leg! Here, boys, hurry up! Try an' get this block broken afore ony mair comes doon. God Almichty! Are we a' goin' to be buried thegither? This bit, boys! Quick!" And they tore at the great masses of stone, the sweat streaming from every pore of their bodies, cursing their impotence as they smashed with big hammers the rock which lay upon Jamie's leg. "Mind yersel's, laddies!" warned Jamie, as again the trickling noise began, heralding another fall. "Leave me, for God's sake, an' get back!" But not one heeded. Desperate and strong with the strength of giants, they toiled on, the sight of suffering so manifest in Jamie's eyes, as he strove not to cry out, spurring them onward. "Ye'll never lift that bit, Tam," said Jamie, as four of them tore at the block which lay upon his leg. "It's faur too big. Take an ax an' hack the leg off. I doot it'll be wasted anyway. Oh, dear! Oh, dear!" And unable longer to endure the pain, he roared aloud in agony, and tore at the stone himself with his fingers, like an imprisoned beast in a trap. "Here, boys, quick!" cried Andrew, getting his long pinch in below the stone, upon a fine leverage. "Put yir weight on this, Tam, an' Jock an' Sanny'll try an' pull Jamie out. Hurry up, for she's working for anither collapse. A'thegither!" and so they tugged and tore, and strained and pulled, while the roars of the imprisoned man were deafening. "A'thegither again, laddies!" encouraged Andrew. "This time!" and with a tremendous effort the stone gave way, and Jamie was pulled clear, his leg a crushed mass of pulpy blood and shattered bones. They dragged him back clear of any further falls, and improvised a stretcher on which to carry home his now unconscious body. "That was a hell o' a narrow shave," quietly observed Tam Donaldson, as they panted together, and tried to collect themselves. "His leg's wasted, I doot, an' will need to come off." When they had their stretcher ready, the wounded man was tenderly placed upon it, carefully covered up with the jackets of the others; whilst half-a-dozen of them carried him to the pit bottom, and finally bore him home, where the doctor was ready waiting to attend to him. Andrew and a few others worked away, and at last managed to get the running sore in the roof choked up with long bars of timber, and even though it continued to rumble away above them, the heavy blocks of wood held, and so allowed them to work away in comparative safety. Peter Pegg and Matthew Maitland returned at six o'clock next morning, bringing with them another band of workers to relieve those who had worked all night, but still Andrew Marshall would not leave the scene of the disaster. He worked and rested by turns, advising and guiding the younger men, who never spared themselves. They performed mighty epics of work down there in the darkness amid the rumbling, falling roof. It was a great task they were set, but they never shirked the consequences. They never turned back. Risks were taken and accepted without a thought; tasks were eagerly jumped to, and the whole job accepted as if it were just what ordinarily they were asked to do. Crash went the hammers; thump went the great blocks of material into the tubs, and the men quietly got away the tubs as they were filled. Night and day the great work went on, never ceasing, persistent, relentless. If one man dropped out a minute to breathe and rest when exhausted, another sprang into his place, and toiled and strove like an engine. There was something great and inspiring even to look on at those mighty efforts--something exhilarating and elevating in the play of muscles like great long shooting serpents under the glistening skins of the men. Arms shot out, tugged and tore, jerked and wrenched, then doubled up and the muscles became knots, bulging out as if they would break through the skin, as the great blocks were lifted; and then the blocks were cast into the tub, the knots untied themselves, and slipped elastically back into their places, and the serpents were momentarily at rest until the body bent again to another block. Out and in they flew, supple and silent, quick as lightning playing in the heavens; they zig-zagged and shot this way and that, tying and untying themselves, darting out and doubling back, advancing and retiring in rhythmic action, graceful and easy, powerful and inevitable. Bending and rising, the swaying bodies gleamed and glistened with greasy dust and sweat, catching the gleams from the lamps and reflecting them in every streaming pore. Straining and tearing, the muscles, at every slightest wish, seemed to exude energy and health, glowing strength and power. It was all so natural and apparently easy--an epic in moleskin and human flesh, with only the little glimmer of oil-lamps, which darted from side to side in a mad mazurka of toil, crossing and recrossing, swinging and halting, the flames flattening out with every heave of their owners' bodies, then abruptly being brought to the steady again. Looked at from the road-foot, it was like a carnival of fireflies engaged in trying how quickly they could dart from side to side, and cross each other's path, without coming into collision. Who shall sing in lyrical language the exhilaration of such splendid men's work? Who shall catch that glow of strength and health, and work it into deathless song? The ring of the hammers on the stone, the dull regular thud upon the timber, the crash of breaking rock, and the strong, warm-blooded, generous-hearted men; the passionate glowing bodies, and above all, the great big heroic souls, fighting, working, striving in a hell of hunger and death, toiling till one felt they were gods instead of humans--gods of succor and power, gods of helpfulness and strength. So the work went on hour after hour, and now their efforts were beginning to tell. No more came the rumbling, treacherous falls; but perceptibly, irresistibly was the passage gradually cleared, and the way opened up, until it seemed as if these men were literally eating their way into that rock-filled passage. "Can ye tell me where Black Jock is a' this time?" enquired Andrew, as Peter and Matthew and he sat back the road, resting while the others worked. "Rundell has been here twa or three times, for hours at a time, but I hae never seen Walker yet." "I hae never seen him either, an' I was hearin' that he was badly," returned Peter, and his big eye seemed to turn as if it were looking for and expecting some one to slip up behind him. "Ay," broke in Matthew, "badly! I wadna say, but it micht be that he's badly; but maybe he's not." "Do ye ken, boys," said Andrew quietly, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and speaking with slow deliberation, "I'm beginnin' to think Black Jock is guilty o' Geordie's death. Geordie, as we a' ken, had ay something against Walker. There was something he kent aboot the black brute that lately kept him gey quiet; for, if ye noticed, whenever Geordie went to him about anybody's complaint, the men aye won. I ken Walker hated him, an' I'm inclined to think that he has deliberately put Geordie into this place, kennin' that the lower seam had been worked out lang, lang syne. His plans wad tell him as muckle about the workin's, and I ken, at least, he's never been in Geordie's place since it was started, an' there's nae ither places drivin' up sae far as this. They're a' stoppit afore they come this length; an' forby, frae what Rundell has let drap the day, he never kent that the coal was being worked as far up as this. By ----! Peter, gin I could prove what I suspect, I'd murder the dirty brute this nicht! I would that!" "Would Nellie no' ken, think ye, what it was that Geordie had against Black Jock that kept him sae quiet?" enquired Peter. "I couldna' say," answered Andrew, "but some day when I get the chance I'll maybe ask her, an' if it is as I think, then there'll be rows." "Let me ken, Andrew," broke in Matthew. "Let me ken if ever ye discover onything; an' ye can count on me sharin' the penalties o' hell alang wi' ye for the murder o' the big black brute." "I heard," said Peter, "that he was boozin' wi' Mag Robertson and Sanny. But we'll no' be long in kennin', for ill-doin' canna hide." * * * * * After three frantic days of fighting against calamity, during which Andrew never left the fight except for that brief journey to tell Nellie the news, at last they came upon the crushed mass of bloody pulp and rags, smashed together so that the one could not be told from the other--father and son, a heap of broken bones and flesh and blood.... And no pen can describe accurately the scene. The light had gone out from one woman's heart, the hope had been crushed from her life. The rainbow which had promised so much vanished. The lust and urge had gone out of eager life. Never again would the world seem fair and beautiful. Instead, all the weary fight and desperate battle with poverty and privation over again; the dull misery and the drab gray existence, and always the pain--the heavy, dragging pain of a broken life. With a woman's "Oh! my God!" the world for one heart stood still, and the blind fate of things triumphed, crushing a woman's soul in the process. CHAPTER XI THE STRIKE A week had passed, and Geordie Sinclair and his boy, or at least all that could be gathered up of them, had been laid to rest. Nellie was very ill, and was now in bed. The reaction had been too much for her. But, as Jenny Maitland had said: "She's never cried yet, an' it would hae been better gin she had. She jist looked at ye wi' her big black e'en sae vexed-like and faraway lookin', an' never spoke hardly. When they carried out the coffins, she sprang up gin she wad follow them, but was putten back to bed again. It was heart-vexin' to look at her." Robert suffered, too. The sympathy of everyone went out to him. At night when he went to bed the whole scene was reënacted before him in all its horror. Those tense moments of tragedy had so powerfully impressed his boyish mind that he could never forget them. At the end of the week Andrew Marshall visited them to talk over matters. A collection had been made at the pay-office by the men employed at the pit, and a beautiful wreath purchased and placed upon the grave. A substantial balance had been handed over to Mrs. Sinclair, and this defrayed the expenses of the funeral. After Andrew had spoken of various things, he broke on to the object of his errand that night. "I hae been thinkin', Nellie," he began nervously, "that I could tak' Rob in wi' me. Ye see, I ha'e no callans o' my ain, and I ha'e aye to get yin to draw off me. So, gin ye're agreeable, I could tak' Rob, an' I'll be guid to him. He can come an' be my neighbor, an' as he'll hae to get work in ony case, he micht as weel work wi' me as wi' ony ither body. Forby I'll maybe be able to pay him mair than plenty ithers could pay him, an' that is efter a' the point to be maist considered. What do ye think?" But Mrs. Sinclair could not think; she merely indicated to him that he might please himself and make his own arrangements with the boy, which Andrew did, and Robert went to work with him the following week. He was a mass of nerves and was horribly afraid--indeed, this fear never left him for years--but, young as he was, he recognized his responsibility, to his mother and the rest of the family. He was now its head, and had to shoulder the burden of providing for it, and so his will drove him to work in the pit, when his soul revolted at the very thought of it. Always the horror of the tragedy was with him, down to its smallest detail; and sometimes, even at work, when his mind wandered for a moment from his immediate task, he would start up in terror, almost crying out again as he had done on the day of the accident. Andrew kept his word and was good to the boy now in his care. Indeed, he took, as some said, more care of the boy than if Robert had been his own, for he tried to save him from every little detail that might remind him of the accident. "That's yours, Robin," he said, when pay-day came, as he handed to the boy the half of the pay earned. "Na, I canna' tak' that, Andrew," replied Robert, looking up into the broad, kindly, honest face of the man. "My mither wouldna' let me." "Would she no'?" replied Andrew. "But you are the heid o' the hoose, Robin, sae just tak' it hame, an' lay it down on the dresser-head. We are doin' gey weel the noo, an' forby, ye're workin' for it. Noo run awa' hame wi't, an' dinna say ocht to yir mither, but just put it doon on the dresser-head." And so the partnership began which was to last for many years. About this time there happened one of those tremendous upheavals, long remembered in the industrial world, the great Scottish Miners' Strike of 1894. The trade union movement was growing and fighting, and every tendency pointed to the fact that a clash of forces was inevitable. The previous year had seen the English miners beaten after a protracted struggle. They had come out for an increase in wages, and whilst it was recognized that they had been beaten and forced to go back to work suffering wholesale reductions, yet a newer perspective was beginning to appear to the miners of Scotland. "We'll never be able to beat the maisters," said Tam Donaldson, when the cloud first appeared upon the industrial horizon. "The English strike gied us a lesson we shouldna forget." "How's that?" enquired Peter Pegg, as he sat down on his hunkers one night at the end of the row, while they discussed the prospects of the coming fight. "Weel, ye saw how the Englishmen fought unitedly, an' yet they were beaten, an' had to gang back on a reduction. We'll very likely be the same, for the maisters are a' weel organized. What we should do is to ha'e England an' Scotland coming out together, an' let the pits stan' then till the grass was growin' owre the whorles. That would be my way o' it, and I think it would soon bring the country to see what was in the wind." "That's richt, Tam. It would soon bring the hale country to its senses; for nae matter what oor fight is, we are aye in the wrang wi' some folk; so the shock o' the hale country comin' out would mak' them tak' notice, an' would work the cure." So they talked of newer plans, while Smillie toiled like a giant to educate and organize the miners. He had taken hold of them as crude material, and was slowly shaping them into something like unity. A few more years and he would win; but the forces against him knew it, too, and so followed the great fight which lasted for seventeen weeks. Singularly enough, while there was undoubtedly much privation, there was not very much real misery, as the strike had started early in a warm, dry summer. Communal kitchens were at once established throughout the country. Everybody did his best, and the womenfolk especially toiled early and late. A committee was appointed in each village to gather in materials. Beef at a reasonable price was supplied by a local butcher. A horse and cart were borrowed, which went round the district gathering a cabbage or two here; a few carrots or turnips there, parsley at another, and so on, returning at night invariably laden with vegetables for the next day's dinner. Sometimes a farmer would give a sheep, and the local cooperative society provided the bread at half the cost of production. Those farmers who were hostile gave nothing, but it would have paid them better had they concealed their hostility, for sometimes, even in a single night, large portions of a field of potatoes would disappear as by magic. Robert worked in this fight like a man. He helped to cut down trees and saw them into logs, to cook the food at the soup kitchen. Everything and anything he tried, running errands, and even going with the van to solicit material for the following day's meals. All were cheerful, and no one seemed to take the fight bitterly. Sports were organized. Quoiting tournaments were got up, football matches arranged, games at rounders and hand-ball--every conceivable game was indulged in, with sometimes a few coppers as prizes but more often a few ounces of tobacco or tea or a packet of sugar. Dances in the evenings were started at the corner of the row to the strains of a melodeon, and were carried on to the early hours of the morning. It was from these gatherings that the young lads generally raided the fields and hen runs of the hostile farmers, returning with eggs, butter, potatoes, and even cheese--everything on which they could lay their hands. At one of these gatherings Robert related his experience with "auld Hairyfithill." Robert had been round with the van that day, and calling at Wilson's, or Hairyfithill Farm, to ask if they had any cabbage to give, he heard the old man calling to the servant lass: "Mag! Mag! Where are ye? Rin an' bring in the hens' meat; there's thae colliers coming." Nothing daunted, Robert had gone into the kitchen to ask if they had anything to give the strikers. "Get awa' back to yer work, ye lazy loons, ye!" was the reply from old Mr. Wilson. "Gie ye something for your soup kitchen! Na, na! Ye can gang an' work, an' pay for your meat. Gang awa' oot owre, and leave the town, an' dinna come back again." And so they had drawn blank at Hairyfithill. "It wad serve him richt, if every tattie in his fields was ta'en awa'," said Matthew Maitland, after the story had been told and laughed over. "It wad that," agreed a score of voices; but nothing was done nor anything further said, so the dancing proceeded. About two o'clock in the morning while the dancing was still going on and a fire had been kindled at the corner in which some of the strikers were roasting potatoes and onions a great commotion was suddenly caused, when Dickie Tamson and two other boys drove in among them old Hairyfithill's sow which he was fattening for the market. Some proposed that the pig be killed at once. "Oh no, dinna kill it," said Matthew Maitland, with real alarm in his voice. "Ye'd get into a row for that. Ye'd better tak' it back, or there may be fun." "Kill the damn'd thing," said Tam Donaldson callously, "an' it'll maybe a lesson to the auld sot. Him an' his hens' meat! I'd let him ken that it's no' hens' meat the collier eats--at least no' so lang as he can get pork." "That's jist what I think, too, Tam," put in another voice. "I'd mak' sure work that the collier ate pork for yince. Come on, boys, an' mum's the word," and he proceeded to drive the pig further along the village, followed by a few enthusiastic backers. They drove it into Granny Fleming's hen-house in the middle of the square, put out the hens, who protested loudly against this rude and incomprehensible interruption of their slumbers, and then they proceeded to slaughter the pig. It was a horrible orgy, and the pig made a valiant protest, but encountered by hammers and picks, knives and such-like weapons, the poor animal was soon vanquished, and the men proceeded to cut up its carcass. It was a long and trying ordeal for men who had no experience of the work; yet they made up in enthusiasm what they lacked in science, and by five o'clock the pig was cut up and distributed through a score of homes. Every trace of the slaughter was removed, and the refuse buried in the village midden, and pork was the principal article on the breakfast table that morning in Lowwood. "I hear that auld Hairyfithill has offered five pound reward for information about his pig," said Tam Donaldson a few mornings later. "Ay, an' it's a gran' price for onybody wha kens aboot it," said auld Jamie Lauder. "Pork maun hae risen in price this last twa-three days, for I'm telt it was gaun cheap enough then." "That is true," said Tam, "but it was a damn'd shame to tak' the auld man's pig awa', whaever did it. But I hear them saying that the polisman is gaun to the farm the nicht to watch, so that the tatties 'll no' be stolen," he went on, as some of the younger men joined them, "an' I suppose that the puir polisman hasna' a bit o' coal left in his coal-house. It's no' richt, ye ken, laddies, that a polisman, who is the representative o' law and order in this place, should sit without a fire. He has a wife an' weans to worry aboot, an' they need a fire to mak' meat. Maybe if he had a fire an' plenty o' coal it wad mak' him comfortable, an' then he'd no' be sae ready to leave the hoose at nicht an' lie in a tattie pit to watch thievin' colliers. If a man hasna' peace in his mind it'll mak' him nasty, an' we canna' allow sic a thing as a nasty polisman in this district!" "That's richt, Tam," said one of the younger men. "It would be a shame to see a woman an' twa-three weans sittin' withoot a fire an' a great big bing o' coal lyin' doon there at the pit. We maun try an' keep the polisman comfortable." That night the policeman without in any way trying to conceal his purpose walked down through the village and across the strip of moor and took up his position at the end of Hairyfithill's potato field. At once a group of young men led by Tam Donaldson set off with bags under their arms after it was dark for the pit at the other end of the village and were soon engaged in carrying coal as if their lives depended on it. "Noo, lads, the first bag gangs to the polisman, mind," said Tam, shouldering his load and walking off. "A' richt, Tam. If we a' gang wi' the first bag to him that'll be nine bags, then we can get two or three bags for hame. Dinna hurry; we ha'e a' nicht to carry, an' we can get in a fine lot afore daylicht breaks." "That's richt," said Tam, "but mind an' no' tire yersels too much, for ye've a nicht at the tatties the morn. The polis'll be at the bing the morn's nicht efter this carry-on, an' when he is busy watchin' for coal thieves, we maun see that we get in a denner or twa o' tatties. I heard him sayin' he could not be everywhere at yince, an' couldna' both watch coal thieves an' tattie stealin' at yin an' the same time." * * * * * All this time matters went very smoothly. The men were very firm, having great trust in Smillie. After about six weeks, however, from various causes a suspicious atmosphere began to be created. Hints had been appearing from time to time in the newspapers that matters were not altogether as the miners thought they were. Then vague rumors got afloat in many districts and spread with great rapidity, and these began to undermine the confidence of the strikers. "What think ye o' the fecht noo, Tam?" enquired Matthew Maitland one night as they sat among the others at the "Lazy Corner," as the village forum was called. "I dinna ken what to think o' it," replied Tam glumly. "Do ye think there's any truth in that story aboot Smillie havin' sell't us?" "It wad be hard to ken," replied Matthew Maitland, taking his pipe out of his mouth and spitting savagely upon the ground. "But I heard it for a fact, and that a guid wheen o' men doon the country hae gaen back to their work through it. An' yet, mind ye, Smillie seemed to me to be a straight-forret man an' yin that was sincere. Still, ye can never tell; an' twa-three hunner pound's a big temptation to a man." "Ay," said Tam dryly, "we hae been diddled sae often wi' bigmoothed men on the make, that it mak's a body ay suspicious when yin hears thae stories. I heard Wiston, the coal-maister, had gien him five hunner pounds on the quiet." "I heard that too," replied Matthew, "but, like you, I'm loth to think it o' Smillie. I'd believe it quicker aboot yon ither chiel, Charlie Rogerson. He comes oot to speak to us ay dressed in a black dress-suit, wi' white cuffs doon to his finger nebs, his gold ring, his lum hat, an' a' his fal-de-lals." "Weel, I dinna believe a word o' this story aboot Bob," said Robert quietly, who had "hunkered" down beside the two men who sat so earnestly discussing matters while the others went on with their games and dancing. "Do ye no', Rob?" said Tam. "No, I do not," was the firm reply, "for nae matter what happens in a fight, it's ay the opeenion o' some folk that the men ha'e been sell't." Robert, though young, took a keen interest in the fight. While other lads of his age looked upon it as a fine holiday, the heavy responsibilities he had to face gave him a different outlook, and so the men seemed to recognize that he was different from the other boys, and more sober in his view-point. "This story is set aboot for the purpose o' breakin' oup the men," he continued. "We hear o' Smillie haein hale rows o' cottages bought, an' a lot ither rubbish, but I wouldna believe it. It's a' to get the men to gang back to their work; an' if they do that, it'll no' only break the strike, but it'll break up the union, an' that's what's wanted mair than anything else. I've heard Smillie an' my faither talkin' aboot a' thae things lang syne, an' Smillie says that's what the stories are set aboot for. We should ha'e sense enough no' to heed them, for I dinna think Smillie has sell't us at a'." There was a fine, firm ring in the boy's voice as he spoke which moved the two older men, and made them feel a little ashamed that they had been so ready to doubt. "Ah, weel, Rob," said Tam, "maybe you are richt, but a lot o' men ha'e gaen back to their work already, an' it'll break up the strike if it spreads. But we'll ha'e to get some tatties in the nicht; the polisman's goin' to be watchin' auld Burnfoot's hen-hoose, sae it'll be a grand chance for some tatties," and the talk drifted on to another subject. About the eighth week of the strike the news went round the village that Sanny Robertson and Peter Fleming were "oot at the pit." "I wad smash every bone in their dirty bodies if I had my way o' it. I would," said Matthew Maitland, with emphasis. Matthew was always emphatic in all he said, though seldom so in what he did. "But we'll ha'e to watch hoo we act," said Andrew Marshall more cautiously. "It's agin the law, ye ken, to use force." "I wadna' gi'e a damn," said Peter Pegg, his big eye making frantic efforts to wink. "I wad see that they blacklegged nae mair." "Sae wad I," promptly exclaimed half a dozen of the younger men. "We maun see that they don't do it ony mair." "Ay, an' I hope we'll mak' sure work that they sleep in for twa-three mornin's." "I'll tell ye what," said old Lauder, "let us get a few weemin' and weans thegither, an' we'll gang doon to the pit an' wait on them comin' up frae their shift. The bairns can get tin cans an' a stane for a drumstick, an' we'll ha'e a loonie band. We can sing twa or three o' thae blackleg sangs o' Tam Donaldson's, an' play them hame." "That's the plan, Jamie," replied Tam, who had suddenly seen himself immortalized through his parodies of certain popular songs. "Let us get as mony women an' callans as possible, and we can mak' a damn'd guid turnout. We'll sing like linties, an' drum like thunder, an' the blacklegs'll feel as if they were goin' through Purgatory to the tune o':" Tattie Wullie, Tattie Wullie, Tattie Wullie Shaw, Where's the sense o' workin', Wullie?-- Faith, ye're lookin' braw. or Peter Fleming, Peter Fleming, Peter, man, I say, Ye've been workin', ye've been workin', Ye've been workin' the day. Peter Fleming, Peter Fleming, If ye work ony mair, Peter Fleming, Peter Fleming, Your heart will be sair. With little difficulty a band of men, women and children was organized and proceeded to the pit to await the coming up of the culprits. Hour after hour they waited patiently, determined not to miss them, and the time was spent in light jesting and singing ribald songs. "I wadna' like if my faither was a blackleg," observed Mysie Maitland to the girl next her. "No, nor me, either!" quickly agreed the other. "It wad be awfu' to hear folk cryin' 'Blackleg' after yir faither, wadna' it, Mysie?" "Ay," was the reply. "I wadna' like it." "They should a' be hunted oot o' the place," put in Robert, who was standing near. "They are just sellin' the rest o' the men, an' helpin' to break up the strike. So ye mind, Mysie, hoo Tam Graham's lass aye clashed on the rest o' us on the pit-head? She's just like her faither, ay ready to do onything agin the rest, if it would gi'e her a wee bit favor." "Ay, fine I mind o' it, Rob," Mysie replied eagerly. "Do ye mind the day she was goin' to tell aboot you takin' hame the bit auld stick for firewood? When I telt her if she did, I'd tell on her stealin' the tallow frae the engine-house an' the paraffin ile ay when she got the chance. She didna say she'd tell then." "Ay, Mysie. Maybe I'd ha'e gotten the sack if she had telt. But she was aye a clashbag. But here they come!" he shouted animatedly, as the bell signaled for the cage to rise, and presently the wheels began to revolve, as the cage ascended. "May the tow break, an' land the dirty scums in hell," prayed one man. "Ay, an' may the coals they howkit the day roast them forever," added another. Though they prayed thus, yet once again they found that the "prayer of the wicked availeth naught." Buckets of water, however, and even bits of stone and scrap iron were surreptitiously flung down the shaft; and when the blacklegs did appear, they were nearly frightened out of their senses. It would have gone hard with them as they left the cage, but someone whispered, "Here's the polis!" and so the crowd had to be content with beating their tin cans; and keeping time to the songs improvised by Tam Donaldson, they escorted the blacklegs to their homes. Next morning a large number of the strikers gathered at the Lazy Corner, enjoying themselves greatly. "They tell me," said Tam Donaldson, "that our fren's ha'e slept in this morning." A laugh greeted this sally, which seemed to indicate that most of them knew about the sleeping-in and the reason for it. "Ay, they'd be tired oot efter their hard day's work yesterday," replied another. "Ay, an' they dinna seem to be up yet," said a third, "for I see the doors are still shut, an' the bairns are no' awa' to the school. They maun ha'e been awfu' tired to ha'e slept sae lang." "Let's gang doon and gi'e them a bit sang to help to keep their dreams pleasant," suggested Tam Donaldson, as they moved off down the row and stopped before Jock Graham's door. Tam, clearing his throat, led of: Hey, Johnnie Graham, are ye wauken yet, Or is yer fire no' ken'lt yet? If you're no wauken we will wait, An' tak' ye to the pit in the mornin'. Black Jock sent a message in the dark, Sayin': Johnny Graham, come to your wark, For tho' ye've been locked in for a lark, Ye maun come to the pit in the mornin'. You an' Fleeming, an' Robertson tae, Had better a' gang doon the brae, An' you'll get your pay for ilka day That ye gang to your work in the mornin'. Then, leading off on to another, Tam, with great gusto, swung into a song that carried the others along uproariously: O' a' the airts the win' can blaw, It canna blaw me free, For I am high an' dry in bed, When workin' I should be; But ropes are stronger faur than is Desire for work wi' me, An' sae I lie, baith high an' dry-- I'll hae to bide a wee. I canna say on whatna day I'll gang again to work, For sticks an' stanes may break my banes, As sure's my name's McGurk. Gie me the best place in the pit, Then happy I shall be, Just wi' yae wife to licht oor life, Big dirty Jock an' me! After a round or two of applause and some shouts from the children, Tam broke out in a new air: This is no' my ain lassie, Kin' though the lassie be, There's a man ca'd Black Jock Walker, Shares this bonnie lass wi' me. She's sweet, she's kin', her ways are fine, An' whiles she gies her love to me. She's ta'en my name, but, oh, the shame, That Walker shares the lass wi' me. This is no' my ain lassie, She is changefu' as the sea, Whiles I get a' her sweet kisses, Whiles Black Jock shares them wi' me. She's fat and fair, she's het and rare, She's no' that trig, but ay she's free, It pays us baith, as sure as daith, That Walker shares the lass wi' me. This sent the crowd wild with delight, and cries of "Good auld Tam!" were raised. "Damn'd guid, Tam! Ye're as guid as Burns." All of which made Tam feel that at last his genius was being recognized. The explanation of the joke was to be found in the fact, as one song had hinted, that the strikers had securely fastened the doors of all the blacklegs' houses with ropes, and jammed the windows with sticks, so that the inmates could not get out. Even the children could not get out to go to school. It was late in the afternoon before the police heard of it, and came and cut the ropes, and so relieved the imprisoned inmates. This happened for a morning or two, and then the practice stopped, for the police watched the doors throughout the whole night. This preoccupation of the police was taken advantage of to raid again old Hairyfithill's potato field, and also to pay a visit to the bing for coal, and a very profitable time was thus spent by the strikers, even though the blacklegs were at their work in a few days. What was happening in Lowwood was typical of almost all other mining villages throughout the country. Everywhere high spirits and cheerfulness prevailed among the men. As for the leaders, the situation proved too big for some of them to cope with it, the responsibility was too great; and so they failed at the critical moment. The demand of an increase of a shilling a day, for which the men had struck, had been conceded by some of the owners, whilst others had offered sixpence. Some of the leaders were in favor of accepting these concessions, and allowing the men at the collieries concerned to resume work, and so be able to contribute considerably to help keep out those whose demands had not been met. Others of the leaders refused to agree to this, and insisted that as all had struck together, they should fight together to the end, until the increase was conceded to all. This difference of opinion was readily perceived and welcomed by the coalmasters, and stiffened their resolution, for they saw that disagreement and divisions would soon weaken the morale of the men, and such proved to be the case. No one can imagine what Smillie suffered at this time, as he saw his splendid effort going to pieces; but being a big man, he knew that it was impossible to turn back. His plans might for the moment miscarry; but that was merely a necessary, yet passing, phase in the great evolution of Industrialism, and his ideals must yet triumph. As the result of the differences among the leaders, the strike collapsed at the end of seventeen weeks. The men were forced to return to work on the old terms. In some cases a reduction was imposed, making their condition worse than at the start. The masters sought to drive home their victory in order to break the union. In many parts of the country they succeeded, while in others the spirit of the men resisted it. Generally it ended in compromise; but, so far as the Union was concerned, it was a broken organization; branches went down, and it was many years afterwards before it was again reestablished in some of the districts. Though at the time it might have seemed all loss, yet it had its advantages, and especially demonstrated the fact that there was a fine discipline and the necessary unity among the rank and file. The next great work was to find out how that unity could be guided and that discipline perfected--how to find a common ideal for the men. This was Robert Smillie's task, and who shall say, looking at the rank and file to-day, that he has failed? CHAPTER XII THE RIVALS Eight years passed, and Robert grew into young manhood. One of his younger brothers had joined him and Andrew Marshall in the partnership. It had been a long, stiff struggle, and his mother knew all the hardness and cruelty of it. In after years Robert loved his mother more for the fight she put up, though it never seemed to him that he himself had done anything extraordinary. He was always thoughtful, and planned to save her worry. On "pay-nights," once a fortnight, when other boys of his age were getting a sixpence, or perhaps even a shilling, as pocket-money, so that they could spend a few coppers on the things that delight a boy's heart, Robert resolutely refused to take a penny. For years he continued thus, always solacing himself with the thought that it was a "shilling's worth less of worry" his mother would have. Yet, riches were his in that the enchantment of literature held him captive, and his imagination gained for him treasures incomparably greater than the solid wealth prized by worldly minds. His father had possessed about a dozen good books, among others such familiar Scottish household favorites as "Wilson's Tales of the Borders," "Mansie Waugh," by "Delta," "Scots Worthies," Allan Ramsay's "Gentle Shepherd," Scott's "Rob Roy" and "Old Mortality," and the well-thumbed and dog-eared copy of Robert Burns' Poems. "Gae awa', man Robin," his mother would say sometimes to him, as he sat devouring Wilson's "Tales" or weeping over the tragic end of Wallace's wife Marion as recounted in Jean Porter's entrancing "Scottish Chiefs." "Gang awa' oot an' tak' a walk. Ither laddies are a' oot playin' at something, an' forby it's no' healthy to sit too long aye readin'." "Ach. I canna' be bothered," he would answer. "I'd raither read." "What is't you're readin' noo?" she would enquire. "Oh, it's the 'Scottish Chiefs,' an' I'm jist at the bit aboot Wallace's wife being murdered by Hazelrig. My! It's awfu' vexin'." "Ay, it's a fine book, Robin. Ye might read that bit oot to me." "A' richt," and he would start to read while Nellie sat down to listen. Soon both were engrossed in the sad story, so powerfully told, and the tears would be running from the mother's eyes as her fancy pictured the sorrows of Wallace, while Robert's voice would break, and a sob come into his throat, as he proceeded. When finally the passage was reached where the brutal blow was struck, the book would have to be put down, while mother and son both cried as if the grief depicted were their own. "It's an awfu' gran' book, Rob," she would say after a time, while she strove to subdue the sobs in her breast. "Puir Wallace! It maun ha'e been an awfu' blow to him, when he heard that Marion was killed. But you maun read on a bit far'er, for I'm no' gaun tae work ony mair till I see that dirty beast Hazelrig get his deserts. He has wrocht for it, sae jist gang on noo till you feenish the bit aboot him gettin' killed wi' Wallace. He deserves it for killin' a woman." Thus Robert would have to go on, until the incident in question had been reached in the story, and as it unfolded itself his voice would grow firmer and stronger as he became infected with the narrative, while his mother's eyes would glow, and her body be tense with interest, and an expectant expression would creep over her face, betraying her excitement. In the interview between Wallace and Hazelrig in the house in the Wellgate in Lanark, when Wallace dramatically draws his sword in answer to the supplication for mercy, and says: "Ay, the same mercy as you showed my Marion," Robert's voice would thunder forth the words with terrible sternness, while Nellie would gasp and catch her breath in a quick little sob of excitement, as the feeling of satisfied justice filled her heart. And when the blow fell that laid the English governor low, she would burst out: "Serves him richt, the dirty tyrant. He's got what he deserved, an' it serves him right!" On another occasion Robert would suddenly burst out laughing, when reading Delta's chronicle of the adventures of Mansie Waugh, the Scottish "Handy Andy." "What are you laughing at, Robin?" Nellie would enquire, a smile breaking over her face also. "Oh, it's Mansie Waugh, mither. Oh, but it's a gran' bit. Listen to this," and he would begin to read the passage, where Mansie, simple soul that he was, was described as going into the byre in the morning to learn if the cow had calved during the night, and finding, on opening the door, the donkey of a traveling tinker, he turned and ran into the house, crying: "Mither! Mither! The coo has calved, an' it's a cuddy!" Whenever he reached this part of the story, his mother would go off into a fit of uncontrollable laughter which left her helpless and crumpled up in a heap upon the nearest chair. Her laugh was very infectious; it began with a low, mirthful ripple, well down in the throat, and rose in rapid leaps of musical joy till it had traveled a whole octave of bubbling happy sounds, when it culminated in a peal of double forte shakes and trills, that made it a joy to hear, and finally it died out in an "Oh, dear me! What a callan Mansie was!" As Robert approached manhood, he took more and more to the moors, wandering alone among the haunts of the whaup and other moor birds, wrestling with problems to which older heads never gave a thought, trying to understand life and to build from his heart and experience something that would be satisfying. Silent, thoughtful, "strange" to the neighbors, a problem to everyone, but a bigger one to himself, life staggered him and appalled his soul. Earnestly he worked and tested his thought against the thought of others, sturdily refusing everything which did not ring true and meet his standard. Old religious conceptions, the orthodoxy of his kith and kin, were fast tested in the crucible of his mind and flung aside as worthless. The idea of Hell and the old Morrisonian notion of the Hereafter appeared crude and barbarous. His father's fate and the condition of the family left to welter in poverty, the cruelty of life as it presented itself to the great mass of the working class, could not be reconciled with the Church's teaching of an all-loving and omniscient Father. With the audacity of youth, he felt that he could easily have constructed a better universe. He felt that Hell could have no terrors for people condemned to such hardship and suffering as he saw around him. Life was colorless for them; stinted of pleasure and beauty, with merely the joys of the "gill-stoup" on a Saturday night at the local "store" to look forward to, there was in it no real satisfaction either for the body or the mind. Would he, indeed, have to wait till after death before knowing anything of real happiness or comfort? His mind refused to accept this doctrine so frequently expounded to working class congregations by ministers, who were themselves comparatively well endowed with "treasures upon earth." Life was good, life was glorious if only it could be made as he dreamed it. This fair earth need be no vale of tears. There were the blue skies, the white tapestry of cloudland ever varying; there was the wind upon his face and the sweet rain; there was the purl of mountain brook, the graceful sweep of the river, the smile of the flowers, the songs of the birds; the golden splendor of the day and the silver radiance of the night. But above and beyond all there was an ever-increasing love of his fellows, there were noble women like his mother to reverence, and there were sweet children to cherish. Surely life was good, and never was meant to be the mean, sordid thing that too often was the lot of people like himself. Heaven could and should be realized here and now. At twenty, he finished by accepting Humanity as it is, to be understood and loved, to be served, and, if necessary, to die for it. Though thus naturally reserved and meditative, yet he was not unloved. There was no more popular lad in the village. Everyone in a tight corner came to him for help and advice. He was private secretary to half the village and father confessor to the other half. He served everyone, and in return all loved him more or less. In the course of time he came to occupy the place his father had held before him as president of the local branch of the Union, which had been recently revived. His duties as a Union official forced him more and more into mixing with others, and into taking a larger interest in the affairs of the locality. Gradually with the activities of public life his moodiness gave place to a healthy cheerfulness, and his enthusiasm soon led him into taking part in nearly every form of sport which gave life more zest. His interest being roused, he was wholehearted in his application, whether as a member of the executive of any local sports association, or as a participant in the game itself. He was elected to the committee responsible for organizing the Lowwood Annual Games, but resigned because having taken up racing as his pet pastime for the time being, he wanted to compete in some of the items. At last the "Sports" day arrived. The pits were idle, for this was one of the recognized holidays. Everyone looked forward eagerly to this day, and prepared for it, each in his or her own way. For weeks before it the children practiced racing, and trained themselves in jumping, football, quoiting and such sports. Young men stole away to secret places in the moor to train and harden themselves, timing their performances and concentrating on the strenuous day ahead when they would compete with one another in fair tests of speed, strength, skill and endurance. One event was always a special attraction, even to professional racers all over the country. This was known as the "Red Hose Race," about which many legends were told. The most popular of these was to the effect that the stockings were knitted each year by the Laird's wife, and if no one entered for the race, the Laird must run it himself, or forfeit his extensive estate to the Crown. In addition to the Red Hose, there was a substantial money prize. To win the race was looked upon as the greatest achievement of the year, for it was one of the oldest sporting events and had been run for so many years that its origin seemed lost in the mists of antiquity. Robert made up his mind to win the Red Hose in this particular year. Mrs. Graydon, of Graydon House, had intimated that she herself would be present and would hand over the stockings to the proud winner in person, but it was not by any means on this account that Robert was so keen to win. It was the older lure that brought every year athletes of fame to run in the historic race. "So you are going to run in the Red Hose," said a voice behind Robert while the people were all gathering to watch the preliminary races of the boys and girls. Robert turned from the group of young men who had been discussing the event with him, and met the smiling face of Peter Rundell, dressed in immaculate style and looking as fresh and fine a specimen of young manhood as anyone could wish to see. "Yes," he said with a smile, "and I intend to win it." "Do you?" returned Peter light-heartedly. "I have also entered for it, though I had no intention of doing so when I came over; but Mr. Walker, who, as you know, is on the committee, pressed me to go in, and so I consented." "Oh!" said Robert, in surprise, "I thought after last year's success you were not going to run again." Then, in a bantering tone, and with a smile upon his lips, "I suppose we'll be rivals in this, then; but I gi'e you fair warning that I'm gaun to lift the Red Hose if I get a decent chance at all." "Well, I have set my mind on winning it, too," replied Peter. "I'd like to lift it, just to be able to say in after years that I had done so." "That's just hoo I feel aboot the matter too," lightly answered Robert. "I'd like jist to be able to say that I had won the Red Hose. I feel in good form for it, so you'd better be on your mettle." "Well, I shall give you the race of your life for it," said Peter, entering into the same light spirited boasting. "I hear Mair and Todd and Semple are also entered, but with a decent handicap I won't mind these, even with their international reputation." "All right," said Robert. "I suppose I shall have the greater pleasure in romping home before you all. Are the handicaps out yet?" "Yes, I saw the list just before I spoke to you. Semple and Mair are scratch, with Todd at five yards. You start at twenty-five, and I get off at the limit forty.' "Oh!" said Robert, a note of surprise in his voice. "Walker has surely forgotten who are the runners! Why, last year you won nearly all the confined events, and you were second in the Red Hose with twenty-five yards. He means you to romp home this year!" and there was heat in Robert's voice as he finished. "Well, I daresay it is a decent handicap," said Peter, "and even though Semple is among the crowd, I should manage, I think, to pull it off with anything like luck." "I should think so," said Robert. "Walker has just made you a present of the race. But I suppose it can't be helped, though it isn't fair. Anyhow, I'll give you a chase for it." "All right. Half an hour and we shall be on," and Peter went on round the field, exchanging greetings with most of the villagers. He was finishing his education at a Technical College in Edinburgh, and at present was home on holidays. He was a well set up young man, and though popular with most people, yet he brought with him an air of another world among the villagers, which made them feel uncomfortable. They recognized that his life was very different from their own, and while they talked to him when he spoke to them, and were agreeable enough to him, they felt awed and could not break down the natural reserve they always had towards people of another station of life. He was perhaps a little too thoughtless and impulsive, though generous-hearted enough. He drifted into things, rather than shaped them to his own ideas, and was often not sufficiently careful of the positions in which he found himself as a consequence of thoughtless acts. The week before he had caught and kissed Mysie Maitland, who was now serving at Rundell House, merely because he was taken with her pretty face. From that Peter already believed himself in love with her, because she had not resented his action. He had even walked over with her from the village, when she had been home visiting her parents one night, and had felt more and more the witchery of her pretty face and the lure of her fine little figure. Up to this time Mysie had always believed herself in love with Robert--Robert who was always so strange from the rest of young men. He had always been her hero, her protector; but there was something about him for which she could not account and which she could not have defined. Such was her admiration that she believed it was in his power to do anything he cared to attempt; it was just possible that it was this strange sense of unknown power which fascinated her. They had never been lovers in the accepted sense of the word. They had never "walked out" as young people in their social station usually do, but yet had always felt that they were meant for one another. Only once had Robert kissed her, and that moment ever lived with her a glowing memory. She had been home and was returning through a moorland pass, when she came across him lying upon the rough heather, his thoughts doubtless full of her, for he had seen her in the village, and knew she must return that way. "Oh, Rob!" she cried, her face flushing with excitement as she saw him. "Ye nearly frichted me oot o' my wits the noo." "Did I, Mysie?" he answered, springing to his feet. "I didna mean to dae that. Ye'll be getting back, I suppose." "Ay," she returned simply, and a silence fell upon them, in which both seemed to lose the power of speaking. Robert looked at her as she stood there, her full, curved breasts rising and falling with the excitement of the unexpected meeting, the long lashes of her eyes sweeping her flushed cheeks, as she stood with downcast eyes before him. The last rays of the setting sun falling upon her brown hair touched it with a rare strange beauty. Her red lips like dew-drenched roses--luscious, pure, alluring, were parted a little in a half smile. But it was the fascinating movement of the breast, full, round and sensuous, that stirred and made an overpowering appeal to every pulse within him. It seemed so soft, so tender, so wonderfully alluring. At the moment he could not understand himself or her. There was a strange, surging impetus raging through him that he felt absolutely powerless to subdue, and he swayed a little as he stood. "Oh, Mysie!" he cried, leaping forward and clasping her in his strong, young arms, and crushing her against him, holding her there, gasping, powerless but happy. "You are mine, Mysie. Mine!" and he kissed her budded lips in an ecstasy of passion and warm-blooded feeling, while a thousand fevers seemed to course through him as he felt the contact of her body and her warm, eager lips on his. Blinded and delirious, he kissed her again and again in an impassioned burst of fervor, passion scorching his blood and filling his whole heart with the enjoyment of possession. She closed her eyes, and her head touched his shoulder, while the faint scent of her hair and its soft caressing touch upon his cheek maddened him to a fury of love. "Say you are mine, Mysie! Say you are mine!" he cried, and his voice was strange and hoarse and dry with the desire within him. He felt her body yielding as it relaxed in his arms, as if in answer to some unspoken demand, and in a moment he realized himself and started back, hot shame surging over his face and conquering the passion in his blood. In that strange mad moment he had felt capable of anything--powerful, overmastering, relentless in his desires; and now--weak, shame-stricken and helpless. Ere he could say anything, Mysie had come to herself with a shock, and started away over the moor as if possessed by something that was mysterious and terrible. That had happened a year ago, and though Robert sought to learn when she was in the village, and often watched her from a safe place where he was not seen, delighting his eyes with the sight of her figure, and feeling again the same hot shame come over him, as he had known that day on the moor, yet he had never met her near enough to speak to her, but had worshiped her at a distance and grown to love and desire her more and more with every day that passed. He dreamed dreams around her, but was afraid to encounter her again. This strange mad love burned in his blood, until at times he was almost sick with desire and love. Every moor-bird called her name; every flower held the shyness of her face; the clouds of peaceful sunsets showed the glory of her hair, and the quiet, steadfast stars possessed the wonder of her eyes. The madness of the passionate moment of possession on the moor was at once his most treasured memory and his intensest shame. As for Mysie, since she had not heard any more from Robert nor even seen him for almost a year, she felt quite flattered by the attentions of Peter Rundell. It was not that she was in love with either of the young men. Her nature was of the kind that is in love with love itself, and was not perhaps capable of a great love, such as had frightened her, when Robert, taken off his guard, had let her glimpse a strong, overmastering passion and a soul capable of great things. Already she dreamed of a grand house of which she would be mistress as Peter's wife, as she stood in the silence of her own room, pirouetting and smirking, and drawing pictures of herself in fine garments and stately carriage, playing the Lady Bountiful of the district. CHAPTER XIII THE RED HOSE RACE "All competitors for the Red Hose, get ready!" called the bell-man, who announced the events at the sports, and immediately all was stir and bustle and excitement. "Wha's gaun to win the day, Andrew?" enquired Matthew Maitland, as they stood waiting for the runners to emerge from the dressing tent. "I dinna ken," answered Andrew Marshall. "That's a damn'd unfair handicap anyway. My neighbor is no' meant to lift it seemingly. Look at the start they've gi'en him, an' young Rundell starts at the limit." "Ay!" said Matthew. "It's no' fair. It's some o' Black Jock's doings. He's meanin' young Rundell to wun it." "Ay, it looks like it; but it's fashious kennin' what may happen. Rab's a braw runner," and Andrew spoke as one who knew, for he was the only person who had seen Robert train. "Weel, it's harder for him to be a rinner than for young Rundell, a man wha never wrocht a day's work in a' his life, while Rab's had to slave hard and sair a' his days.... Though Rundell can rin too," he added, with ungrudged admiration. "Ay, he ran weel last year, but they tell me he'd like to get the Red Hose to his credit, though for my pairt they'd been far better to ha'e presented it to him, than to gi'e him it that way. Man, he's a dirty brute o' a man, Black Jock!" and there was disgust in his voice. "Jist look at Mag Robertson there, flittering aboot quite shameless, and gecking and smirking at him, an' naebody daur say a word to her. She's a fair scunner!" "If she belonged to me, I'd let her ken a different way o't." "Ay, Andra," was the reply. "But ye maun mind that Mag mak's mair money than Sanny does. Jist look at her, the glaikit tinkler that she is. Black Jock's no' ill to please when that pleases him." Mag Robertson, the subject of their talk, was quite oblivious, apparently, of the many remarks that were being passed about her, and she continued to follow Walker, who as a committee member, was busily arranging matters for the race. "She's gie weel smeekit, Andra!" observed Matthew in a whisper, as Mag passed close by. "Did ye fin the smell o" her breath?" "Ay!" replied Andrew. "She can haud a guid lot before ye see it on her. She's--" but a shout from the crowd cut his further revelations short. "Here they come!" cried Matthew excitedly, as the tent opened, and young Rundell came out with confident bearing, leading the other half-dozen athletes to the starting place. "Let's gae roon' to the wunnin' post so as to see the feenish." The competitors lined up, each on his separate mark, ready for the signal to start. Rundell, in a bright-colored costume of fine texture, showed well beside the other racer who started along with him at forty yards. Peter was slimly built, but there were energy and activity in his every movement; his legs especially, being finely developed, showed no superfluous flesh; his chest alone indicated any weakness, but withal he looked a likely winner. Robert, on the other hand, while not carrying a great amount of flesh, was well built. The chest was broad and deep, the shoulders square and the head held well up, his nose being finely adapted for good respiration. The legs, by reason of heavy work in early life, were a little bent at the brawn, but were as hard as nails; they showed wonderfully developed muscles, and gave the impression of strength rather than speed. They presented a fine picture of eager, determined young manhood, clean and healthy, and full of life and mettle. Each face betrayed how the mind was concentrated on, the work ahead, every thought directed with great intensity towards the goal, as they bent their bodies in preparation for the start. The pistol cracked and rang out upon the midday air with startling suddenness, and immediately they were off on a fine start to the accompaniment of the cheering of the crowd which lined the whole track in a great circle. The first round ended with the runners much as they had started, the interval between each being fairly equally maintained. Semple, however, dropped out, not caring to overstrain himself as he had some heavy racing next day at another gathering, where a much higher money prize was the allurement. Round the others went, the excitement growing among the crowd, who kept shouting encouraging remarks to the racers as they passed. "Keep it up, Robin!" cried Andrew Marshall. "Keep it up, my lad. Ye're daein' fine." "Come away, Rundell, the race is yer ain," shouted an enthusiastic supporter of Peter. "Nae wonner!" answered Matthew Maitland, heatedly. "They've gi'en him the race in a present. Look at the handikep!" "An' what aboot it?" enquired the other, not knowing what to answer. "Plenty aboot it," replied Matthew. "If it hadna' been he was Peter Rundell, he wadna' ha'e gotten sic a start. Black Jock means him to get the race, an' it's no' fair. I wadna' ha'e the damn'd thing in that way, an' if he does win it he'll hae nae honor in it." "But Rab's runnin' weel," Matthew continued, as he followed the runners with eager eyes, and stuck the head of his pipe in his mouth in his excitement, burning his lips in the process. "Dammit, I've burned my mooth," he ejaculated, spluttering, spitting and wiping his mouth. "But the laddie can rin. He's a fair dandie o' a rinner." "He couldna' rin to catch the cauld," broke in Rundell's admirer, glad to get in a word. "Look at him. Dammit, ye could wheel a barrow oot through his legs. He jist rummles alang like a chained tame earthquake." "What's that?" asked Matthew, somewhat nettled at this manner of describing Robert's slightly bent legs. "He canna rin, ye say! Weel, if he couldna' rin better than Peter Rundell, he should never try it. Look at Rundell!" he went on scathingly, "doubled up like a fancy canary, and a hump on his back like a greyhound licking a pot. Rinnin'! He's mair like an exhibition o' a rin-a-way toy rainbow. He's aboot as souple as a stookie Christ on a Christmas tree!" And Matthew glared at the other, as if he would devour him at a gulp. "Look at him noo," he cried, as Robert began to overtake the young miner who had started equal with Rundell. "He's passed young Paterson noo, an' ye'll soon see him get on level terms wi' Rundell. Go on, Rob!" he yelled in delight, as Robert shot past. "Go on, my lad, you're daein' fine!" Excitement was rousing the crowd to a great pitch, and yells and shouts of encouragement went up, and cheers rang out as the favored one went past the various groups of supporters. All during the race as the competitors circled the course, excitement grew, until the last round was reached, when every one seemed to go mad. Only three remained to compete now for the prize, the others having given up. But the shouts and cheers of the crowd seemed strangely far away to the racers, as each rounded the last corner for the final stretch of about one hundred yards. They were both spent, but will power kept them at it. They were not breathing, they were tearing their lungs out in great gulping efforts, and their hearts as well. Tense, determined, inevitability seemed to rest upon them. Louder roared the crowd, hoarser and deeper the cheers, closer and closer the multitude surged to the winning post, yelling, shouting, crying and gesticulating incoherently as the two men sprinted along with great leaping strides, panting and almost breaking down under the terrible strain of the mile race. Nearer and nearer they came, still running level, with hardly an inch to tell the difference; but in a pace like this Robert's greater strength and hard training were bound to tell. Fifty yards to go, and they came on like streaks of color, fleeting images of some fevered brain, and one girl's smile each knew was waiting there at the far end. The prize for which both were now striving was that for which men at all times strive, which keeps the world young and sends the zest of creation wandering through the blood--a pair of dancing eyes, lit by the happy smile of love; for Mysie Maitland had smiled to them, each claiming the smile for himself, just before the race started. And now the last ounce of energy was called up, but the mine-owner's son failed to respond. Dazed and stupid, his mind in a mad whirl, his legs almost doubling under him, he found his powers weaken and his strength desert him, and he staggered just as Robert was about to shoot past him; but in staggering he planted his spiked shoe right upon Robert's foot, and both men went down completely exhausted, Rundell unable to rise for want of strength and Sinclair powerless because of his lacerated foot. "Guid God! He's spiked him!" roared Andrew in a terrible rage. "The dirty lump that he is--spiked him just when he was gaun to win, too!" A howl of execration went up from Sinclair's supporters as he lay and writhed in agony, while Rundell lay still except for the heaving of his chest. For one tense moment they lay and the crowd was silent, whilst each man's heart was almost thumping itself out of place in his body, stretched upon the rough cinder track. Then a low murmur broke from the crowd as they saw young Paterson coming round the track, almost staggering under the strain, but keenly intent on finishing now that his two formidable opponents were lying helpless. He had kept running during the last round merely to take the third prize. Now here was his chance of the coveted Red Hose, and he sprinted and tore along as fast as he was able, calling up every particle of effort he could muster, and intent on getting past before the two men could gather strength to rise. "Come on, Rob!" roared Andrew Marshall, "get up an' feenish, my wee cock! Paterson's comin' along, an' he'll win. Get up an' try an' feenish it!" Stirred by the warning, Robert tried to rise. He raised himself to his knees, but the pain in his injured foot was too great, and he fell forward on his face unconscious, and the race ended with Paterson as winner. It was an ironical situation, and soon the crowd were over the ropes, and the two opponents were carried to the dressing tent, where restoratives were applied under which they soon came round. It was a poor ending to such a fine exhibition. A terrible anger smoldered in Robert's breast against the mine-owner's son for his unconscious action, an action which Robert, blinded by anger at losing, was now firmly convinced was deliberate, and he felt he would just like to smash Rundell's face for it. Robert went home to have his injured foot attended to. He was too disgusted to feel any more interest in the games that day, and so he remained in the house, nursing his foot for the rest of the day, which passed as such days usually do. Everyone talked about his misfortune and regretted in a casual way the accident which had deprived him of the coveted honor. It was in late June, and that night Peter Rundell, as he was returning from the games after every event had been decided, overtook Mysie on her way to Rundell House, after having spent the evening at her parents' home. "It's a lovely evening, Mysie," he said, as he walked along by her side. "What did you think of the games to-day?" "Oh, no' bad," replied Mysie, not knowing what else to say. "It was a gran' day, an' kept up fine," she continued, alluding to the weather. "Yes. Didn't I make a horrible mess of things in the Red Hose?" he asked. Then, without waiting, he went on: "I was sorry for Sinclair. He's a fine chap, and ought to have won. It was purely an accident, and I couldn't help myself. I was beaten and done for, and it was hard lines for him to be knocked out in the way he was, just as he was on the point of winning, too." "Oh, but ye couldna' help it," Mysie returned. "It was an accident." "Yes; and I would rather Sinclair had got in, though. It was a good race, and Sinclair ought to have got the prize. It was rotten luck. I'm sorry, and I hope the poor beggar does not blame me. We seem always to be fated to be rivals," he continued, his voice dropping into reminiscent tones. "Do you remember how we used to fight at school? I've liked Sinclair always since for the way he stood up for the things he thought were right. I believe you were the cause of our hardest battle, and that also was an accident." "Yes," replied Mysie, her face flushing slightly as she remembered the incident, and how Peter had been chosen, when her heart told her to choose Robert. "Oh, well," said Peter, "I suppose we can't help these things. Fate wills it. Let's forget all about such unpleasant things. It's a lovely night. We might go round by the wood. It's not so late yet," and putting Mysie's arm in his, he turned off into the little pathway that skirted the wood, and she, caught by the glamor of the gloaming, as well as flattered by his attentions, acquiesced. Plaintive and eerie the moor-birds protested against this invasion of their haunts. The moon came slowly up over the eastern end of the moor, flinging a silver radiance abroad, and softening the shadows cast by the hills. A strange, dank smell rose from the mossy ground--the scent of rotting heather and withered grass, mixed with the beautiful perfume from beds of wild thyme. A low call came from a brooding curlew, a faint sigh from a plover, and the wild rasping cry of a lapwing greeted them overhead. Yet there was a silence, a silence broken for a moment by the cries of the birds, but a silence thick and heavy. Between the calls of the birds Mysie could almost hear her heart's quickened beat. Blood found an eager response, and the magic of the moonlight and the beauty of the night soon wrought upon the excited minds of the pair. Mysie looked in Peter's eyes more desirable than ever. The moonlight on her face, the soft light within her eyes, her shy, downcast look, and the touch of her arm on his charmed him. "There are some things, Mysie, more desirable than the winning of the Red Hose," he said after a time, looking sideways at her, and placing his hand upon hers, which had been resting upon his arm. "Don't you think so?" "I dinna ken," she answered simply, a strange little quiver running through her as she spoke. "Isn't this better than anything else, just to be happy with everything so peaceful? Just you and I together, happy in each other's company." "Ay," she answered again, a faint little catch in her voice, her heart a-tremble, and her eyes moist and shining. Then silence again, while they slowly strayed through the heather towards the little wooded copse, and Mysie felt that every thump of her heart must be heard at the farthest ends of the earth. Chased by the winds of passion raging within him, discretion was fast departing from Peter, leaving him more and more a prey to impulse and the unwearying persistence of the fever of love that was consuming him. "Listen, Mysie, I read a song yesterday. It's the sort of thing I'd have written about you: "In the passionate heart of the rose, Which from life its deep ardor is feeing. And lifts its proud head to disclose Its immaculate beauty and being. I can see your fine soul in repose, With an eye lit with love and all-seeing, In the passionate heart of the rose, All athrob with its beauty of being." He quoted, and Mysie's pulse leapt with every word, as the low soothing wooing of his voice came in soft tones like a gentle breeze among clumps of briars. "Isn't it a beautiful song, Mysie?" he said. "The man who wrote that must have been thinking of someone very like you," and as he said this, he gave her hand a tender squeeze. Mysie thrilled to his touch and her heart leapt and fluttered like a bird in a snare, her breath coming in short little gasps, which were at once a pain and a joy. "Dinna say that," she said, a note of alarm in her voice as she tried to withdraw her hand. But he only held it closer, and bent his lips over it, his manner gentle but firm. "Ay, it is true, Mysie; but I am so stupid I can't do anything of that kind. I'm merely an ordinary sort of chap." Mysie did not answer, and once again silence fell between them, broken only occasionally by the cry of the birds or the bleating of a sheep. "I believe I'm in love with you, Mysie," he said at last. "You've grown very beautiful. Could you care for me, Mysie?" he asked, looking at her in the soft moonlight, a smile on his lips, his voice keeping its seductive wooing tone, and his eyes kindling. Mysie's experience of life had been gleaned from the love stories of earls and lords marrying governesses and ladies' maids after a swift and very eventful courtship. Already she saw herself Peter's wife, her carriage coming at her order, everyone serving her and she the queen of all the district. Illiterate but romantic, she was swept off her feet at the first touch of passion, and the flattery of being recognized! She did not answer. She did not know what to say; and Peter stole his arm about her waist, so tempting, so sweet to touch, and they passed beneath the shadow of the trees as they entered the little wooded copse. The moonlight filtered down through the trees, working silvery patterns upon the pathway. The silence, heavy and scented, was broken only by the far-away wheepling of a wakeful whaup and the grumbling of the burn near by, which bickered and hurried to be out in the open again on its way to the river. Mysie heard the sounds, felt the fragrance of young briars and hawthorn mingled with the smell of last year's decaying leaves which carpeted the pathway. She noted the beauty of the foliage against the moon, heard the swift scurry of a frightened rabbit and the faint snort of a hedge-hog on the prowl for food. "What have you to say to me, Mysie?" Peter persisted, his hot breath against her cheek, his blood coursing through his veins in red-hot passion. "Could you care for me, Mysie? I want you to be mine!" "I dinna ken what to say," she at last answered, distress in her voice, yet pleased to be wooed by this young man. "Wad it no' be wrang to ha'e onything to dae wi' me? I'm only your mither's servant." She felt it was her duty to put it this way. "No, you are my sweetheart," he cried, discretion all gone now in his eager furtherance of his pleading. "I want you--only you, Mysie," and he caught her in his arms in a strong burst of desire for her. "Mine, Mysie, mine!" he cried, his lips upon hers and hers responding now, his hot eyes greedily devouring her as he held her there in his strong young arms. "Say, Mysie, that you are mine, that I am yours, body and soul belonging to each other," and so he raved on in eager burning language, which was the sweetest music in Mysie's ears. His arms about her, he made her sit down, she still unresisting and flattered by his words, he fondling and kissing her, his hands caressing her face, her ears, her hair, her neck, his head sometimes resting upon her breast. Maddened and scorched by the passion raging within him, lured by the magic of the night, and impelled by the invitation of the sweet dewy lips that seemed to cry for kisses, he strained her to his breast. He praised her eyes, her hair, her voice, whilst he poured kisses upon her, his fire kindling her whole being into response. Then a thick cloud came over the face of the moon, darkening the dell, blotting out the silvery patterns on the ground, chasing the light shadows into dark corners; and a far-off protest of a whaup shouting to the hills was heard in a shriller and more anxious note that had something of alarm in it; the burn seemed to bicker more loudly in its anxiety to hurry on out into the open moor; and the scents and perfumes of the wood sank into pale ghosts of far-off memories. When passion, red-eyed and fierce for conquest, had driven innocence from the throne of virtue the guardian angels wept; and all their tears, however bitter, could not obliterate the stains which marked the progress of destruction. At the end of the copse, when Mysie and Peter emerged, they neither spoke nor laughed. There was shame in their downcast faces, and their feet dragged heavily. His arm no longer encircled her waist, he did not now praise her eyes, her hair, her figure. Lonely each felt, afraid to look up, as if something walked between them. And far away the whaup wheepled in protest, the burn still grumbled, and the perfumes, and the sounds of the glen and all its beauty were as if they had never existed, and the thick cloud grew blacker over the face of the moon. CHAPTER XIV THE AWAKENING Night after night for a week afterwards, Mysie lay awake till far on into the morning. She seemed to be face to face with life's realities at last. The silly, shallow love stories held no fascination for her. The love affairs of "Jean the Mill Girl" could not rouse her interest. Often she cried for hours, till exhaustion brought sleep, troubled and unrefreshing. She grew silent and avoided company. She sang no more at her work, and she avoided Peter, and kept out of his way. She often compared Robert with him now, and loved to let her mind linger on that one mad moment of delirious joy a year ago, when he had crushed her to his breast, and cried to her to be his. Thus womanhood dawned for her, and its great responsibilities frightened her. Robert, on the other hand, spent a week nursing his injured foot, but apart from the week's idle time, he suffered very little. He felt sore at losing the race, but was able now to look upon it as an unfortunate accident. But that smile which he had seen on the face of Mysie made him strangely happy, and it helped him to get over his disappointment. He was impatient to be out upon the moor again. He would wait for Mysie some night, he concluded, and tell her calmly that he wanted her to marry him. His mother's prospects were fairly good now. The youngest boy would soon be working; besides, two other brothers were at work, while Jennie, his eldest sister, was in service, and Annie, the younger one, was helping in the house. He waited, night after night, after his injured foot was better--lingering on the moor by the path which Mysie must travel. He lay among the heather and read books, or dreamed of a rosy future, with her the center of his dreams; but no Mysie came along, and he began to grow anxious. He wanted to make enquiries about her, but feared to arouse suspicion of having too keen an interest in her. By various ways he sought information, but never heard anything definite. "I see Matthew Maitland's ither lassie has started on the pit-head," he said to his mother, as one night they sat by the fire before retiring. "Ay," answered Mrs. Sinclair. "Matthew has the worst o' it by noo. Wi' his twa bits o' laddies workin', an' Mysie in service, an' Mary gaun to the pit-head, it should mak' his burden a wee easier." "I dinna like the idea o' lasses gaun to work on the pithead," he said simply. "I aye mind of the time that Mysie an' me wrocht on it. It's no' a very nice place for lasses or women." "No," his mother said. "I dinna like it either. Nae guid ever comes o' lasses gaun there. They lose a' sense o' modesty an' decency, after a while, an' are no' like women at a' when they grow aulder. Besides, it mak's them awfu' coorse." "I wad hardly say that aboot them a'," he ventured cautiously. "Mysie's no' coorse, an' she worked on the pithead." "No, Mysie's no' coorse," admitted his mother; "but Mysie didna work very lang on the pit-head. An' forby, we dinna ken but what Mysie micht hae been better if she had never been near it, or worse if she had stayed langer. Just look at Susan Morton, an' that Mag Lindsay. What are they but shameless lumps who dinna ken what modesty is?" and there was a spark of the old scorn in her voice as she finished. "Oh, but I wadna gang as faur as you, mither," he said, "wi' your condemnations. I ken that baith Susan Morton an' Mag Lindsay are guid-hearted women. They may be coarse in their talk, an' a' that sort o' thing; but they are as kind-hearted as onybody else, an' kinder than some." "Oh; I hae nae doot," she answered relentingly. "I didna mean that at a'; but the pit-head doesna make them ony better, an' it's no' wark for them at a'." "I mind," said Robert reminiscently, "when Mysie an' me started on the pit-head, Mag Lindsay was awfu' guid to Mysie; an' I've kent her often sharin' her piece wi' wee Dicky Tamson, whiles when he had nane, if his mother happened to be on the fuddle for a day or twa. There's no a kinderhearted woman in Lowwood, mither, than Mag Lindsay. She'd swear at Dicky a' the time she was stappin' her piece into him. It was jist her wye, an' I think she couldna help it." "Oh, ay, Mag's bark is waur then her bite. I ken that," was the reply. "An' wi' a' her fauts a body canna help likin' her." "Speakin' of Mysie," said Robert with caution, "I hinna seen her owre for a while surely. Wull there be onything wrang?" and then, to hide the agitation he felt, "she used to come owre hame aboot twice a week, an' I hinna seen her for a while." "Oh, there canna be onything wrang," replied Nellie, "or we wad hae heard tell o' it. But t' is time we were awa' to oor beds, or we'll no' be able to rise in time the morn," and rising as she spoke, she began to make preparations for retiring, and he withdrew to his room also. Still, day after day, he hung about the moorland path, but no Mysie, so far as he knew, ever came past. She had visited her parents only once since the games and her mother was struck by her subdued and thoughtful demeanor. But nothing was said at the time. Robert grew impatient, and began to roam nearer to Rundell House, in the hope of seeing her. Always his thoughts were full of Mysie and the raging passion in his blood for her gave him no rest. He loved to trace her name linked with his own, and then to obliterate it again, in case anyone would see it. All day his thoughts were of her; and her sweet, shy smile that day of the games was nursed in memory till it grew to be a solace to his heart and its hunger. He saw likenesses to her in everything, and even the call of the moor-birds awakened some memory of an incident of childhood, when Mysie and he had, with other children, played together on the moors. Even the very words which she had spoken, or the way she had acted, or how she had looked, in cheap cotton frock and pinafore, were recalled by a familiar cry, or by the sudden discovery of a bog-flower in bloom. It was a glorious afternoon in late July. The hum of insect life seemed to flood the whole moor; the scent of mown hay and wild thyme, and late hawthorn blossom from the trees on the edge of the moor, was heavy in the air, and the sun was very hot, and still high in the heavens. The hills that bordered the moor drowsed and brooded, like ancient gods, clothed in a lordly radiance that was slowly consuming them as they meditated upon their coming oblivion. The heather gave promise, in the tiny purple buds that sprouted from the strong, rough stems, of the blaze of purple glory that would carpet the moors with magic in the coming days of autumn. Yet there was a vague hint, in the too deep silence, and in the great clouds that were slowly drifting along the sky, of pent-up force merely awaiting the time to be set free to gallop across the moor in anger and destruction. The clouds, too, were deeply red, with orange touches here and there, trailing into dark inky ragged edges. Far away, at the foot of the hills a crofter's cow lowed lazily, calling forth a summons to be taken in and relieved of its burden of milk. The sheep came nearer to the "bughts," and the lambs burrowed for nourishment, with tails wagging, as they drew their sustenance, prodding and punching the patient mothers in the operation of feeding. Robert, noting all, with leisured enjoyment strolled lazily into the little copse, and lay down beneath the cool, grateful shelter of the trees. Drugged by the sweetness and the solitude, he fell asleep, and the sun was low on the horizon when he awoke, the whole copse ringing with the evening songs of merle and mavis, and other less musical birds, and, as he looked down the glade, he saw, out on the moorland path, coming straight for the grove, the form of Mysie--the form of which he had dreamed, and for which he had longed so much. The hot blood mounted to his face and raced through his frame, while his heart thumped at the thought that now, in the quietness of the dell, he would meet her and speak to her. He would speak calmly, and not frighten her, as he had done on that former occasion; and he braced himself to meet her. Impatiently he waited, and then, as he saw her about to enter the grove, he rose as unconcernedly as he could, trying hard to assume the air of one who had met her by accident, and stepped on to the path when Mysie was within ten yards or so of him. The color left her face, and her limbs felt weak beneath her, as she recognized him, and he was quick to note the change in her whole appearance. She was paler, he thought, and thinner, and the bloom of a few weeks ago was gone. Her eyes were listless, and the soft, shy look had been replaced by an averted shame-stricken one. She was plainly flurried by the meeting, and looking about trying to find if there were not, even yet, a way of evading it. "It's a fine nicht, Mysie," he began, stammering and halting before her, "though I think it is gaun to work to rain." "Ay," she responded hurriedly, her agitation growing, as she was forced to halt before him. "I've come oot on the muir a wheen o' nichts noo, to try an' meet you," he began, getting into the business right away, "an' I had begun to think you had stopped comin' owre." But Mysie answered never a word. Her face grew paler, and her agitation became more evident. "Mysie," he began, now fully braced for the important matter in view, "I want you to marry me. I want you to be my wife. You've kenned me a' my life. We gaed to the school together, and we gaed to work together, an' I hae aye looked on you as my lass. I canna keep it ony langer noo. I hae wanted to tell you a lang time aboot it, an' to ask you to be my wife. My place at hame is easier noo. My mother has the rest o' the family comin' on to take my place, and her battle is gey weel owre, an' I can see prospects o' settin' up a hoose o' my ain, if you'll agree to share it with me. I haven't muckle to offer you, but I think you'll ken by this time that I'll be guid to you. Mysie, I want you. Will you come?" For answer, Mysie burst into tears, her shoulders heaving with the sobs of her grief, her breast surging and falling, while her little hands covered her eyes, as she stood with bent head, a pitiable little figure. "What is it, Mysie?" he enquired, his hands at once going tenderly over her bent head, and caressing it as he spoke, "What is it, Mysie? Tell me. Hae I vexed you by speakin' like that? Dinna greet, Mysie," he went on soothingly, his voice soft and tender, and vibrant with sympathy and love. "Dinna greet. But tell me what's wrang. I'm sorry if it's me that has done it, Mysie. Maybe I hae frightened you; but, there now, dinna greet. I didna mean ony harm!" and he stroked and caressed her hair softly with his hands, or patted her shoulders at every word, as a mother does with a fretful child. "There noo, Mysie, dinna greet," he said again, the soft, soothing note of vexation in his voice growing more tender and husky with emotion. "Look up, Mysie, for I dinna like to see you greetin'. It maun be something gey bad, surely, to mak' you greet like this," and his hands seemed to stab her with every tender touch, and his soft words but added more pain to her grief. But still Mysie never answered. Her tears instead flowed faster, and her sobs grew heavier, until finally she moaned like a stricken animal in pain. "Mysie! Mysie! my dochter, what is it?" unable to control himself longer. "Surely you can tell me what ails you? What is it, Mysie? Look up, my dear! Look up an' tell me what ails you!" "Oh, dear! Oh, dear!" moaned Mysie, the floodgates of her grief now wide, and her soul in torture. "Mysie," he cried, taking her head between his hands and raising it up, "what is it that's wrang with you? Is it me that is the cause o' you being vexed?" "Oh, no, no," she moaned, trying to avert her face. "Oh, dinna, Rob!" she pleaded, and the old familiar name smote him and thrilled him as of old. "Tell me what is the matter," he said, a stronger note in his voice, the old masterful spirit asserting itself again. "What is wrang wi' you? I can't understand it, an' I wish to try an' help you." But still she sobbed and there was no answer. "Look here," he said. "Tell me plainly if I have been the cause of this." "No; oh, no," she sobbed, again hiding her eyes with her hands. "Very weel, then," he went on. "Will you no' tell me what is wrong? I canna understand it unless you tell me. Are you in ony trouble o' ony kind? Speak, Mysie." Then, his voice becoming more pleading in its tones, "Wad you be feart to be my wife, Mysie? I aye thocht you cared for me. I hae loved you a' my days. You maun ken that, I think. Speak up, Mysie, an' tell me if you care for me. I want you, an' I maun ken what you think o' it. Come, Mysie, tell me!" "Oh, dinna ask me, Rob," she pleaded. "Dinna ask me!" "What is the matter then?" he cried. "There's something wrong, an' you'll no' tell me. Very well, tell me what you mean to do. I hae asked you a fair question. Are you going to marry me? I want yes or no to that," and there was a touch of impatience creeping into his voice. "Come on," he urged, after a short silence, broken only by Mysie's sobs, "gie me an answer. Or, if you wad raither wait a wee while, till this trouble has blawn by that is bothering you, I'm quite agreeable to wait." "It'll never blaw by, Rob," she sobbed. "Oh, dinna ask me ony mair. I canna be your wife noo, an' I jist want to be left alane!" The pain and despair in her voice alarmed him. It was so keen and poignant, and went to his heart like a knife. "Oh!" he gasped in surprise, as he strove to call his pride to his assistance. It was so unlike what he had anticipated that it amazed him to have such a disappointing reply. Then, recovering somewhat:--"Very well!" with great deliberation, while his voice sounded unnaturally strained. Then the effort failing, and his pride breaking down: "Oh, Mysie, Mysie," he burst out in poignant agony again relapsing into the pleading wooing tones that were so difficult to withstand, "How I hae loved you! I thocht you cared for me. I hae built mysel' up in you, an' I'll never, never be able to forget you! Oh, think what it is! You hae been life itsel' to me, Mysie, an' I canna think that you dinna care! Oh, Mysie!" He turned away, his heart sore and his soul wounded, and strode from the copse out on to the moor, a thousand thoughts driving him on, a thousand regrets pursuing, and a load of pain in his heart that was bearing his spirit down. "Oh, dear God!" moaned Mysie, kneeling down, her legs unable to support her longer, "Oh, dear God, my heart'll break!" and a wild burst of sobbing shook her frame, and her grief overpowering flowed through the tears--a picture of utter despair and terrible hopelessness. Robert tore away from the dell, his whole calculation of things upset. To think that Mysie could not love him had never entered his head. What was wrong with her? What was the nature of her terrible grief? He kicked savagely at a thistle which grew upon the edge of the pathway, his pride wounded, but now in possession of the citadel of his heart; and on he strode, still driven by the terrible passion raging within him; resolving already, as many have done under like circumstances, that his life was finished. Hope had gone, dreams were unreal and vanishing as the mist that crawled along the bog-pools at night. At the crest of the little hill, just where it sloped down to the village, he stood and looked back. Good God! Was he seeing aright! The figure of a man, who in the gray gloaming looked well-dressed, was approaching Mysie, and she was slowly moving to meet him. A few steps more, and the man had the girl, he thought, in his arms, and was kissing her where they stood. Was he dreaming? What was the meaning of all this? "Oh, Christ!" he groaned. "What does it all mean?" and he rubbed his eyes and looked again, then sat down, all his pride and anger raging within him as he watched, kindling the jungle instinct within him into a raging fire, to fight for his mate--his by right of class and association. He doubled back, as the two figures turned in the direction of the copse--the resolve in his mind to go back and forcibly tear Mysie from this unknown stranger. He would fight for her. She was his, and he was prepared to assert his right of possession before all the world. In a mad fury he started forward, a raging anger in his heart, striding along in quick, determined, relentless steps, his blood jumping and his energy roused, and all the madness of a strong nature coursing through him; but after a few yards he hesitated, stopped, and then turned back. After all, Mysie must have made an appointment with this man. She evidently wanted him, and that was her reason for asking to be left alone. "Oh, God!" he groaned again, sitting down. "This is hellish!" and he began to turn over the whole business in his mind once more. Long he sat, and the darkness fell over the moor, matching the darkness that brooded over his heart and mind. He heard the moor-birds crying in restlessness, and saw the clouds piling themselves up, and come creeping darkly over the higher ground, bringing a threat of rain in their wake. The moan in the wind became louder, presaging a storm; but still he sat or lay upon the rough, withered grass, fighting out his battle, meeting the demons of despair and gloom, and the legions of pain and misery, in greater armies than ever he had met them before. Again he groaned, as his ear caught the plaintive note of a widowed partridge, which sat behind him upon a grassy knoll of turf, crying out on the night air, an ache in every cry, the grief and sorrow of his wounded, breaking heart. It seemed to Robert that there was a strange sort of kinship between him and the bird--a kinship and understanding which touched a chord of ready feeling in his heart. The ominous hoot of an owl in the wood startled him, and he rose to his feet. He could not sit still. Idleness would drive him mad. He strode off on to the moor, away from the track, his whole being burning in torture, and his mind a mass of unconnected fancies and pains. Over the bogs and through the marshes, the madness of despair within him, he heeded not the deep ditches and the bog-pools. They were the pits of darkness, the sty-pools, which his soul must either cross, or in which he must perish. He tore up the hills into the mists and the rising storm, the thick clouds, full of rain, enveloping him, and matching the terrible fury of his breast. On, ever on, in the darkness and the mire, through clumps of whin and stray bushes of wild briar. On, always on, driven and lashed into action by the resistless desire to get away from himself. He knew not the direction he had taken. He had lost his bearings on the moor; the darkness had completely hidden the landmarks, and even had he been conscious of his actions, he could not have told in which part of the moor he was. "Oh, God!" he groaned again, almost falling over a bush of broom; and sitting down, he buried his face in his hands, and, forgetful of the wind and the rain, which now drove down in torrents, sat and brooded and thought, his mind seeking to understand the chaos of despair. What was the meaning of life? What was beyond it after death? Would immortality, if such there were, be worth having? Men in countless, unthinkable millions, had lived, and loved, and lost, and passed on. Did immortality carry with it pain and suffering for them? If not, did it carry happiness and balm? To hell with religions and philosophies, he thought; they were all a parcel of fairy tales to drug men's minds and keep them tame; and he glared impotently at the pitiless heavens, as if he would defy gods, and devils, and men. He would be free--free in mind, in thought, and unhampered by unrealities! No. Men had the shaping of their own lives. Pride would be his ally. He would lock up this episode in his heart, and at the end of time for him, there would be an end of the pain and the regret, when he was laid among the myriad millions of men of all the countless ages since man had being. This was immortality; to be forever robed in the dreamless draperies of eternal oblivion, rather than have eternal life, with all its torments--mingling with the legions of the past, and with mother earth--the dust of success and happiness indistinguishable from the dust of failure and despair. Time alone would be his relief--the great physician that healed all wounds. The wind blew stronger and the rain fell heavier, the one chasing, the other in raging gusts, and both tearing round and lashing the form of the man who sat motionless and unaware of all this fury. The wind god tried to shake him up by rushing and roaring at him; but still there was no response. Then, gathering re-inforcements, he came on in a mad charge, driving a cloud of rain in front of him as a sort of spear-head to break the defense of fearlessness and unconcern of this unhappy mortal. Yet the figure moved not. Baffled and still more angry, the wind god retired behind the hills again to rest; then, driving a larger rain-cloud before him, with a roar and a crash he tore down the slope, raging and tearing in a wild tumult of anger, straight against the lonely figure which sat there never moving, his head sunk upon his breast. Beaten and sullen, the god again retired to re-collect his strength. He moaned and growled as he retired, frightening the moor-birds and the hares, which lay closer to earth, their little hearts quivering with fear. Young birds were tucked safely under the parent wing, as terror strode across the moor, striking dread into every fluttering little heart and shivering body. Low growled the wind, as he ran around his broken forces, gathering again new forces in greater and greater multitudes. Just then, with an oath, the figure rose and faced the storm, striding again up the slope, as if determined to carry the war into the camp of the enemy. A low growl came rumbling from the hills, as the wind god rushed along, encouraging his legions, threatening, coaxing, pleading, commanding them to fight, and so to overcome this figure who now boldly faced his great army. The advance guard of the storm broke upon him in wild desperation, rushing and thundering, howling and yelling, sputtering and hissing, spitting and hitting at him, and then the main body struck him full in the face, all the bulk and the force of it hurled upon him with terrible impetuous abandon, and Robert's foot striking a tuft at the moment, he went down, down into a bog-pool among the slush and moss, and decaying heather-roots, down before the mad rush of the wind-god's army, who roared and shouted in glee, with a voice that shook the hills and called upon the elements to laugh and rejoice. And the widowed partridge out upon the moor, creeping closer to the lee side of his tuft of moss, cried out in his pain, not because of the fury of the blast, but because of the heart that was breaking under the little shivering body for the dead mate, who had meant so much of life and happiness to him--cried with an ache in every cry, and the heart of the man responded in his great, overpowering grief. CHAPTER XV PETER MAKES A DECISION Peter Rundell often wondered what had become of Mysie. For a day or two after the evening of the day of the games, he had shunned the possibility of meeting her, because of the shame that filled his heart. His face burned when his thoughts went back to the evening in the grove on the moor. He wondered how it had all happened. He had not meant anything wrong when he suggested the walk. He could not account for what had occurred, and so he pondered and his shame rankled. Then an uneasy feeling took possession of him and he felt he would like to see Mysie. A week slipped away and he tried to find a way of coming in contact with her, but no real chance ever presented itself. A fortnight passed and he grew still more uneasy. He grew anxious and there was a hot fear pricking at his heart. Then at last, one day he caught a glimpse of her, and his heart was smitten with dread. She was changed. Her appearance was altered. She was thinner, much thinner and very white and listless. The old air of gayety and bubbling spirits was gone. Her step seemed to drag, instead of the bright patter her feet used to make; and his anxiety increased and finally he decided that he must talk with her. There was something wrong and he wanted to know what it was. He tried to make an excuse for seeing her alone but no chance presented itself, and another week went past and he grew desperate. Then luck almost threw her into his arms one day in the hall. "Mysie," he whispered, "there is something I want to discuss with you. Meet me in the grove to-night about ten. I must see you. Will you come?" She nodded and passed on, not daring to raise her eyes, her face flaming suddenly into shame, and the color leaving it again, gave her a deeper pallor; and so he had to be content with that. All day he was fidgety and ill at ease, torn by a thousand dreads, and consumed by anxiety, waiting impatiently for the evening, and puzzling over what could be the matter. He felt that for one moment of mad indiscretion, when allowing himself to be cast adrift upon the sea of passion, the frail bark of his life had set out upon an adventure from which he could not now turn back. He was out upon the great ocean current of circumstances, where everything was unknown and uncharted, so far as he was concerned. What rocks lay in his track, he did not know; but his heart guessed, and sought in many ways of finding a course that would bring his voyage to an end in the haven of comfort and respectability. Respectability was his god, as he knew it was the god of his parents. Money might save him; but there was something repugnant in the thought of leaving the whole burden of disgrace upon Mysie. For, after all, the fault was wholly his, and it was his duty to face the consequences. Still if a way could be found of getting over it in an easy way it would be better. But he would leave that till the evening when he had learned from Mysie, whether his fears were correct or not, and then a way might be found out of the difficulty. But the day seemed long in passing, and by the time the clock chimed nine he was in a fever of excitement, and pained and ill with dread. Yet he was late when it came the hour, and Mysie was there first and had already met Robert before he reached the grove. When Robert had gone away, and she sat crying upon the moor, she felt indeed as if the whole world was slipping from her and that her life was finished. Only ruin, black, unutterable, stared her in the face. Oh, if only Robert had spoken sooner, she thought. If only that terrible beautiful night with its moonlight witchery had not been lived as it had been! If only something had intervened to prevent what had happened! And she sobbed in her despair, knowing what was before her and learning all too late, that Robert was the man she loved and wanted. Then when her passionate grief had spent itself, she rose as she saw Peter coming hurriedly to meet her. "What is the matter, Mysie?" he asked with real concern in his voice, noting the tear-stained face and her over-wrought condition. "What is it, Mysie?" But Mysie did not answer just then, and they both turned and passed into the grove, walking separately, as if afraid of each other's touch, and something repellent keeping them apart. They sat down, carefully avoiding the place where they had sat on that other fateful occasion, nearly a month before, and a long silence elapsed before words were again spoken. "Now, Mysie," said Peter at last breaking the silence, and bracing himself to hear unpleasant news, "I want to know what is wrong. What is the matter?" and he feared to hear her tell her trouble. But again only tears--tears and sobs, terrible in their intensity as if the frail little body would break completely under the strain of her grief. "Mysie," he said, and his voice had a note of tender anxiety in it, "what is it, dear? Tell me." "You shouldn't need to ask," she replied between her sobs. "You shouldn't need to ask when you should ken." Again a long silence, and Peter felt he had got a heavy blow. A sickening feeling of shame smote his heart at the knowledge hinted at--a knowledge he had feared to learn. "Is it--is it--am I the cause of it, Mysie? Is--is it--?" and his voice was hoarse and dry and pained. She nodded, and Peter knew beyond all doubt that he was the cause of the misery. Again a long silence fell between them, in which both seemed to live an eternity of silence and pain. Then clearing his throat, Peter spoke. "Mysie," he said, "there is only one thing to be done then," and there was decision in his voice and a desire which meant that he was going to rise to a height to which neither he nor Mysie ever expected he would rise. "We must get married." She looked at him, with eyes still wet, but searching his face keenly. "Ay. It's a' richt sayin' that now, efter the thing's done," she said bitterly. "But it is the only thing, Mysie, that can be done," he replied quickly. "I can't think of anything else." "You should hae thought aboot that afore. It's nae use now," she said bluntly. "Why, Mysie," he asked in surprise. "Why is it no use? Wouldn't you like to marry me?" "No," she replied firmly. "I would not! Do you think I have no thought o' mysel'? If nothing had happened, you would never hae thought aboot me for your wife. But now that you've done something you canna get oot o' you'd like to mak' me believe you want to help me bear the disgrace, while a' the time you don't want to. But it's no' my disgrace," and there was heat creeping into her voice. "It is yours, an' you should hae thocht aboot a' that afore," and her voice was very angry as she finished. "You are wrong, Mysie," he replied mollifyingly. "I love, you and I told you that before it happened, and I also hinted that I wanted to marry you." "Ay, but that was just at the time. Maybe if nothing had happened, an' I had never been in your company again, you'd soon hae forgotten." "No, Mysie, you are wrong. I love you, and I've brought you to this, for which I am sorry, so we must be married," he said decisively. "Why?" she asked, and her eyes met his honestly and fairly. "Because it is the right thing to do," he replied quietly. "Is that a'?" she asked. "Is it not enough? What else is there to do?" Mysie was silent, and after a while Peter went on;--"It is a duty, dear, but I am going to face it, and shoulder the responsibility. It is the right thing to do, and it must be done." "Ay, an' you are gaun to dae it, just as a bairn tak's medicine; because you are forced. I asked if that was a', and it seems to be. But what if I don't have onything mair to dae with you?" "You would not do that, Mysie," he said hurriedly, and incredulously. It had never entered his mind that she would refuse to marry him, and he looked upon his offer as a great service which he was doing her. "Why, what could you do otherwise?" he asked looking blankly at her. "I could work as I hae always done," she said sharply. "You surely think you are a catch. Man, efter what has happened I feel that I wudna care than I never saw you again. You hae little o' rale manliness in you. You thocht it was gran' to carry on wi' a workin' lassie, maybe," and there was bitter scorn in her voice, "an' now when you hae landed yourself into a mess you are grinning like a bear with the branks an' wantin' to dae what is richt as you call it," and Mysie was now really in a temper. "Mysie, you must not speak like that," he broke in, in earnest tones. "You know I love you, and loving you as I do, I want to shield you as much--" "Ay, but you want to shield yourself first," she said. "No, dear, it is only of you I am thinking. I love you very much and want to do what is right. Even although this had not happened, I was going to ask you to be my wife. Will you marry me, Mysie?" "What'll your folks say?" she asked bluntly. "You ken that I'm no' the wife you would have gotten nor the yin your folk would like you to get," she said, searching his face with a keen look. "I'm no' born in your class. I'm ignorant an' have not the fine manners your wife should have, an' I doot neither your faither nor your mither wad consent to such a thing." "But I won't ask them," he replied. "I am a man for myself, and do not see why they should be asked to approve my actions in this." "Ay, that's a' richt; but what aboot your ain feelings in the matter? Am I the lass you wad hae ta'en, Peter, if this hadna happened?" and there was a world of hungry appeal in her voice as she finished. It was as if she wanted to be assured that it was for herself alone that he really wanted to marry her. "Why should you not?" he enquired. "That's no' the question," she said, noting the evasion. "You ken as weel as I dae that it wad be an ill match for you. You've been brought up differently. You've had eddication, an' an easy life. You've been trained faur differently, an' you canna say that you'd no' tire o' me. I have not as muckle learning as wad make me spell my ain name, an' I could never fill the position o' your wife with the folk I'd have to mix with." "That's all right, Mysie," he said, ready to counter her argument. "You have not been educated, that is true, but it is only a question of having you trained. If one woman can be educated and trained so can another. This is what I propose to do: I go back to Edinburgh in a fortnight to finish my last year. My father has put the colliery into a company, and he has a large part of the management on his shoulders. He expects when I come home next year to gradually retire. I shall be the controlling power then, and he will slip out of the business and end his days in leisure." "Ay, but you are thinking a' the time aboot the disgrace," she said. "Your whole thought is about your position, an' you hae never a real thought aboot me." She was somewhat mollified; but there was still a hard note in her voice, and not a little distrust too. "Are you sure you are no' proposin' this just because o' the trouble? I don't want peety! I am pairtly to blame too," this with a softer note creeping into her voice, and making it more resigned. "If it's no' oot o' peety for me, I could bear it better. But I'll no' hae peety. I can look after mysel' an' face the whole thing, even though I ken it'll break my mither's heart." "I know what it is for you, Mysie," he said. "I am trying to look at the whole thing from your point of view. That's why I have planned to give you some sort of a training, and make it as easy for you as possible. It is for your position I am worrying and when I come into my father's place I will be able to put all things right for you, and make you really happy." "But you have not faced the main bit yet," she said as he ceased speaking. "Where do I come in? You hae got this to face now, an' it'll no' wait a' that time." "Yes, I know," he replied, "I'm just coming to that. At first it won't perhaps look too nice to you, but remember, Mysie, I want to face the matter honestly and you'll have to help me. Very well," he went on. "As I said, I go back to Edinburgh in three weeks at most--I'll try and go in a fortnight, and you must go with me--not traveling together. We must keep all our affairs to ourselves, and not even your parents or mine must know. When I go away you'll come the day after. You can travel over the moor to Greyrigg station, take the 4:30 train from there and I can meet you at Edinburgh. I'll get a house next week when I go to arrange for my term. I shall tell no one. You can live in the house I get and I can continue perhaps in lodgings, and I shall come and visit you as often as I can." He stopped for a little and then resumed:--"I shall buy books for you and come and teach you the things you'll need to learn, or I can get someone to do it, if you'd like that better. Then when you are thoroughly trained, I can bring you home to Rundell House and all will be well." "An' what aboot--what aboot--" she paused, averting her face. "Are you no' forgettin' that it'll tak' a lang time for me to learn a' I'll need; for I'm gey ill to learn." "No, Mysie," he replied reassuringly. "When you arrive in Edinburgh, we can go next day to be married before the Sheriff. It's all right, Mysie dear," he assured her as he saw the questioning look in her eyes. "Don't think I'm trying to trap you. I want to make what amends I can for what has happened. You'll be my wife just as surely as if the minister married us. If you are not content with that we can easily get married with a minister after we decide to come back here." "But wad that be a true marriage?" she asked, scarcely able to credit what he told her. "Wad I get marriage lines?" "Oh, yes. It would be legal, and you'd get marriage lines. Now what do you say?" "I dinna like the thocht o' no' tellin' my mither. Will I hae to gang away, an' no' tell her?" "Oh, you must not tell anyone," he replied quickly. "No one must know or all our plans will go crash, and we'll both be left to face the shame of the whole thing. So you must not tell." "Mither will break her heart," she broke in again with a hint of a sob. "She'll wonder where I am, an' worry aboot me, wi' nae word o' me! Am I just to disappear oot o' everybody's kennin' altogether? Oh, dear! It'll break my mither's heart," and she cried again at the thought of the pain and anxiety which her parents would experience. So they sat and talked, he trying to soothe and allay her anxiety and she, at first openly skeptical, and then by and by allowing herself to be persuaded. All this time they had been too engrossed in their own affairs to notice how the wind had risen and that a storm was already breaking over the moor. Then suddenly realizing it, they started for home. It was nearing midnight, and the clouds being thick and low made the mossy ground very dark. The rain was coming down heavily and everything pointed to a wild night. "I'm sorry I did not bring a coat with me," said Peter, taking the windward side of Mysie, so as to break the storm for her. "I had no idea that it was going so rain when I came away," and they plowed their way through the long rough grass, plashing through the little pools they were unable to see, while the wind raged and tore across the moor in a high gale. He had a key in his pocket and when they arrived at Rundell House he noiselessly opened the door, and they entered, slipping along like burglars. When Mysie reached her room, she sat down to think matters over for herself, forgetful of the fact that she was wet. She sat a long time pondering in her slow untrained way over the arrangements which had been come to, her mind trying to get accustomed to the thought that she was going to be Peter's wife and to leave Lowwood. But somehow the thought of being his wife did not appeal to her now, as it had done when she had pictured herself the lady of the district with her dreams of everything she desired, and fancying herself the envy of every woman who knew her. The secrecy of the business she did not like; but she told herself it would all come right; that it was necessary under the circumstances and that afterwards when she had been taught and trained in the ways of his people she would come back and all would be well. Then in the midst of all this looking into the future with its doubts and promises, came the thought of Robert, and her pulses thrilled and her blood quickened; but it had come too late. Would she rather be at Rundell House as Peter's wife or sitting in a one-roomed apartment sewing pit clothes perhaps, or washing and scrubbing in the slavery in which the women folk of her class generally lived? Ah, yes, as Robert's wife that would have been happiness. But it was all too late now. She had turned aside--and she must pay the penalty of it all. Long she sat, and cried, and at last realizing that she was cold and shivering, she took off her clothes and crawled off to bed, her last thought of Robert as he had left her, the pain in his eyes and the awful agony in his voice: "Oh, Mysie, how I hae loved you! An' I thocht you cared for me!" rang in her ears as she lay and tossed in sleepless misery. In the morning she was in a high fever and unable to rise out of her bed. She had a headache and felt wretched and ill. In her exhausted state, weakened by worry and her resistance gone, the drenching, the chill and the long sitting in her lonely room had overmastered her completely. She raved about Robert, crying to him in her fevered excitement, and he, all unconscious, was at that time at his work, tired also and exhausted by his terrible night upon the moor. When he stumbled and fell into the mossy pool, his mind became more collected and, scrambling out, he stood to consider where he was, trying to find his bearings in the thick darkness. The low whinnying of a horse near by gave him a clew and he started in the direction of the cry, concluding that it was some of the horses sheltering behind a dyke which ran across the moor from the end of the village. He crawled and scrambled along, and after going about twenty yards he came to the dyke, at the other side of which stood the cowering horses. "Whoa, Bob," he said soothingly, and one of them whinnied back in response as if glad to know that a human being was near. He moved nearer to them, and began to stroke their manes and clap their necks, to which they responded by rubbing their faces against him and cuddling an affectionate return for the sympathy in his voice. "Puir Bob," he said, tenderly, as he patted the neck of the animal which rubbed its soft nose against his arm. It seemed so glad of the companionship and reached nearer as Robert put out his other hand to stroke sympathetically the nose of the other horse, as he also drew near. "Puir Rosy," he said. "Was you feart for the wind and the rain? Poor lass! It's an awfu' nicht to be oot in!" and they rubbed themselves against him and whinnied with a low pleased gurgle, grateful for his kindness and company as he patted and stroked the soft velvet skins, and they rubbed themselves against him as if each were jealous lest his attentions be not equally divided. He stood for a short time, thus fondling and patting them, then keeping to the dyke, he made his way along it and he thus came out right at the end of the village, and knowing his way now with confidence, he was soon at the door of his home. Cautiously opening it, afraid he would awaken the inmates, whom he concluded must all be asleep, he slipped in quietly, bolting the door behind him, and reached the fire. "Dear me, Rob," said his mother. "Where in the name o' goodness hae you been the nicht! I sat up till after midnight aye expectin' you'd be in, sae I gaed awa' to my bed to lie wauken till you should come in. You are awfu' late." He did not answer but stooped to take off his boots, and Mrs. Sinclair was soon out of bed and upon the floor. "Michty me, laddie! You are wringin' wet! Where have you been? Rain and glaur to the e'en holes! Get thae wet claes off you at yince, an' I'll get dry shirts for you, an' then awa' till your bed!" she rattled on, running to the chest in the room and coming back with dry clothes in her arms. "My, I never kent you oot o' the hoose as late as this in a' your life! Have you been oot in a' that rain?" "Ay," he answered, but venturing nothing more, as he went on changing. "It's been an awfu' nicht o' wind and rain," she again observed, glancing at his dripping clothes, and conveying a hint that explanations were desirable. "I canna understand at a' what way you hae bidden oot in a' that rain, Lod's sake? It's enough to gie you your daeth o' cauld. You are wet to the skin, an' there's no a dry steek on you? Hae you been oot in it a'?" and her curiosity she felt was too crudely put to be answered. Robert knew that she was bent on having an explanation, and that if he gave her any encouragement at all she'd soon have the whole story out of him. "Yes," he said curtly, "but I'm no' gaun to talk ony the nicht. I'm gaun to my bed for an oor before risin' time." "You'll never gaun till your work the day," she said in warm concern. "You'll never be able. You'd better tak' a rest, my laddie. A day will no' mak' muckle difference noo. We're no sae ill aff, an' I wadna like to hae onything gaun wrang. Gang away till your bed, an' dinna bother aboot your work. A guid rest'll maybe keep you frae getting the cauld." "I'm a' richt, mither," he replied as airily as he could. "Dinna worry; an' be sure an' wauken me for my work. I'm na gaun to bide in when there is naething wrang. You gang awa' to your bed," and she knowing that was the last word, did not speak further, and as he withdrew to his room, she went back to bed wondering more and more at the mystery of it all. But he did not sleep. Torn by worry and in spite of his earlier resolution to think no more about it he lay and thought and wondered about Mysie, and the man he saw, joining her at the end of the grove; and when Nellie opened the door to call him that it was "rising time," Robert answered to the first cry, and his mother was more amazed than ever; for he generally took a good many cries, being a heavy sleeper. But being sensible she kept her wonder to herself, knowing if it were anything which she had a right to know he'd tell her in his own good time. CHAPTER XVI A STIR IN LOWWOOD "My! Div you ken what has happened?" asked Mrs. Johnstone, bursting in upon Mrs. Sinclair one day about two weeks later. "My, it's awfu'!" she continued in breathless excitement, her head wagging and nodding with every word, as if to emphasize it, her eyes almost jumping out with excitement, and her whole appearance showing that she had got hold of a piece of information which was of the first importance. "My, it's awfu'," she repeated again lifting her hands up to a level with her breast, and then letting them fall again, "Mysie Maitland has ran away frae her place, an' naebidy kens where she has gane to. An' Mrs. Rundell, mind you, has been that guid to her too, givin' her her caps an' aprons, an' whiles buyin' her a bit dress length forby, an' she gi'ed her boots and slippers, an' a whole lot o' ither things to tak' hame for the bairns--things that were owre wee for the weans at Rundell Hoose but were quite guid to wear. My, it's awfu'! Isn't it?" "Mysie Maitland!" exclaimed Mrs. Sinclair in astonishment. "When did this happen? Where has she gane? Are you sure you hinna made a mistake?" and Mrs. Sinclair was all excitement, hanging in breathless anxiety upon the tidings her neighbor brought. "I hae made nae mistake, Nellie Sinclair," returned Leezie, "for it was her ain mother wha telt me the noo. I was at the store, an' when I was comin' hame I met Jenny hersel' gaun awa' tae Rundell Hoose. She was greetin' an' I couldna' get oot o' spierin' at her what was wrang, an' she telt me her ain self." "You dinna mean tae tell me that Mysie Maitland has disappeared? In the name o' a' that's guid, what has happened to bring aboot sic news?" "Aye, it's true, Nellie," replied Mrs. Johnstone, feeling very important now that she knew Mrs. Sinclair had not heard the news. "When did this happen?" asked the latter, still incredulous. "Are you sure that's true? Dear me! I dinna ken what the world's comin' to at a'!" "Ay, it's awfu'! But it's true. You never ken what thae quate kin' o' modest folk will dae. They look that bashfu' that butter wadna' melt in their mouths; an' a' the time they are just as like to gang wrang as ither folk." "But wha said Mysie Maitland has gang wrang?" enquired Mrs. Sinclair, flaring up in Mysie's defense. "I wadna' believe it, though you went down on your bended knees to tell me. A modester, weel-doin' lassie never lived in this place!" "Weel, I dinna ken whether she has gane wrang or not; but she has ran awa', an' it is gey suspeecious conduct that for ony lassie that is weel-doin'. She is jist like the rest of folk." "It canna' be true," said Mrs. Sinclair, still unable to believe the news. "I canna' take it in." "Ay, but it is true," persisted her neighbor with assurance. "For I tell you, it was her ain mother what telt me hersel'. It seems she has been missing since the day afore yesterday. She gaed awa' in the afternoon to see her mither, an' as she hadna been keepin' very weel for a day or two an' no comin' back that night, Mrs. Rundell jist thought that Jenny had keepit her at home for a holiday. But she didna turn up yesterday, an' thinkin' maybe that the lassie had turned worse, Mrs. Rundell sent owre word jist the noo, to ask how she was keepin'; an' Jenny was fair thunder-struck when the man came to the door to ask. Puir body! Jenny's awfu' puttin' aboot owre the matter. I hope," she added, with the first show of sympathy, "that naething has happened to the lassie. That wad be awfu'!" "Dear keep us!" exclaimed Nellie. "I hope nothing has happened to her." "God knows!" replied Mrs. Johnstone piously, for want of something else to say. "It's awfu'!" "Do they ken naething at a' aboot her at Rundells'?" again enquired Mrs. Sinclair. "No' a thing they ken, ony mair than you or me. She left her bits o' claes, jist as if she meant to come back. Her new frock was in her drawer jist as she had put it by efter tryin' it on. An' a braw frock it is. She has nothing except what she was wearin' at the time she gaed oot. Her guid boots jist yince on her feet are in her room, a' cleaned jist as she took them off the last time she had them on. I canna' believe it yet. My! it's awfu'! It'll be a sair, sair heart her faither'll hae when he hears about it. He had aye an' awfu' wark wi' Mysie, an' thought the world o' her. If he got Mysie richt he ay seemed to think that a' else was richt. I hope nae harm has come to her. I dinna ken what the world's comin' to at a', I'm sure? My, it's awfu', isn't it?" and Mrs. Johnstone went out to spread the news, leaving Mrs. Sinclair more mystified and astonished than ever she had been in her life. Mysie missing! She could not understand it, and always she tried to crush back the suggestion which was plainly evident in Leezie's statement that Mysie had "gang wrang." It could not be that, for Mysie was never known to have dealings with anyone likely to betray her like that. It was a hopeless puzzle altogether, and she could not account for it. It was nearing "lousing time" and Mrs. Sinclair was busy getting the dinner ready, and water boiled to wash the men coming in from the pit, and she wondered how Robert would take the news. She knew, having guessed, as most mothers do guess, that Mysie held a sacred corner in Robert's heart; though noticing the silence during the last two weeks, and his renewed attention to books and study, she wondered if anything had come between Mysie and himself. Had he at last spoken to her and been discouraged? She could hardly harbor that thought, for she felt also that Mysie's heart enshrined but one man, and that was Robert. Yet what could be the meaning of all this mystery? It was true Mysie and Robert had never walked out as young men and women of their class do; but she knew in their hearts each regarded the other with very warm affection, and thinking thus she worked about the house preparing things and running occasionally over to Maitland's house, to see that the dinner was cooking all right, and giving little attentions wherever they were needed, in Mrs. Maitland's absence. She did not mention the news to Robert when he came in, but she watched him furtively as she worked about the house getting the water into the tub for him to wash, before placing the dinner on the table; but she guessed from his face that he must have already heard of it on his way home. He was silent as he pulled off his rough blue flannel shirt and stooping over the well-filled tub of hot water, he began to lave the water over his arms, and the upper part of his body. At last, Mrs. Sinclair could hold herself in no longer, and looking keenly at the half-naked young man as he straightened himself, having washed the coal-dust from his hands and arms, he began to rub his breast and as much of his back as he could reach, she said, "Did you hear aboot Mysie, Rob?" "Ay," he returned simply, trying to hide his agitation and his blanching face. "I heard that she had disappeared frae her place, an' that nae news o' her could be got. Is it true, mither?" "Ay, it's true, Rob," she replied. "But I hinna got ony richt waye o' it yet. Jenny's awa' owre to Rundell Hoose, an' we'll no' ken onything till she comes back. It's an awfu' business, an' will pit her faither an' mither a guid lot aboot. I wonder what'll hae ta'en her." "It's hard to ken," he replied in a non-committal voice. "Hae you ony idea, mither, as to what has brought this aboot?" "No, Rob, I canna' say; but folks' tongues will soon be busy, I hae nae doot, an' there will be a lot o' clip-clash, an' everybody kennin' nothing, will ken the right way o't, an' every yin will hae a different story to tell." "Ay, I hae nae doot," he said, again stooping over the tub flinging some water over his head, and beginning to rub the soap into a fine lather upon his hair. "Everybody will ken the right wye o' it, and will claver and gossip, when they wad 'a be better to mind their ain affairs, an' let ither folk alane." His mother did not speak for a little, but went on with her work. There was something on her mind about which she wanted to speak, and she bustled about and washed, and clattered the dishes; and every plate and spoon, as they were laid dripping from the basin of warm water, plainly indicated that something troubled her. Finally, when the last steaming dish had been laid upon the table, and she had begun to wipe them dry, she cleared her throat, and in a somewhat strained sort of voice asked, "Dae you ken, Rob, onything aboot Mysie?" "No, mither," he replied at once, as he ceased rubbing the white foaming lather on his hair, and again straightened himself up to look at her, as she spoke; his head looking as if a three inch fall of snow had settled upon it, giving the black dirty face and the clean eyes shining through the dust, a weird strange appearance. "What makes you ask that?" "Oh, I dinna ken, Rob, but jist thought you micht hae kent something," she answered evasively. "No, I dinna ken onything at all aboot her, mither," he said. "If I had kent onything, dae you think I'd hae kept quiet?" "Oh, I dinna mean that, Rob," she replied with relief in her voice, "but I thought that you might hae heard something. That Leezie Johnstone was in here the day, an' you ken hoo she talks. She was makin' oot that Mysie had gane wrang, and had ran awa' tae hide it." "Leezie Johnstone had little to do sayin' onything o' the kind," he said with some heat in his voice. "There never was a dirty coo in the byre but it liket a neighbor. I suppose she'll be thinkin' that a' lasses were like her. These kind of folk hae dam'd strange ideas aboot things. They get it into their heads it is wrang to do certain things when folk are no married, but the cloak of marriage flung aboot them mak's the same things richt. They hinna the brains o' a sewer rat in their noddles, the dam'd hypocrites that they are!" "Dinna swear, Rob!" said Mrs. Sinclair, interrupting him. "Do you ken," she went on, her astonishment plainly evident in her face and voice, "that is the first time I ever heard you swear in a' my life!" "Well, mither, I am sorry; but I couldna' help it. Folk like that get my temper up gey quick; because they get it into their heids that marriage makes them virtuous, even though they may be guilty o' greater excesses after than they were before marriage." "Ay, that's true, Rob!" she agreed. "But it is a sad business a' thegether. I wonder what has come owre the bit lassie. God knows where she may be?" But Robert was silent, and no matter how much she tried to get him to speak, he would not be drawn into conversation, but answered merely in short grunts; but she could see that he was very much disturbed at what had happened. After a few days the sensation seemed to pass from the minds of most of the villagers, who soon found something new to occupy them, in connection with their own affairs. About this time much interest was being manifested in mining circles. The labor movement was beginning to shape itself into solidarity towards political as well as industrial activity. Robert Smillie and the late J. Keir Hardie, and many other tireless spirits, had succeeded in molding together the newly created labor party, infecting it with an idealism which had hitherto not been so apparent, and this work was making a deep impression upon the minds of the workers, especially among the younger men. The Miners' Union had been linked up into national organizations; and a consolidating influence was at work molding the workers generally, and the miners particularly, imbuing them with a newer hope, a greater enthusiasm and a wider vision. About a fortnight after the news of Mysie's disappearance, Keir Hardie paid a visit to Lowwood, and a large crowd gathered to hear him in the village hall. Smillie also was advertised to speak, and great interest was manifested, and much criticism passed by the miners. "I don't give in wi' this dam'd political business," said Tam Donaldson, who was frankly critical. "I've aye stood up for Smillie, but I dinna' like being dragged intae this Socialist movement. A dam'd fine nest o' robbers an' work-shy vermin. Trade Union officials should attend tae Trade Union affairs. That's what we pay them for. But it looks to me as if they were a' that dam'd busy trying to get intae Parliament, thet they hinna time to look after oor affairs." "I'm kind o' suspeecious aboot it mysel', Tam," said Robert quietly, as they made their way to the hall that night. "I'm no' sure jist yet as to what this Socialism is, it looks frae the papers to be a rotten kind o' thing an' I'm no' on wi' it. But I'll wait an' hear what Hardie an' Smillie say aboot it, afore a' make up my mind." "To hell wi' them an' their Socialism," said Tam with some heat. "I want a shillin' or twa on my day. It's a' yin damn to me hoo mony wives they gie me. I canna' keep the yin I hae. What the hell wad a workin' man dae wi' three wives? An' they tell me they're goin' to abolish religion too. Not that I'm a religious man mysel', but I'm damn'd if I'd let them interfere wi' it. If I want religion I've a guid richt to hae it; an' forby, if they abolish religion, hoo wad folk do wi' the funerals? I can see hoo they'll do wi' marriages, for there's to be nane. You've to get your wife changed every two-three years, an' the weans brought up by the State as they call it. But the puirhouse is a dam'd cauld step-mother, an' I'd be up against that." Thus discussing the subject, they reached the hall to find it packed, everyone being keen to see and hear this man, who was making such an uproar in the country with his advocacy of Socialism. Robert was chairman, and had labored hard to prepare a few remarks with which to open the meeting. He wanted to be non-committal, and his reading and self-teaching had been of immense service to him. His mother's influence in the molding of his character, unconsciously to himself, had made his mind just the sort of soil for the quick rooting of the seed to be sown that night. It was certainly a great occasion. Robert thought as he looked at this man, that he had never seen anyone who so typefied the spirit of independence in his bearing. His figure was straight, the eyes fearless, yet kindly and gentle; but the proud erect head, the straight stiff back which seemed to say "I bend to no one" impressed Robert more than anything else in all his make up. Yet there was nothing aggressive about him with it all; but on the contrary, an atmosphere of kindliness exuded from him, creating a wonderful effect upon those with whom he came in contact. The wild stories of this turbulent agitator, which everyone seemed to hear, and be acquainted with, made the audience hostile to begin with. It was not a demonstrable hostility; but one felt it was there, ready to break out, and overwhelm this stormy petrel of the political world. Yet they patiently waited for Hardie to begin, tolerating Smillie, and even applauding his ringing denunciations of the wrongs they suffered, but critically waiting on his attempts to switch them on to Socialism. Then came Hardie, halting and stammering a little as he began his address. The audience thinking this was due to his searching for a way to delude them, became more suspicious and critical, and ready to stop him, if he tried any tricks upon them; but broad-minded enough and fair enough to give him a hearing, until he trespassed upon them too much. So it was in this atmosphere that Socialism first was heard in Lowwood; but soon the speaker became less halting as he warmed to his subject, until not only was he fluent, but eloquent, and powerful, winning his audience in spite of themselves. They sat and listened, and were soon under his sway, watching his every gesture and thawing under his spell, as they watched the fine head thrown back with its inimitable poise, the back straight and stiff, the eyes aglow with the light of the seer, and the hands gracefully rising and falling to emphasize some point. What a change soon came over them! Gradually as the speaker developed his subject the faces changed, and they were soon responsive to his every demand upon them. The clear ringing voice, insistent, strong, yet catching a cadence of gentleness and winsomeness that moved them to approval of everything he said. There was deep humanity about him, that was strangely in contrast with the monster he had been to their fancy before they saw and heard him. This was not the politics of the vulgar kind, of which the newspapers had told; on the contrary, every man in the hall felt this was the politics to which every reasonable man subscribed. It was the politics of the fireside, of sweetness and light, of justice and truth, of humanity and God. In burning words he denounced the wrongs under which the people suffered, winning them by his warm-blooded championship of their cause, appealing to them to forsake the other parties, form an independent party for themselves; and sketching in glowing words the picture of the world as it might be, if only a saner and more human view were taken by those who ruled. It made an indelible impression on Robert's mind. The way was so simple, so clear, so sure, that if only men like Hardie could go round every town and village in the land, he believed that a Utopia might be brought into being in a very few years; that even the rich people, the usurpers, would agree that this state of affairs might be brought about, and that they'd gladly give up all they had of power over the lives of others, to work cooperatively for the good of all; and already he was deciding in youth's way, he would give his life, every moment of it, to help Hardie and Smillie, and all those other great spirits to win the world to this state of affairs. Body and soul he would devote to it, and so help to make the world a brighter and happier place for all human beings. His was the temperament that having found an ideal would storm the gates of Heaven to realize it; or wade through hell, suffering all its penalties to gaze upon the face of that he sought. So the meeting ended in great enthusiasm, and the audience was amazed and pleased to find that this man Hardie was not the vulgar-minded, loud-mouthed ignorant agitator of which the press had told them; but was just one of themselves, burning with a sense of their wrongs, with ability to express their thoughts in their own words, and with an uncompromising hatred of the system which bred these wrongs in their lives. Tam Donaldson and Robert compared notes after the meeting was over in the following conversation: "What do you think o' it, Tam?" "Christ! but it was great," was the reply. "What aboot the three wives noo, Tam?" "Oh, for ony sake, dinna rub it in, Rob. I feel that small that I could hide myself in the hole of my back tooth. Man, do you ken, I jist felt as if we were a' back in the Bible times again, wi' auld Isaiah thundering oot his charges and tellin' the oppressors o' the people what he thought of them. The white heid o' Hardie maun hae been gey like Isaiah's. Or sometimes it was like John the Baptist, comin' to tell us o' the new world that was ready to dawn for the folk! Man, it was hellish guid, and frae this day I'm a Socialist. I've always been fightin' the oppressors o' the workers, an' only wish I had a tongue like Hardie, so that I could gang roon' the hale country tellin' folk the rale God's truth aboot things. Guid God! Rob, it was better than goin' to the kirk!" "Ay, it was gran', Tam. I'm goin' to read up this Socialism; for it seems to me to be worth it." "So will I. I hae got twa or three bits o' books that I bought, an' I'll swallow them as quick as I can. Lod! It seems as if a new world had opened up a' thegether the night. I'm that dam'd happy, I could rin roon' an' tell everybody aboot it! But I suppose we maun gang awa' hame to bed; for we'll hae to gang to oor work the morn, though it's dam'd cauld comfort to think o' gaun oot to the pit, when we could hae better conditions to work in if only folk had the sense to do right." Thus they parted, full of the subject which had stirred them so much that night. Robert went home, full of vision of an emancipated world, his whole heart kindled and aglow with the desire to be a spokesman like Hardie on behalf of the workers, and thoroughly determined to devote the rest of his life to it. "There's nae word o' Mysie yet," said Nellie, when he came in, and her words seemed to shock him with their unexpectedness. "Is there no'?" he replied, trying hard to bring his mind back to the realities. "What kind o' word did Jenny get frae the polis?" "Oh, they ken naething aboot her," said Nellie. "A' that is kenned is jist what we heard already. The polis hae been searchin' noo for a fortnight an' nae trace o' her can be got. Mr. Rundell has pit it in the papers; but I hae my doots aboot ever seeing her again. Mysie wasna' the lassie that wad keep her folk in suspense. She wad ken fine that they'd be anxious. Matthew an' Jenny are in an awfu' way." "Ay. I believe they will," he replied, and a deep silence followed. After a time, as the silence seemed to become oppressive, and for the sake of saying something, Mrs. Sinclair said: "What kin o' a meetin' had you the night?" "My! we had an awfu' meeting, mither," he said in reply, his eyes kindling with enthusiasm at the memory of it. "Smillie was askin' for you, an' he's comin' owre to see you the morn afore he goes awa'." "Oh, he had mind o' me then," she said, pleased at this information. "Ay, an' he talked rale kindly aboot my faither to Hardie, mither. Smillie's a fine man, an' I like him," he said with simple enthusiasm. "He is that, Rob. I've aye liked Bob for the way he has had to fecht. Lod, I dinna ken hoo he has managed to come through it a'. He's been a gran' frien' to the miners. What kin' o' a man is Hardie?" "He's yin o' the finest men I ever met," he answered in quick enthusiasm. "You would hae enjoyed hearin' him, mither. It's an awfu' peety that the weemin dinna gang to the meetin's. I'm shair there's no' a woman in the place but wad hae liket him. My! if you had jist heard him, strong, sturdy, and independent. Efter hearin' him, it fair knocked the stories on the heid aboot him bein' oot to smash the hame, an' religion an' sic like. He's clean and staunch, an' a rale man. Nae sham aboot him, but a rale human bein', an' after listenin' to him tellin' what Socialism is, it mak's you feel ashamed that you ever believed things that you did believe aboot it. It's that simple an' Tam Donaldson is fair carried awa' wi' it the night." "I'm glad you had a guid meetin'," she said, her interest kindled too. "Tell me a' aboot it," and Robert told her, sketching the fine picture which Hardie had given to his memory to carry, as long as life lasted for him. "I've been appointed delegate to the Miners' Council," he said after a while. "I'll hae to gang to Hamilton once a month to attend the conferences." "Oh!" she said in surprise, and with pride in her voice. "What way hae they sent you?" "I don't ken," he answered, "but I was a wee bit feart to take it. It's only the very best men that should be sent there to represent the branches, an' I thought they might hae sent an older man, wi' mair kind o' thought about him, an' mair experience." "Oh, weel, Rob," she said with pride, "ye are maybe as guid as ony o' them, and a hantle better than some o' them. I hope you'll dae well and aye act fair." "I'll dae my best," he said simply. "Mony a time we hae been selt wi' place-seekers, an' maybe there are some still at it," he went on, "but I can say this, mither, if ever I get an inklin' o' it, I'll expose them to every honest man. We want men who can look at things withoot seem' themsel's as the center o' a' things. My, if you had only seen Hardie," he broke off. "He was grand." Thus they talked for an hour before retiring, but all the time Robert's mind occasionally kept wondering about Mysie, and he went to bed, his heart troubled and aching to know the fate that had overtaken the girl he had loved and lost. All night long he tossed unable to sleep, as he tried to think what had happened to her, his mind and heart pained at the thought of something that boded no good to her. He again lived over in his mind all that had happened that night upon the moor, when he saw the man going to meet her after his own meeting with Mysie. He was pained and puzzled what to do. Had the stranger any connection with her disappearance, he asked himself? Should he tell of that? And yet she had been to her father's house since then, so that it would be of little value to mention it, he thought. Perhaps she had run away with the man. That was quite a likely thing to happen, and if Mysie wanted him no one else had anything to do with it. Still, she might have told her people, he thought. But perhaps she might do that later on. But Mysie and her fate would not be banished from his mind, and he lay and tumbled and tossed, a terrible anxiety within him, for youth is apt to pity its own sufferings, and give them a heroic touch under the spell of unrequited love. Thus the night passed and morning came, and he had not slept, and he went to his work debating as to whether he should inform the police or not about the man he had seen in the company of Mysie. But no decision was ever come to. CHAPTER XVII MYSIE RUNS AWAY It was a gray, sultry summer night, with one small patch of red near the western horizon when Mysie, making the excuse of going to the village to visit her parents, had stolen over the moorland path on her way to join the evening train for Edinburgh at a neighboring village station. She had left early, so as to have plenty of time on the way, and also because she was really ill, and could not hurry. She had forced herself to work, so as not to attract attention to her weak state during the past few weeks. Peter, who had already gone some days before, had now everything ready for her, and this was her final break with the old life. She knew she was ill, but thought that when she got to Edinburgh, with good medical attention and treatment, she would soon be all right again. Perhaps a rest and the change would help her as much as anything; and she'd soon get well and strong, and she would work hard to fit herself for the position she was to occupy as Peter's wife. But her legs did feel tired, as she trudged over the moor, and her steps dragged heavily. She sank down for a few moments upon a thyme-strewn bank to rest; the scent of the wild moorland bloom brought back the memory of that evening in the copse. She shut her eyes for a moment, and heard again the alarmed protest of the whaup, and the grumble of the burn; saw again the moonlight patterns upon the ground, as it flittered through the trees, like streams of fairy radiance cast from the magic wand of night and, above all, heard Peter's voice, praising her eyes, her hair, her figure. Her cheeks burned again, and her heart throbbed anew--she heard his tones, hoarse, vibrant and warm, as his breath scorched her cheek. She felt his arms about her, the contact of his burning lips upon her own. Then the calm which follows the wake of the storm, the consciously averted eyes, and the very conscious breathing, which had in it something of shame; the almost aversion to speak or touch again, and over all, the deep silence of the moor, broken only by the burn and the whaup, and the thick cloud, kindly dark, that came over the moon. But, behind it all, the remorse and the agony that would never die; the anxiety and uncertainty, and the secret knowledge for which each had paid so high a price. She rose from the bank and went slowly along the lovely moorland path. Her breath was labored and the cough troubled her. She was hot, and besides the tired sensation in her limbs, there was a griping feeling about her chest that made breathing difficult. She reached the station just a minute before the train was due, and entered an almost empty compartment, glad to be seated and at rest. The train soon moved out of the station, and an intense desire took hold of her to go back. The full consciousness of her action only seemed to strike her now that she had cut the last tie that bound her to the old life, and involuntarily she rose to her feet, as if to get out. A man sitting in the opposite corner, thinking she was going to close the carriage window, laid a restraining hand upon her. "Don't close it," he said, "fresh air is what we all need, though we may not in our ignorance think so. But you take it from me, miss, that you can't get too much fresh air. Let it play about you, and keep it always passing through your room, or the railway carriage when traveling, and you'll never be ill. Look at me," he continued aggressively, almost fiercely, and very pompously, "the very picture of health--never had a day's illness in my life. And what is the reason? Why, fresh air. It is the grand life-giver. No, miss, leave the window open. You can't get too much of it. Let it play about you, draw it deeply into your lungs like this," and he took a great deep draught, until Mysie thought he was going to expand so much that he might fall out of the carriage window, or burst open its sides. Then, he let it out in a long, loud blast, like a miniature cyclone, making a noise like escaping steam; while his eyes seemed as if they had made up their minds to jump out, had the blast and the pressure not eased them at the last critical moment. Then he stood panting, his shoulders going up and down, and his chest going out and in, like a pair of bellows in a country blacksmith's shop. "Nothing like fresh air, miss," he panted. "You take my tip on that. I've proved it. Just look at me. I'm health itself, and might make a fortune by sitting as an advertisement for somebody's patent pills, only I feel too honorable for that; for it is fresh air that has done it. Fresh air, and plenty of it!" and he turned his nose again in the direction of the window, as if he would gulp the air down in gallons--a veritable glutton of Boreas. Mysie could not speak. She was overwhelmed by the blast of oratory upon air, and a woman who sat on the far side of a closed window, with tight-drawn lips and smoldering eyes, looked challengingly at this fresh air fanatic, observing with quiet sarcasm: "A complexion like that might make a fortune, if done with colors to the life, in advertising some one's 'Old Highland'!" The fresh air apostle gasped a little, looking across at the grim set mouth and the quiet, steady eyes, as if he would like to retort; but, finding no ready words, he merely wiped his forehead, and then subsided helplessly in his corner seat, as the lady rose, and, going over to the window, said to Mysie, as she closed it: "It is a little cold to-night, after the scorching heat of the daytime, and one is apt to catch cold very readily in a draught at an open carriage window. There, we'll all feel more comfortable now, I fancy. It is a little chilly." The poor worm who had always lived and thrived upon fresh air felt himself shriveling up in the corner, and growing so small that he might easily slip through the seam at the hinges of the carriage door. Mysie merely lay back in her corner without speaking. She had never traveled much in the train; and this journey, apart from its eventfulness, was sufficient in itself to stupefy her with its newness and immensity. She had never before had a longer journey than to the county town, which cost sixpence; and here she was going to Edinburgh! a great city, of which she had all the dread of the inexperienced, unsophisticated country girl. A slight shiver soon began to creep down her back, and gradually she became cold; but she sat never speaking, and the other two occupants were so engrossed in thinking out maledictions against each other, that they had no thoughts to bestow upon her. The wild, bleak moors rolled past, as the train rushed onward, and the telegraph poles seemed to scamper along, as if frightened by the noise of the train. She gazed away to the far horizon, where the sun had left a faint glow upon the western clouds, and she tried to think of something that would not betray her nervousness, but her mind was all chaos and excitement, and strange expectation. What would be waiting for her at the end of the journey? Suppose Peter failed to be at the station, what would she do in a strange city? What if he were ill, and would not come? Or if he was doing this deliberately, and did not mean to meet her? Thus, torn by anxiety, and worried almost to death by nameless other fears, she spent the hour-long journey which seemed like a day, making herself ill, so that she could scarcely leave the carriage when the train steamed into Princes Street Station. "Have you any luggage that I can assist you with?" asked the fresh air man, as Mysie seemed reluctant to get out, now that she had arrived at her destination. "No," she replied simply, forgetting to thank him for his kind consideration, and rising slowly to her feet, she followed the stream of passengers down the platform, keeping a keen look-out for Peter. "Here we are, Mysie," he said cheerily, striding towards her, with real welcome in his voice, and she clung to him like a child, so glad that he had been true to his word. "I have a cab waiting," he rattled on brightly. "Just come along, and we'll soon be at your digs, and we'll talk as we drive along," and he piloted her to a waiting cab; and getting in beside her, it moved off, as she heard him say "Grassmarket" to the driver. But she had little interest in anything, now that Peter was here. She felt a sense of security in his company that she had never felt before. She trusted him, now that all her bearings were lost. The fear of the city, and the strangeness of her experiences, made her turn to him as her only prop upon which she could lean; and she clung to his arm as they drove along, the cab rattling over the stones and through what seemed to Mysie interminable streets of houses. "Did you manage to get away all right, without anyone knowing?" he asked, as he felt her trembling hands upon his arm. "Yes, I think sae," she replied. "I never saw onybody. I jist let on that I was gaun hame, an' gaed owre the muir, an' got the train. I didna see onybody that I kent." "That was right, Mysie," he said. "I was afraid you might decide at the last moment not to come." "I did feel awfu' frightened," she confessed, "an' I could fain hae bidden at hame; but I can never gang hame noo," she added with a slight tremor in her voice, at the realization of all it meant. "I can never gang hame noo!" and the tears gathered in her eyes as she spoke. What a noise, and what a multitude of houses, she thought. She would never be able to go out and find her way back. She would get lost in all this noise and hurry and confusion. "I have taken a little house for you, Mysie," said Peter, in explanation of his plans. "I have also a woman engaged to help you for a time, to look after you till you get acquainted with the place; and I'll come home to you every evening, and spend as much of my time with you as I can, superintending your lessons. I am going to teach you myself for a while, and we'll live together and be as happy as we can. But first of all, you must get better," he said, as a fit of coughing seized her. "You've got a bad cold. Luckily, the old man allows me plenty of money, so that we need not worry." Mysie sat lost in wonder at it all, and presently the cab stopped, and Peter helped her out, paid the fare and, taking her arm, led her up a long flight of stairs--stairs that seemed to wind up and up till she felt dizzy, before he came to a halt at one of the many doors opening on the landing, entering which she found herself in a neat little room and kitchen, simply furnished, but clean and tidy. "This is Mrs. Ramsay, my landlady," he said as they entered, leading Mysie forward to where a middle-aged woman of kindly demeanor stood with a smile of welcome for them. Mrs. Ramsay stepped forward and began to help Mysie to take off her hat. With a few words she soon made the girl feel more at ease, and then left them to get tea ready. "Is that the woman you stay wi'?" asked Mysie, as Mrs. Ramsay went to the other room. "Yes, she's my landlady," he replied. "An' does she bide here too?" "Well, she'll stay just as long as you think necessary. Whenever you think you can get on without her, let me know. Her daughter is looking after her own house till she returns. She's a good, kindly soul, and will do anything to help you." "Are you gaun to stay here now, too?" "Well, that is for you to say, Mysie," he said seriously. "Certainly I should like to stay with my wife, for we'll be married to-morrow. But if you would rather stay alone, I can easily remain in my digs, and just attend to your lessons In the evening." "If you stay here, will she need to stay too?" "Of course that will all lie with you, Mysie," he replied. "Perhaps it might be better for her to stay and help you for a few weeks, and by that time your cold may be better. But you can think it over to-night and tell me your decision in the morning." Mrs. Ramsay's return cut short any further conversation, and they all sat down to tea, a strange little party. Mysie did not eat much. She was too tired, and felt that she would rather go to bed. She looked ill and very wretched, and at last Peter went out, leaving the women together. "I'll be round for you by half-past ten in the morning, Mysie," he said, as he was going. "So you must be up, and be as bright as you can. So take a good long sleep, and you'll feel ever so much better in the morning. Mrs. Ramsay will see you all right," and he was off before Mysie realized he was going. It was all so strange for Mysie. She was lost in wonder at it all, as she sat quietly pondering the matter while Mrs. Ramsay washed the dishes and cleared the table. The noises outside; the glare of the street, lamps, the tier upon tier of houses, piled on top of each other, as she looked from the window at the tall buildings, and the Castle Rock, grim and gray, looking down in silence upon the whole city, but added to Mysie's confusion of mind. Shouts from a drunken brawl ascended from the street; the curses of the men, and the screams of women, were plainly audible; while over all a woman's voice, further down the street, broke into a bonnie old Scots air which Mysie knew, and she could not help feeling that this was the most beautiful thing she had heard so far. The voice was clear, and to Mysie very sweet, but it was the words that set her heart awandering among her own moors and heather hills. Ca' the yowes tae the knowes, Ca' them where the heather grows, Ca' them where the burnie rows, My kind dearie, O! This was always the song her father sang, if on a Saturday night he had been taking a glass. It was not that he was given to drinking; but sometimes, on the pay night, he would indulge in a glass with Andrew Marshall or Peter Pegg--just a round each; sufficient to make them happy and forgetful of their hard lot for a time. She had seen her father drunk on very few occasions, as he was a very careful man; but sometimes, maybe at New Year's time, if things were going more than usually well, he might, in company with his two cronies, indulge in an extra glass, and then he was seen at his best. On such occasions Mysie's mother would remonstrate with him, reminding him with wifely wisdom of his family responsibilities; but under all her admonishings Matthew's only reply was: As I gaed doon the water side, There I met my bonnie lad, An' he rowed me sweetly in his plaid, An' ca'd me his dearie, O! and as he sang, he would fling his arms around Mysie's mother and turn her round upon the floor, in an awkward dance, to the tune of the song, and finally stopping her flow of words with a hug and a kiss, as he repeated the chorus: Ca' the yowes tae the knowes, Ca' them where the heather grows, Ca' them where the burnie rows, My kind dearie, O! So that, when the words of the old song floated up through the noise of the street, Mysie's heart filled, and her eyes brimmed with tears; for she saw again the old home, and all it meant to her. "There now," said Mrs. Ramsay, noticing her tears, and stroking her hair with a kindly hand. "Mr. Rundell has told me all about it, and I am your friend and his. I deeply sympathize with you, my dear, for I know how much you must feel your position; but Mr. Rundell is a good-hearted young man, and he'll be good to you, I know that. Don't cry, dearie. It is all right." Thus the words of an old song, sung by a drunken street singer, brought a stronger and deeper stab to the heart of this lonely girl, than to the exile in the back-blocks of Maori-land, or on the edge of the golden West, eating his heart out over a period of years for a glint of the heather hills of home, or the sound of the little brook that had been his lullaby in young days, when all the world was full of dreams and fair romance. In a sudden burst of impulsiveness, Mysie flung her arms round the neck of the older woman, pouring out her young heart and all its troubles in an incoherent flood of sorrow and vexation. "There now, dearie," said Mrs. Ramsay, again stroking Mysie's hair and her soft burning cheek. "Don't be frightened. You must go to your bed, for you are tired and upset, and will make yourself ill. Come now, like a good lass, and go to your bed." "Oh, dear, I wonner what my mither will say aboot it," wailed the girl, sobbing. "She'll hae a sair, sair heart the nicht, an' my faither'll break his heart. Oh, if only something could tell them I am a' richt, an' safe, it would mak' things easier." "There now. Don't worry about that any more, dearie. You'll only make yourself ill. Try and keep your mind off it, and go away to bed and rest." "But it'll kill my mither!" cried Mysie wildly. "Her no' kennin' where I am! If she could only ken that I am a' richt! She'll be worryin', an' she'll be lyin' waken at nicht wonderin' aboot me, an' thinkin' o' every wild thing that has happened to me. Oh, dear, but it'll break her heart and kill my faither." It needed all Mrs. Ramsay's tact and patience to quieten and allay her fears; but gradually the girl was prevailed upon to go to bed, and Mrs. Ramsay retired to the next room. But all night she heard Mysie tossing and turning, and quietly weeping, and she knew that despair was torturing and tearing her frightened little heart, and trying her beyond endurance. Mysie lay wondering how the village gossips at home would discuss her disappearance. She knew how Mag Robertson, and Jean Fleming, and Leezie Johnstone and all the other "clash-bags," as they were locally called, would talk, and what stories they would tell. But her mother would be different--her mother who had always loved her--crude, primitive love it was, but mother love just the same, and she felt that she would never be able again to go back and take up her old life--the old life which seemed so alluring, now that it was left forever behind. Thus she tossed and worried, and finally in the gray hours of the morning her thoughts turned to Robert, who had loved her so well, and had always been her champion. She saw him looking at her with sad eyes, eyes which held something of accusation in them and were heavy with pain--eyes that told he had trusted her, had loved her, and that he had always hoped she would be his--eyes that told of all they had been to each other from the earliest remembered days, and which plainly said, as they looked at her from the foot of her bed: "Mysie! Oh, Mysie! What way did you do this!" Unable to bear it any longer, she screamed out in anguish, a scream which brought good Mrs. Ramsay running to her bedside, to find Mysie raving in a high fever, her eyes wildly glowing, and her skin all afire. The good lady sat with her and tried to soothe her, but Mysie kept calling on Robert and her mother, and raving about matters of which Mrs. Ramsay knew nothing; and in the morning, when Peter arrived expecting to find his bride ready, he found her very ill, and his good landlady very much frightened about the whole matter. CHAPTER XVIII MAG ROBERTSON'S FRENZY "I want to ken what has gone wrong with you?" said Mag Robertson, speaking to Black Jock, whom she had called into her house one morning as he returned from the pit for his breakfast. "There's naething wrang wi' me," he said with cool reserve. "What dae you think is wrang?" "Ay, it's a' right, Jock," she said, speaking as one who knew he understood her question better than he pretended. "I can see as far through a brick wall as you can see through a whinstone dyke." "Maybe a bit farther, Mag," he said with a forced laugh, eyeing her coolly. "But what are you driving at?" "You'll no' ken, I suppose?" she retorted. "Sanny has told me a' aboot it this morning afore he gaed to his work. My! I'd hardly hae looked for this frae you," she went on, her voice suddenly becoming softer and more soothing as if she meant to appeal to his sense of gratitude if any remained within him. "Efter what we've been to yin anither, I never expected you'd dae this. I aye thocht that you'd be loyal as we hae been tae you. We hae made oursel's the outcasts o' the district for you, an' noo you wad turn on us like this. No, I never thocht it o' you at a'!" "What are you ravin' at this morning?" he asked, in a quiet voice, as if he meant to force her into being more definite. "I don't ken I'm sure what you are drivin' at." "Dae you no?" she broke in quickly, loosing hold of herself as she saw that her method of attack was not going to succeed. "I hae been suspectin' something for a while. You hinna been in owre my door for three weeks an' that's no your ordinar. But I have seen you gaun in tae Tam Granger's nearly every nicht in that time. An' I can put twa an' twa together. Dae you think we dinna ken the reason that Sanny has lost his contracts an' the reason why Tam Granger has stepped into them? Oh, ay," she cried, her voice rising as she continued. "I can see hoo things are workin'! I ken a' aboot it. Wee Leebie, I suppose, will be afore some o' us noo. The stuck-up limmer that she is. She gangs by folk as brazened as you like, wi' her head in the air, as if she was somebody. You wad think she never had heard o' Willie Broonclod, the packman, that she sloped when she left doon the country. Nae wonder she has braw claes to glaik aboot in; for they were gey easy paid. The dirty glaiket limmer that she is. I wonder she disna think shame o' hersel'." "What the hell's a' this to me?" asked Walker abruptly breaking in upon her tirade. "I suppose it'll no' mean onything to you," she returned. "But I just wanted to tell you, that you're no her first, for Willie Broonclod gaed to her lang afore she cam' here, an' she's left him wi' a guid penny that he'll never get. But her man's a contractor noo, makin' big money, an' Jock Walker ca's in to see her whenever he's needfu' an' there's naething sae low as a packman noo for her. The brazen-faced stuck-up baggage that she is. Does she think I dinna ken her? Her, with her hair stuck up in a 'bun' an' her fancy blouses an' buckled shoon, an' a'!" Mag was now very much enraged and she shouted and swore in her anger. "Ach, gang to hell," he said with brutal callousness. "You're no' hauf a woman like Leebie. She's a tippy wee lass, an' has a way wi' her. She has some spirit, an' is aye snod and nate," and there was a tantalizing smile about his lips that was plainly meant to irritate Mag. "I was guid enough a gey lang while, an'--" "Ay, but you've haen a damn'd guid innins," he interrupted. "A dam'd guid innins, an' I canna see what the hell you hae to yowl at." "A guid innins, you muckle black-hearted brute!" she cried. "By heavens, an' I'll see that you get yours afore I hae done wi' you. Dinna think though I hae been saft wi' you a' along, that I'll ay be like that. Oh, no, I can stand a lot; but you'll find oot that Mag Robertson hasna selt her a' tae you, without driving a hard bargain afore she lets you alone. You can gang back to your tippy wee baggage! Gang to hell, baith you an' her, an' joy be wi' you baith! But I'll put a sprag in your wheel afore you gang far. Mind that! By ---- I will! She'll nae toss her heid as she gangs past me as if I was dirt. Her, an' her fine dresses that she never payed for wi' money an' her fal-lals. By heaven! But you hae a fine taste!" She finished up exasperated beyond all control by his coolness. "Ay, it wad seem so," he laughed brutally. "When I look at you, I begin to wonder what the hell I was lookin' at. You're like a damnationed big lump o' creesh," and he laughed in her face, knowing this would rouse her more than ever. Then as she choked and spluttered in her anger he said: "But what the hell odds is't to you, you baggage?" and his eyes and voice were cold and brutal beyond expression. "Leebie Granger is young," he went on insultingly, in a collected even voice which he strove to make jaunty in tone. "She's as fresh an' young. An' you're auld, an' fat an' as ugly as hell, an' if I dae gang to Leebie you hae damn all to dae wi' it. As I said, you've had your innin's, an' been gey well paid for it, an' I dinna gie a damn for you." "Dae you no'?" she cried now livid with anger and losing all control over her words and actions, her eyes flashing with maddened rage and the froth working from her lips. "I'll let you ken or no'. I'll tear the pented face off your new doll; and I'll sort you too, you dirty black brute that you are." "Gang to hell!" he shouted, starting out of the door so suddenly that he almost ran into the next door neighbor who hearing the noise had crept noiselessly on tiptoe to the door the better to hear all that was going on. "What the hell's wrang wi' you?" he demanded turning in rage upon the eavesdropper. "Have you naething else to dae than that? Gang in an' get your dirty midden o' a hoose cleaned an' I'll see that you don't stay lang in Lowwood to spy on ony mair folk!" and cowering in shame the poor woman backed into the door and shut it, making up her mind that her man would be sacked that day, and wondering where they would flit to, so as to find work and a house. Walker strode up the row with Mag Robertson shouting behind him and the neighbors all coming to the doors as they passed, and craning their necks, while keeping their bodies safe hidden within the doorways of their homes. "We're surely gettin' an entertainment the day," observed one fat old woman to another woman two doors away, as they both looked after Mag as she followed Walker up the row, shouting her worst names at him, and vowing what she'd do with Leebie Granger, when she got hands on her. "Ay," replied the other woman stealing along the wall to the doorway of the older woman, and slipping inside as if she were afraid of being detected. "It's a hell o' a business when blackguards cast oot." "Wheest, Annie, dinna swear," remonstrated the old woman. "I dinna like to hear folk swearin' at a'. I wonner the Lord disna open the grun' to swallow the half o' the folk noo-a-days; for I never heard sic swearin' a' my life." "Och, there's nae harm meant," returned Annie, taken aback by the old woman's admonition. "It's jist a habit that folk get into an' they canna help it. But listen to her," she broke off, alluding to Mag Robertson again. "She micht think shame o' hersel', the shameless lump that she is. She'd hae been faur better to hae keepit her mouth shut, Phemie." "That's true, Annie," replied Phemie. "Listen to her. My, she's no' canny an' she's fairly givin' him a bellyfu'. But they're a' yae swine's pick an' no' yin o' them decent. I wadna be in her shoon for a' the money that ever was made in Lowwood. She micht hae kent hoo it wad end. Hark at her. My, but it's awfu'." "Keep in, Annie," Phemie admonished as they both craned their necks to look up the row as she saw Walker turning to face Mag. "Dinna let him see you or your man will get the sack. My! but she's layin' it in tae' him. What a tongue." "Lord bless us! He's strucken her, Phemie," said Annie, clutching her neighbor's shoulder as she spoke. "My, he's gaen her an awfu' blow on the mouth an' knocket her doon. Come inside for as sure as daith it'll end in a coort case, an' I'm no wanting to be mixed up in it," and they went inside and shut the door, looking at each other with frightened eyes. Then Annie, stealing to the window and lifting the curtain a little at the side, gazed sideways up the row, reporting to Phemie everything that happened. "He's kicking her, Phemie. Eh, the muckle beast that he is. My God, he'll kill her afore he's finished wi' her. He's hitting her on the face every time she tries to rise an' gaein' her anither kick aye when she fa's doon again. Oh! my God, will naebody interfere. He'll kill her as sure as death," and she stepped back with blanched face sickened at the spectacle she had described. "Here she comes, Annie," said her neighbor after a few moments. "My! what a face. Dinna look you at her," cried Phemie in alarm pushing back Annie who had moved near to the window to get a better view. "In God's name, woman, dinna you look at her. You shouldna ha' looked at onything that has taken place. If onything is wrang wi' your bairn when it is born I'll never forgi'e' mysel' for lettin' you look at this business at a'. Gang awa' back an' sit down an' try an' forget a' aboot what you hae seen. Dinna look up till she gangs back intae the hoose," and the old woman kept Annie sitting back at the bedside in the corner farthest from the window until Mag staggered to her home, her face streaming with blood. Not a soul was in sight as Mag returned; but many a pair of eyes watched her from behind curtained windows, and expressions of sympathy were common even though her relations with Walker were common knowledge in the village, and had been censured by everyone in consequence for her misdeeds. They all knew why Mag had "opened out" on Walker that morning and the reason she had been set aside for another who pleased his fancy. Tam Granger and his wife had recently come into the district from a neighboring village, where Leebie's name had been coupled with a local draper's or packman's in some scandal. Black Jock had soon got into contact with them and finding them willing tools he had deserted Sanny and Mag Robertson. All the contracts were taken from Sanny and given to Tam, and it was this that had made Mag watch for Walker coming in for his breakfast, determined to have it out with him, with the result which is chronicled above. The encounter between Mag and Black Jock was the talk of the village. Mag was mad with rage, and having washed her bruised face, she ramped out and in all day, washing the floor, clattering among dishes and scouring pots and pans. She was working off her anger and swearing and threatening, until most of the other women in the row grew afraid, and kept as much as possible within doors the rest of the day. When the men returned from work the whole episode had to be gone through and described to them by their wives. When Sanny Robertson came home that afternoon, he found Mag with swollen lips and half closed eyes and a face bruised all over. He did not have to wait long for explanations. She railed and swore and raged until one wondered from where she got all the energy, and all the strength. It was amazing why she did not collapse altogether. Sanny sat quietly listening without comment, then washed himself and sat smoking by the fire for a time. He was a quiet go-as-you-please man, not given much to talking. But finally he could stand it no longer, and he took hold of his wife by the shoulder, saying. "Noo, jist you listen, an' for God's sake shut your mooth. It'll no dae a bit o' guid ravin' like that. We are in a bigger hole noo than ever we hae been in a' oor lives, an' mind that. I've made up my mind what I am gaun tae dae. Sae listen. I'm gaun straucht awa' ower to Rundell's the morn, at the time when Mr. Rundell gangs hame frae the office for his breakfast, an' I'll tell him everything aboot the contracts. Then I'm gaun awa' doon the country tae look for work, an' I'll flit oot o' here an' tae hell wi't. Noo shut up an' gae me peace and quateness for an hoor, so that I can think oot things. You get awa' tae bed. Maybe by richt I should gang doon tae Black Jock an' stap a knife in him--if for nae ither thing than the way he has treated you the day, I should dae that. But I'm no gaun to dae it the noo. I'm no' blaming you for what has happened; for I'm mair to blame than you are. But I'll be even wi' that black beast, an' put an end to his rotten career, someway or another. Sae aff you gang to your bed, an' gie me a quate hoor tae mysel'," and there was such a quiet authoritative ring in his voice that Mag dared not disobey it, and she went quietly off to bed while he sat by the fireside smoking and thinking, and feeling that his home that night must surely be the most unhappy place on God's earth. About midnight he knocked the ashes from his pipe, and placing it on the mantelpiece, went to bed and soon fell asleep, but Mag, an insane decision taking shape in her brain, lay and brooded and tossed till well on in the morning, when she rose, kindled the fire, "redd up" the house, prepared the breakfast and awoke her husband to partake of the meal she had prepared. Never a word was spoken between them, and at last Sanny, after washing and dressing, walked out without a word, but fully determined in his heart to get equal with Walker before the day was over. He went straight to Rundell House, and ringing the bell asked to see the mine owner. He was shown into a room and Mr. Rundell came to him almost before he had been comfortably seated. "Well, Sanny," he began genially. "What brings you here this morning?" "A business that I'd rather no' been comin' on," replied Sanny uneasily shifting on his chair. "Oh, nothing serious, I hope, is it?" "Ay, it's serious enough," returned Sanny. "Mair serious than you think, Mr. Rundell; an' I dinna ken what you'll think o' me after I hae telt you." "Oh, well, in that case," said the mine owner, becoming serious, and speaking with slow deliberation. "Just let me hear what it is all about, and we'll see how matters stand after you have told me," and he sat down in a chair opposite Robertson as he spoke. "I hae lost my contracts, sir," began Sanny, not knowing how else to open up the subject. "But I'm gaun to tell you the hale story just in my ain way, so I want you to sit quate and no' interrupt me; for I hinna jist the knack of puttin' things maybe as they should be put. But I'll tell you the hale story an' then leave you to do as you like, an' think what you like." "Very well, Sanny. Just go on. I did not know you had lost them. But just let me hear about the trouble in your own way." "For gey near twenty year," began Sanny, "I've had maist feck o' the contracts in your pits back and forrit--me an' Tam Fleming. Walker an' us were aye gey thick, an' though it maybe was putten doon to you that oor offer to work ony special job was the cheapest, I may tell you that I never put in an offer in my life for yin o' them. Walker an'--an'" here Sanny stammered a little, "Walker an' oor Mag were gey thick, an' I'm ashamed o' this part o' the story; for I should hae been man enough to protect her frae him. But the money was the thing that did it, Mr. Rundell, an' I'm no' gaun to mak' excuses noo aboot it. But every bargain I had, I had to share the pay, efter the men was payed, penny aboot, wi' Walker. That was ay the bargain. He gaed us the job at his ain feegure, an' we shared the profits wi' him. "Noo, jist keep yoursel' cool a bit," he said, holding up his hand as Rundell made to speak. "We did gey well," he resumed in his even monotone, like a man who was repeating something he had learned by heart. "But gey soon I found that I was expected to spend a good share o' my pay in drink, while Walker took a', an' never spent a penny. So it was, that for a' the money we made we've been gey little the better o't, an' very much the worse o' it. Without exception we shared penny aboot with Walker on every bargain we got, an' I ken he has a guid bank balance, while I hae nane. "Noo, this is a rotten story frae end to end o't," he went on after a short pause to wipe his face with a handkerchief. "I allowed him to ruin my wife's character. I kent it was gaun on a' the time; but like mony mair I hae kent, a manager's favor was mair to me than the honor o' a wife. I let him tak' a share o' the money I made, an' spent my ain to keep him up on drink. But noo it's ended a'. A wheen o' weeks syne, a man ca'd Tam Granger came to the place and his wife being young an' fresh, an' guid-looking, besides being free, Walker's fancy was ta'en wi' her. So you ken what it means, when a gaffer carries on like that, an' the man is saft enough as weel as the woman being willin'. Tam got my contracts this week, an' I have to gang back into a common place and howk coals. "Weel, the wife couldna' stand being slighted like thet, an' Granger's wife had been tantalizin' her too, you ken hoo women rave when they are slighted. So she opened oot on Walker yesterday mornin' an' followed him up the row, the hale place being turned oot to hear her exposure o' him. She fair gaed mad wi' anger I think, an' lost a' control o' hersel' an' she followed him shouting so that a' the neighbors could hear her tauntin' an' jibin' at him, till he could staun it nae langer, an' he turned an' struck her, knockin' her doon on the green, an' then kickin' her, till she's a' bruised ower the body. She has an' awfu' lookin' face too, an' she came in bleeding like a sheep. "So that's the hale ugly story, Mr. Rundell. As I said I'm gaun to mak' nae excuses. There's nane tae mak'; an' I'm cheap served for it a'. I should hae stood by the wife and protected her. But I'll dae it noo. She's mine, an' if she's no guid it is me that is to blame. I'm leavin', an' I'm gaun awa' doon the country the morn to look for work; but I thocht I'd tell you the whole rotten story first, then I'll get Walker, an' hae a reckonin' wi' him an' be off the morn. I'll pay off that black-hearted brute this day afore I leave Lowwood an' then my conscience will be easier." Mr. Rundell sat stupefied and amazed at the story just told him by Robertson, and just as both men sat staring at each other and before another word could be said, a miner burst into the room, almost exploding with excitement, crying:-- "Oh, Mr. Rundell, you've to come to the pit at once. A woman has flung herself doon the shaft." "Guid God! That'll be oor Mag," cried Sanny, starting up and out at the door, running in the direction of the pit and stumbling every few yards in his excitement. When Sanny had left the house that morning to go and interview Mr. Rundell, Mag, with the insane decision she had made overnight still holding her mind, dressed herself in her best clothes, and without hesitation set off to the pit. On her way down the row she stepped into Leebie Granger's house very excited though she had been fairly quiet all morning; so quiet in fact that Phemie Grey and Annie Watson could not help remarking upon it. "She's been awfu' quate a' mornin', Phemie," said Annie, going into her neighbor's house. "She has worked away there as if she was gaun to clean the hale place, scrubbing oot the floor, although she washed yesterday; an' noo, she has on her Sunday best, wi' her new hat on too, an' she's awa' into Leebie Granger's. I wonner what'll hae ta'en her noo." "Guid kens," replied Phemie, "but she's fair off her heid. Dae ye ken she's just like a daft body. Did you see the look in her e'en?" and so they discussed poor Mag, who had drawn their attention by the strangeness of her behavior. "Oh, dinna be feart, Leebie," began Mag as she saw Leebie's apprehensive look. "I'm no' gaun to meddle wi' you, although I swore yesterday that I would. You've only done what I did before you. You are young, an' mair pleasin' than I am noo, an', as he said, I hae had a good innins. But, Leebie, you'll hae to look for another fancy man. He'll no' be lang yours. I'll see to that. Him an' me will gang oot thegither, if I can manage it. We've baith been rotten, an' it's richt that we should gang baith at once, an' rid the place o' a dam'd bad sore. Guid day, Leebie. It's a dam'd puir life to leave, an' while it maybe is a woman's lot in life to sell hersel' for ease and comfort, it's a' bad for her when she does it in a way that the world says is a wrang way; for she soon finds that her life isna worth a tinker's curse. She sells hersel' an' it's no worth while complainin' if the bargain turns oot a rotten yin. "If every woman had plenty of honest work, there wad be nae fancy women, for they wadna ned do it. Guid day, Leebie. Maybe you'll think I'm strange a wee an' maybe so I am. You micht think I'm daft; an' maybe so I am. But after a while when you get time to think, you'll maybe feel that you hae heard mair soond sense oot o' Mag Robertson when she was mad than ever she spoke when she was supposed to be wise. Guid day, Leebie. Think ower a' I have said. I'm no gaun to hurt you; but I'm gaun to tak' Black Jock oot o' your clutches as shair as daith. You've had your innins too; but it has been a dam'd short yin. I've had mine, an' the game is feenished noo. It's time the hale thing was totaled up so that we can see wha is the winner. I've been maybe playin' a losin' game, Leebie, but noo we'll ken afore lang. Guid day, Leebie. I'm off," and she was out of the door leaving Leebie speechless with fear and amazement. Mag flew down the brae to the pit almost running, while Leebie and other neighbors looked after her with a strange dread at their hearts. When Mag arrived at the pit she asked a boy if Walker was up the pit yet for his breakfast. "I dinna' think so," replied the boy. "He's kind o' late this mornin'; but there's the bell chappit three," he said as the signal was made from the bottom that men were about to come up. "That'll likely be him coming up." The boy had no sooner spoken, than with a mad rush Mag darted forward, and opening the gates at the "low scaffold," where no one was near, being situated below the pit-head proper, with a loud scream she hurled herself down the shaft. "God Almichty!" roared the engineman who saw all from the engine house, as he rushed out of the door, calling to the pit-head workers. "Mag Robertson has flung hersel' doon the shank!" and immediately all was consternation. The engine keeper had just been in the act of signaling down to Walker, who was ready to ascend when he saw the flying figure dart forward and fling herself into the yawning abyss. Walker, standing at the foot of the shaft waiting for the answering signal from above, heard the noise and the rush of Mag's body as it bumped from side to side in its mad descent, and starting back, he was just in time to get clear as the mangled mass of rags and blood and pulpy flesh fell with a loud splashy thud at the bottom, the blood spattering and "jauping" him and the bottomer, and blinding their eyes as it flew all over them. "In the name o' Heavens what's that?" yelled Walker, screaming in terror and jumping aside from the bloody upturned face, with the wide, staring eyes, which he seemed to recognize, as the other parts of the body lay about, still quivering and twitching, and a horrible sickness came over him and terror flooded his mind. "Bell, three, quick!" cried Walker, frantic with desperation in his voice. "Bell three, dammit. An' let us up out o' here. Hurry up, hell to you," and he drew the bell himself, and without waiting on the signal back from above, jumped into the cage, averting his face from those horrible eyes, which lay staring at him out of the darkness. "Chap it awa', man!" he yelled at the bottomer, his voice rising to a scream. "Chap it, an' let us up to hell oot o' this," and the bottomer, no less frightened than he, tore at the bell, and jumping in himself just as the cage began slowly to ascend, clung to the bar, shivering with terror. CHAPTER XIX BLACK JOCK'S END When Walker reached the surface, he was like a madman. He raved and swore and frothed like a churn, running here, there and everywhere nearly collapsing with rage, which sprang from terror. Usually cool and calculating, steady and active-minded, he seemed to have lost all grip upon himself. He had been drinking heavily the night before and was none too sober in the morning when he was called upon to go to work. Mag Robertson's attack the night before had sent him to the drink, and being a heavy drinker he was in a bad state the following morning. Mr. Rundell found him swearing and raving in a great passion, sacking men and behaving like a maniac. "Look here, Walker," he began at once, his quick temper rising anew as he thought of the story Sanny Robertson had told him. "I'll give you twenty-four hours to get out of here and away from the place; and if you are not gone in that time I shall inform the police. I know the whole story regarding the setting of the contracts. Sanny has told me, and if I was doing right I would not give you a single minute." Walker seemed to calm down all at once, and his eyes became cringing as those of a kicked cur as he stood before the angry mine-owner. "But I hinna telt you a' he has done," said Sanny Robertson, who came up just then in time to hear Mr. Rundell's words. "The dirty black-hearted brute murdered Geordie Sinclair. He telt me himsel' one nicht at the time when we were drinkin' together. He kent a' aboot Geordie workin' on the boss ground an' sent him to his death to get rid of him because in a soft moment I had telt Geordie hoo the contracts were set. He was feart Geordie wad tell you. He's a black-hearted murderer, an' noo he has added Mag's death to his list o' damnation. Tak' that! an' that! you dirty villain! I'll save the hangman the bother o' feenishin' you!" and Sanny was upon Walker tearing at him like a cat, and clawing his face with his nails, punching, biting and kicking him as hard as he could drive his hands and feet. The attack was so sudden that Walker went down, and Sanny was on top of him before anyone could intervene. "I'll tear the thrapple oot o' you, you dirty swine!" he squealed, as he tugged at Black Jock's throat. Mr. Rundell and a couple of laborers soon pulled Sanny up, though he struggled to maintain his hold upon the throat of his adversary. "Let me at him," he yelled, striving to get free. "Let me at him, an' I'll save the hangman a guid lot o' bother stretchin' his dirty neck! Oh, you swine! You dirty murderin' beast!" he shrieked, as he tried to break away from the restraining hands which held him. But Sanny was soon overpowered, and Walker, bounding to his feet, was off up the railway towards his home, terror filling his heart, and his mind reeling with fear. Mr. Rundell quickly organized a band of men to descend the shaft and recover Mag's body, and soon the whole village was in possession of the news, and the excitement was intense. They gathered her up, a mass of dirty, pulpy flesh, scraping the remains together and shoveling them into a rude improvised box, the head and eyes being the only part of the body that resembled anything like a human being. "Hell to my sowl, but this is the warst job that ever I got," said Archie Braidhurst, as he scraped a mass of blood and bones, mud and rags, together. "It's a hell o' a daith to dee." "Ay, puir lassie," replied Adam Lindsay. "She's made a splash at the hinner end. Mag ay cried that it was best to mak' a splash aboot the things you did; but, by sirs, she has made yin this time. What an awfu' mess!" "Splash!" echoed Archie with a grim laugh. "She's gane a' into jaups. She maun hae thocht she was a juck-pool. I would like to dee like a Christian when I dee, and no' shuffle oot like a scattered explosion, or a humplick o' mince." "Oh, for Heaven's sake shut your mooth, an' let us get her gathered up an' get oot o' here. Dammit, hae ye nae common sense, swearin' an' jokin' about sic a thing! It's enough to tempt Providence, an' had it no' been for the tumblerful o' whisky that Mr. Rundell gied us I dinna think I could hae faced it. It's awfu'!" "What the hell are ye girnin' at?" asked Archie, turning round on him. "Are ye feart Mag bites ye? Man, she's got a' her bitin' by noo, although I admit she's made a hell o' a mess at the end. Pit your shovel in here an' lift this pickle, an' no' stand there gapin' like a grisly ghost at the door o' hell! Fling it into her gapin' mouth, if you think she's goin' to bite you!" and the others laughed uneasily at Archie's sardonic humor. It was a nerve-trying experience for most of them, and they felt sick with horror of it, in spite of the whisky and their grim jokes. The pit was put idle, and the men went home. A gloom brooded over the whole place. Black Jock saw Mag Robertson's eyes staring at him, as he hurried over the moor. He had not even stopped to wash himself, but merely stowing some money into his pocket, was off, not deigning to answer his daughter's enquiries as to what was wrong, or where he was going. Every wild bird upon the moor seemed to shout at him in accusation; every living thing seemed to scream out in terror as he approached. He laughed a harsh laugh, like the cry of a wild beast, and the sheep scampered away in fear. The wind moaned out of the gray clouds, which lay thick upon the hidden hills, and there was an early iciness in its breath as it groaned past; A soft, slushy sound rose from the moor at every step, until it seemed that even earth protested. Eerie and sad the moor was, gray and threatening the hills. Laughing at intervals that low gurgle which sprang from fear, as some wild bird would start up at his approach, he plodded on. He did not know where he was going. He had no particular objective. He did not know what line he would pursue. He only wanted to get away from the scene of the tragedy, and those terrible eyes staring, which seemed to follow him from behind every bush or clump of heather, till in the gray mist it seemed as if the moor were alive with them. Eyes everywhere. Eyes that never winked or moved. Eyes that never trembled with recognition or glimmered with life. Dead eyes, cold eyes, immovable and clear--horribly clear they were--eyes that simply stared, neither showing accusation nor denunciation; but there they were at every tuft of yellow grass, behind every moss-hag, and staring like pools of clear silent death, which struck horror to his heart. He bounded sideways as a partridge on whirring wing flew away at his approach, and almost dropped dead with fright as a muircock, with loud protesting voice, seemed to scream: "'way back! 'way back! 'way back!" and then, drawing out into a low grumbling command, as it came to earth a few hundred yards away, still muttering its orders to him, as he momentarily stood to recover from his fright. The whinny of a horse upon the hillside, the low cry of a young cow, the bleat of a sheep, all added to his feeling of dread, until the sweat streamed down his body, as he swung along the moor. At last he came to a little village, about six miles from Lowwood, and, entering the inn, he called for a supply of whisky. "It's kind o' cauld the day," the landlady said in an affable way, as he stepped into the bar. "Warm enough where I have been," he replied bluntly. "Gie's something to drink in whusky!" "So it wad seem," she said in reply, noting his beaded forehead, as he wiped it with a colored handkerchief. "You've surely been gey hard ca'd wherever you hae been," and there was a note of curiosity in her voice. "I want a drink," he broke in abruptly, "an' it doesna matter a damn to you whether I hae been hard ca'd or no'. You're surely hellish keen to hae news. Dis a' your customers get the Catechism when they come in here?" he queried. "If they do, I may as well tell you to begin with, that I came in for whusky, an' no' to staun' an examination." She saw at once that he resented her leisurely way and her attempt at affability, and she hastened to apologize. "Look dam'd sharp," he growled, as she attended to his order. "I want whusky and plenty o' it." "You are in an unco' hurry," she replied, getting nettled, as she filled a glass. "It doesna' do to be so snottery as a' that." "Well, dammit, look alive. I'm dying for a drink. Bring in a bottle," as she placed a glass before him filled with whisky, "an' tak' the price o' your dam'd poison aff that!" and he flung down a sovereign upon the table. "Look here," said the landlady, "I'll tak' nane o' your snash, so mind that. If folk come in here to be served, they've got to be ceevil." "Oh, there's nae harm," he said apologetically, with a forced laugh, "but I'm in a hurry, and I want a drink." "Weel, I maun hae ceevility. So if you don't gi'e the yin, you'll no' get the ither." "That's all right," he said. "Keep the sovereign. I may need more. Tell me when it is all spent," and he filled a bumper and drained it without a halt. "Weel, ye may be dirty at many a thing," she observed, as she noted his action, "but you're a gey clean drinker o' whusky anyway," and she left him with his bottle to fuddle alone. "A gey queer body that," she mused, as she returned to the bar. "Lod! he's like a wannert thunder-storm, growlin' and grumblin', as if he had got lost frae the rest o' his company. But he seems to hae plenty o' siller anyway," she concluded, "an' he can drink whusky wi' anybody I ever seen try it." By and by a village worthy came in, and he was at once hailed by Black Jock, and invited to have a glass. "What are you drinkin', chappie?" he enquired. "Same as you," was the reply, while a smile of pleased anticipation hovered round the worthy's face at this unexpected good fortune. "I jist ay tak' a moothfu' o' whusky. As a maitter o' fact, I was brocht up on the bottle, and I hae never been spained yet." "Right you are, cocky! Drink up! You're the man I am lookin' for to help me to spend an hour or twa." "That'll suit me a' to bits," was the reply, "an' you are jist the man I hae been lookin' for. It's a guid thing we hae met, or we'd baith hae been unhappy." So the hours passed, and each newcomer was invited to join the company, until it grew so large that the "big room" was requisitioned, and it soon held a laughing, joking, drinking, good-natured set of as drouthy individuals as ever met together in company. Every worthy for miles around seemed to get the news of the free drinks, and whisky and beer flowed like water, and the company grew more and more cheerful and happy. Bottle after bottle of drink was consumed, and as the company got hilarious, a song was sung or a story was told, until the whole place had the air of a fair day about it. Jock spent his money freely, and his company drank his health as freely as he paid for the drinks. So the merry hours went past, and the darkness came on. Yet for all the whisky that Walker consumed, he never seemed to get drunk. He was certainly a bit intoxicated, but was in that condition described by one of the company next day as being "sensibly drunk." "Come on, damn you, you son of a tinkler," he urged. "Drink up, an' let us mak' a nicht o't," and thus urged they drained their glasses, and had them refilled again and again. "Gie's a sang, Geordie," cried one of the company across the room to an old shaggy-faced individual, who sat and laughed and drank with happy demeanor, rubbing his bristly chin, which resembled the back of a hedgehog, with dirty gnarled fingers which seemed made for lifting glasses, having a natural crook in them, into which the glass as naturally fitted. "You hinna sung anything yet. Gie's yin o' your ain makin'." "Lodsake, I canna sing," said Geordie, with the air of a man who wanted to be told he could sing. "Ach, you can sing fine," was the chorused reply from nearly everyone in the company. "Come on, Geordie, you ken you can sing fine. Man, there's no' a better singer in the place, auld and a' as ye are." "Och, I canna sing noo, Charlie," replied Geordie, clearing his throat, "but I'll confess that I hae seen the day when I could lilt it wi' the best o' them." "Oh, but we a' ken fine that you can sing. Man, it's a treat to hear him," said Charlie, turning to Black Jock. "He could wile the bird aff the bush. Gie's yin o' your ain, Geordie. It's aye best to hear you at yin o' your ain." "Oh, weel," said Geordie with a show of reluctance, as he rose to his feet, making a noise in his throat, like the exhaust pipe of an engine, "seein' that you are all so pressin' on the maitter, I'll gi'e ye a bit verse or twa." A roar of applause greeted Geordie as he sat down, and words of appreciation broke from everyone in the room. "Dam'd guid, Geordie! Fill up your glass. That deserves a richt guid dram!" cried Black Jock, as he reached across the table and poured a bumper for Geordie. "Wha's gaun to sing next? Come on, chaps; let us mak' a nicht o't!" "Hear, hear," said Geordie. "I'm just feelin' in gran' fettle for a nicht. Tammas Fairly will gie's a bit verse maybe. He can sing a fair guid song." "Me sing!" exclaimed Tam. "Gae awa'! Ye ken fine I canna sing like you, Geordie," and there was a hint of assumed bashfulness in Tam's voice as he spoke. "Come on, Tam. There's to be nae jookin' oot o' it. It's to be a sang roon' aboot, so you micht as weel begin noo, an' get your turn by." "Ay, come on," chimed in Walker. "Let us enjoy oorsel' the nicht, when we are in a mood for it. Guid kens when we may ever spend a nicht thegither again. Come on, Tam, get up!" "Oh, weel," said Tam with bashful reluctance, "I'll do my best," and clearing his throat, Tam sang. "Hear, hear!" roared Black Jock. "That deserves a bumper too, Tammas. Fill up your glass. An honest dram's afore a' the simperin' Judies that ever held up their gabs to be kissed!" and filling another round, they drank, and roared, and cried their appreciation. The fun waxed fast and furious, as song after song was sung, which sometimes were capped by a rough story or a questionable joke from someone in the company. "But you havena gi'en us a sang yoursel'!" observed Charlie, turning to Black Jock, after most of the company had obliged with an effort. "No, I havena gi'en you a sang," he replied with a coarse laugh, "but I hae paid for a' the drinks, an' I suppose that'll please the maist o' you better than a dizzen sangs frae me." "Quite true," said Geordie. "You're a gentleman, an' I never met a better. I only hope we'll hae the pleesure o' meetin' you here again afore lang. It's been yin o' the best nichts I hae spent for a lang time." "That's true, Geordie," said Charlie. "He has gi'en us yin o' the best nichts I hae ever spent. In fact I never min' o' haein' a better, an' to celebrate it, if nane of you hae ony objections, I'll sing anither sang." "Hear, hear," cried Walker heartily. "Order for the sang," and he tapped the table loudly with a bottle, as he called for quietness amid the din. "Order for the sang, boys!" bawled Geordie, "Charlie is gaun to favor the company," and as the noise immediately ceased, Charlie sang a song about the fascinating women. "That's a guid yin, Charlie," roared Walker, thumping the table as he roared. "I hae had a lang experience o' weemin' bodies," and he winked across to Geordie as he spoke, "an' I can say they are rale blood-suckers. They're like whisky, gran' at the time, but you sing sorry next day, an' fin' oot what a fool you hae been. They hing on to you like leeches, an' mak' a mess o' things at the en'. Though you had a face like a crocodile as long as you had plenty of cash, they'd lick your feet; when your money's done, they're awa' like swallows at the first nip o' autumn frost!" "Ay, it's a dam'd funny world," he went on in a lower tone, as if half speaking to himself. "A fu' purse an' you've plenty o' frien's, an' a woman when you need her, but if your purse is toom, your heart may grien a hell o' a lang while afore yin wad ever come near you." Thus the evening passed till some were lying below the table, unable to sit up and take their round; and finally the closing hour arrived, and all had to disperse. Black Jock, again left to himself, deserted by all his company, and in spite of all the drink he had consumed walking fairly steadily, stepped out upon the country road, neither caring nor knowing in which direction he went. His head bent forward upon his breast, or rolling occasionally from side to side, seemed too heavy for his neck to support, as he swayed from the center of the road to its margin. The horrible staring eyes began again to infest his journey, and seemed to accompany him wherever he went. He could not get away from them. Out in the lonely night, the whole sky merry with stars, was alive with staring eyes, that glared down upon him from above with a cold sinister light. They looked at him from the hedgerows; they glared at him from behind every bush or knoll by the wayside; they glowered at him from behind the trees; and they even perched upon his shoulders and peeped at him in accusation. "Damn you!" he growled, striking at them as if he would brush them from his sight; but still they followed and accused no matter where he turned. He grew more and more irritated and alarmed, as they seemed to multiply with every minute that passed; and he quickened his pace, but in spite of his speed, they still pursued and multiplied. Driven mad by the persistence of their stare, he rushed from side to side of the road, striking at them, hitting out with his hands, and kicking with his feet; but still they grew in numbers and in immensity. He shook himself as if to free his body from them; he rushed ahead, swearing and muttering; he growled and shouted, sometimes pleading to be let alone, and sometimes roaring defiance to the night air; but still the eyes held him relentlessly, implacably, and ever growing in numbers, until it seemed as if the whole countryside were alive with them. They came nearer and receded again; they swarmed round him in legions, then withdrew behind the hedges to stare at him with wide-open lids. They drew him onward, and he advanced cautiously. Then they rushed at him, and retired again, as if driven back; but still they were there, just round the bend of the road, just behind that bush, just over that hedge, and behind that tree, glaring and looking at him, and ready to rush forth again as soon as they thought he was sufficiently off his guard. "Back!" he roared again, striking out with his fist as they rose only a couple of yards ahead. "Back! an' be damned to you," as a whole swarm larger and larger, so that they lighted up the night, came rushing round him. They were hissing and roaring at him this time. They had hitherto been silent, and he seemed to hear at first a low murmuring whisper, as if they consulted together as to the best way to attack him. Then the whisper grew to a louder swishing sound like the noise Mag had made as her body hurtled from side to side on falling down the shaft. It grew louder and louder, like the wind coming through far-off trees, gradually swelling to a roar. The eyes grew in numbers and got larger with the noise; and finally, with terror clutching at his heart and an oath upon his lips, he turned to run back, only to find that they had all merged into two wide, horribly glaring fiery eyes which were bearing down upon him with the speed and noise of an express train. They were on him before he could turn, as if they now realized that he was fully at their mercy, and with the courage of desperation he flung himself bodily upon them and went down crushed beneath the heavy mass of a motor driven with reckless speed by a young man rushing to catch a train. Walker was down before the young man realized what had happened and the hoot of the horn had merely spurred Black Jock to the last desperate leap to death, the lights of the motor having taken on the shape of all the pursuing eyes that had followed him that night. When he was taken from beneath the wheels, his neck broken and his body smashed, Black Jock had paid the last penalty, and the eyes which destroyed him flashed out accompaniment to his departing soul. And the winking skies, still merry with the stars of night, looked down unmoved, while the night-birds on the moor answered one another in their flight, and called a last farewell to the spirit of Black Jock. CHAPTER XX THE CONFERENCE The storm which had been brewing in the industrial firmament grew more threatening and the clouds grew blacker until it seemed as if nothing could prevent a commotion on a big scale. The demand for a fuller life and more security was being made by the miners all over the country. Organization was proceeding apace, and a new idea was being glimpsed by the younger men especially, which filled their hearts and fired their imagination. "Do you think the time has come now, Bob?" asked Robert Sinclair, speaking to Smillie one day, as they proceeded by rail to a conference together, "when the whole Federation can try its power in a demand for something real?" "What do you mean by something real, Robert?" asked Smillie, with a keen look at the young, eager face turned towards him. "Some guarantee of comfort in our lives," was the reply. "You know that we have none now. You and others of us have been teaching the miners to work towards the day when a standard of ease and comfort will be assured to all. We have worked for it, and the miners now are looking for something tangible." "Yes, I know; but do you think, Robert, that the time has come to put it to the test?" and Smillie had gone on to tell of some of the difficulties they were faced with. So they talked and discussed, exchanging opinions and hopes; and all over the mining world their dreams were being voiced, and had helped to make the coming crisis. Conferences were held, and the whole matter threshed out from every angle. The miners were united as they had never been before and the whole of the British miners were determined to use their organization to enforce their demands. It was a triumph for Smillie's genius, the climax of his dream, to have them united as one body to fight what he called their real enemies. One federation linked together by common ideals, with common interests bound by common ties, united by traditions, by creed, by class, by common tastes shared, by suffering and hardship. It was his monument, and perhaps he regarded it with no little pride. When Robert was appointed delegate to the council of his Union from his branch, he set himself to master thoroughly, in every detail, its machinery, and very soon his voice was raised in the debates, and it amazed even himself to find what a power he seemed to possess over his fellows. He soon learned to state his case in simple unaffected language which took a marvelous hold upon his hearers, while at times his warm glowing imagination would conjure up a living picture that hit with irresistible force, and made a lasting impression upon those who listened. He gradually became more fluent, and studied how best to impress his comrades. His earnestness and enthusiasm were unquestioned, and sometimes were even found to be a serious obstacle to the older type of leader, men for the most part lacking imagination, and whose older and more prosaic outlook could not understand the younger man, whose zeal they regarded with impatience. But Smillie soon recognized Robert's talent and his worth, and gave him more scope than he otherwise might have done. Robert's admiration for his chief was unbounded, though it did not keep him from differing from Smillie at times on matters of detail. On principles they were generally at one with each other and while it was rarely that they differed, the occasions upon which they did so were remembered by all who heard. Smillie soon realized that there was an unshakable will behind the young man, and watched him under every difficult occasion with a certain amount of pride, as he grew in individuality and resource. Robert was not a frequent speaker, but was always listened to with respect when he did speak. An industrial crisis was upon the country and everyone was expectant, and wondering how it would all end. Keir Hardie's preaching of the working class gospel was a big factor in Robert's development and the latter was soon in demand for platform lectures, stirring up the workers and pleading with them to organize, and teaching them economics through historical allusion and industrial evolution until he soon became recognized as one of the coming forces in the working-class movement. He was as yet very impulsive, and while such a trait had generally a powerful appeal on the average audience of the working class type, it often put him into somewhat compromising situations, when dealing with the more sober and serious work of the organization. Still he was showing up well, and only time and experience were needed to cure his defects. So the year ended, and the cloud grew more and more threatening. January brought the crisis to a head, and the Government, recognizing that nothing could avert a strike and as the foreign situation was passing through a critical period, requested that a conference should be called in London, and invited the miners and the mine-owners to come together so that the Prime Minister and other statesmen could be present to try and adjust the grievance. It was a historic gathering and one that marked an epoch in the history of the industrial movement. Delegates were present from almost every Miners' Lodge in Great Britain, while the owners were also fully represented. The Prime Minister acted as chairman of the gathering and he was supported on the platform by other members of the Government, while Smillie and other well-known leaders represented the men and a number of the owners represented the Coal Masters' Association. The platform party was an imposing one. Men of big reputation were there, and Robert felt himself wondering, as he looked at them, how ordinary they looked after all, and he began to speculate as to the qualities they possessed which had given them such importance. "That's the Chancellor o' the Exchequer," said one of the delegates to Robert, pointing out the individual named. "He's a wee eatin'-an'-spued' lookin' thing when you see him sittin' there, isn't he?" "Ay," answered Robert casually, as he surveyed the group. "I was just wondering how it was they had a' gained such reputations. In appearance they are not much to boast about." "Ach, they're jist a lot o' oily tongued wheedlers," was the reply, "an' that wee ferrit-eyed yin is the worst o' them a'. Just wait till he begins to speak, an' you'll think he's a showman. He can fairly pit on the butter, an' he'll send us a' away hame in the belief that we're the finest set o' men he ever met, an' mak' us feel that if we decide to do anything against what he recommends, the hale country will gang to ruin." "Oh," said Robert, as his fellow delegate paused, "I've read aboot him." "Ay, but wait till you hear him. We can a' come up here as angry as hell, ready to string him up to the nearest lamp-post; but after he has spoken an' slaivered ower us for a while, we begin to feel differently, an' finally gang awa hame wi' our minds made up that we are the salt o' the earth. Man, it tak's a' the sting oot o' bein' dune, to be dune sae well an' sae completely." "Yes, but when you know that why do you allow yourselves to be wheedled?" "Ach, man; it's a' right askin' that question; but efter thae chaps get round aboot you, wi' their greasy tongues, an' their flatterin' ways, you jist begin to think that it's nae use to bother ony mair aboot resistin'. Look at that auld fermer-collier lookin' chiel, wi' his white heid an' his snipe-nose an' a smile on his face that wad mak' you believe he was gaun to dae you some big service. That's the smile that has made him Prime Minister. You'd think frae his face that he was just a solid easy-gaun kindly auld fermer, who took a constant joy in givin' jeelie-pieces to hungry weans. But when he speaks, and gets a grip o' you, he's yin o' the sooplest lawyers that ever danced roun' the rim o' hell withoot fallin' in. He'd do his faither, that yin. He wad that." Robert looked at the various individuals as they were described, keenly interested and feeling that this comrade of his was describing much of what he himself had felt about these men, and wondered more and more as to what it was that had given them their power. "They're a fine rogues' gallery when you see them a' sittin' there," went on the other. "They ken we are up here the day determined to demand our terms, an' that's the way they are a' turned out. Just you wait till they begin, an' you'll see a fine bit o' play actin'. They'll play us aboot as auld Tom Tervit wad play a trout in the Clyde. They hae ony amount o' patience, an' they'll gae you onything but the thing you want. They'd promise us the kingdom o' Heaven; an' they'll give us plenty o' line to run wi'; but a' the time they'll be lookin' for a chance to land us. An' they'll do it. Jist you wait." "Well, it will be our own fault if we let them," said Robert, shortly, as he listened. "I would not let any of them do that. If we have our minds made up on what we want, I can't see why we should be wheedled like that." "Neither do I," was the reply. "But it is aye done for all that. Then there's that ither chiel--I think he's on the Local Government Board or something. He's a corker, wi' a face like yin o' they pented cupids that the lasses send to the young men on picture postcards. Look at his nice wee baby's mooth, an' the smile on it too. It wad dazzle a hungry crocodile lookin' for its denner. His e'en are aye brighter than ony I ever saw--an' speak! Guid God! He could speak for a hale June day. He's gran' at makin' your flesh creep. He blinds you wi' sparks, an' fire-works, his words are that hot an' glowin', an' he fair dumbfounders you wi' fine soundin' sentences an' lang words. He's a corker I can tell you! But here, they are gaun to begin," he broke off hurriedly as the Prime Minister rose to his feet. Then in a sly whisper, he added:--"Just you pay attention, an' tell me after if you can tell how we hae been dune. They are here to do us the day, as sure as daith." The Prime Minister's speech was a masterly plea for compromise; but through it all, it seemed as if he was laying the blame upon the miners for the critical stage which had been reached. He appealed and cajoled, asked them to take long views, and talked fine platitudes about self-sacrifice, and the spirit of brotherhood, which could alone bring peace and contentment. The country was in danger, and it would be a terrible crime if the miners forced a strike; for only upon the great white solitudes of self-sacrifice and mutual help, whose peaks towered away into the realms of eternity, could real satisfaction be gained, and much more of a like kind. Then followed other ministers, who took their cue from their chief; but there was no hint that any of them had ever made a serious attempt to understand the problem which has arisen to confront them so seriously. They talked, or so at least it seemed to Robert, who sat in the body of the hall with the rest of the delegates, to the miners as if they were children, naughty and spoilt; and of course such an attitude could never bring about any form of agreement to sensible men, who deal every day with the life at the rough, raw edges of things. So it was, when four of them had spoken after the Prime Minister, and none of them had shown any attempt to grapple with the subject under dispute, Robert felt more and more the truth of his fellow-delegates' description. It was all a masterly bit of wheedling and the Chancellor's effort especially was designed to win them over to a compromise settlement. He began jocularly with a broad jest which set the delegates all rocking with laughter, telling how glad he was to be there to talk over with them the difficulties which had arisen. It always gave him pleasure to meet them and to get to know their point of view; because usually their good sense and their large stock of prudence made them amenable to listening to a reasoned argument. He was glad they always recognized there were two sides to most disputes, and he felt sure whatever the outcome of this conference might be they would not allow their good sense to stand in the way of a possible settlement. Gradually he worked into more serious lines, and with vivid language, putting the case for the opposite side, gently bringing their minds by degrees further and further away from the point--the real point of issue. Then finally when sufficiently developed, he gathered all the threads together, and in a great burst of poetic eloquence and fiery fervor he swept along like a tornado in a grand burst of superb oratory, his eyes rolling and flashing, his hands and head poised into beautifully effective gesture, and appealed to them in great rolling, fiery sentences that completely swept the conference like a whirlwind, and sat down amid a great burst of applause which broke with splendid spontaneity from the assembled delegates, and the winning golden smile upon his face which Robert's companion had described earlier in the day. Robert could hardly analyze his feelings. He felt he did not know whether to admire or condemn, but all the time he felt a slow rising indignation within him, and that the Conference was being swung away from what they had met to discuss. Perhaps it was his companions' conversation that did it. He could not tell; but unable to contain himself longer his impulsive nature getting the upper hand, he bounced to his feet, pale and excited, though trying hard to curb and control himself, and in a low tense voice, which at first halted a little, electrified the gathering by a speech wrung from his very soul. "Mr. Chairman," he began, in this unexpected incident, "I have listened very attentively to the speeches just delivered by yourself and the other honorable gentlemen." Here some of the other delegates intervened to tell him that he was not expected to speak, but the Prime Minister, for some reason unknown, told him to go on and so he proceeded. Then Robert proceeded to pour out his soul, stating the miners' grievances and their rights as men. How they were always put off with promises, and defeated in dialectics and the game of wits. As he spoke he felt the assembly gradually thaw, then become liquid, finally it seemed to join the torrent of his eloquence, and sweep on, blotting out all resistance. When at last he sat down a wild burst of applause rent the air, as he sat down pale and excited; but glad that he had got the chance at last of speaking what he felt to the enemies of his class. For fully five minutes the delegates went wild in their cheering and applause. Again and again it broke out afresh, when it had spent itself a little, and seemed to be dying down, but the memory of it always stirred them to fresh outbursts until at last, taking advantage of a lull, the Prime Minister suggested that he and his colleagues would prefer that the conference should stand adjourned till the next day, and this was agreed to by the delegates, who were not averse to the holiday. Congratulations were showered upon Robert from all sides. Even men who differed from him on most things grasped his hand and shook it, and told him how proud they were of his little speech. Robert heard and saw all their pleased enjoyment but was vaguely troubled in his heart, wondering how Smillie would have taken it, and this pained him more than the pleasant things the other delegates said to him. "Man, Sinclair," said the one who had sat next to Robert in the Conference, when they got out on to the street, "you've fairly upset the hale jing bang o' them the day. Lod! But I was like a balloon in a high wind, fair carried away wi' you. I never thocht you could have done that. I was in the opinion that Smillie was the only yin that could stand up to that set o' rogues. It was great. It was that." Robert laughed uneasily and bashfully as he answered, "I couldn't help it, Davie," then adding as an afterthought, "Maybe I hae put my fit in it. I wonder how Smillie took it a'." "Ach, well, it disna matter a damn, onyway. You did fine, an' I canna see how Smillie has onything ado wi' it. However, we hae a hale day to oorsel's now, what dae you say to gaun to the length of Kew Gardens? It's a gran' place, an' I hae a sister oot there in service." "Oh, I don't mind. I don't know onything aboot London and as you are nae stranger, I might as well gang wi' you, as bother onybody else to show me roun'." "There's some of thae chaps'll fairly enjoy this," said Davie, nodding in the direction of some of the delegates. "That's the way they agreed to adjourn sae already. They jist leeve for the conferences. It's the time they like. They booze and get their horns oot for a day or two, an' I can tell you, Rab, it's maybe jist as well that they dinna bring their weemin folks wi' them. However, it tak's a' kinds of folk to mak' a world, I suppose, so let's off, and see as muckle o' London as possible," and they set off and were soon swallowed up in the great Metropolis. CHAPTER XXI THE MEETING WITH MYSIE When the London Conference ended, the delegates hurried back to put the terms of the suggested agreement before the men, and as they journeyed the whole topic of conversation was of the Conference, and of the terms which had been suggested as a basis for settlement of the dispute. "Well, you can a' say what you like," put in Davie Donaldson, who had sat beside Robert in the Conference, "but in my opinion we hae been diddled again. The wee showman wi' the ferret een was too mony for us, an' he jist twisted us round his wee finger as he liked." "Ach, but you are never content," replied another who was of an opposite opinion. "It doesna matter what kind o' terms you get, you're never content." "I'm no' content wi' thae terms ony way," persisted Davie stubbornly. "What the hell's the use o' makin' a demand for something, an' sayin' afore you gang that you mean to hae it, an' then to tamely tak' the hauf o' it, an' gang awa' hame as pleased as a wheen weans wha have been promised a penny to tak' castor oil? I'd be dam'd afore I'd tak' that." "You're owre ill to please," said the other. "You're never satisfied wi' a fair thing. Didn't you hear as weel as me that there was a danger o' war breakin' oot at the present time, an' we couldna possibly hae a strike at a time like this." "War!" retorted Davie, heatedly. "They'll aye hae a war or something else to fricht you wi', when you show that you mean business. Wha the hell hae we to quarrel wi' onyway, I'd like to ken?" "Oh, it micht be France, or Germany, or Russia, or some ither o' thae cut-throat foreign nations." "An' what are you gaun to quarrel aboot?" yelled Davie still more heatedly. "What the hell do I ken?" was the answer. "Then, if you don't ken, why the damn should you quarrel? It's a dam'd silly thing to fecht at ony time, but it's a dam'd sicht sillier to fecht withoot haein' a quarrel at a'," cried Davie, now fairly roused. "That's jist hoo they diddle us. They diddle the workers o' France an' ither countries in the same way. Maybe the French Government is telling the French colliers that there is a danger o' a war wi' Britain at this minute, to keep them quate; an' if they are, do you an' me ken anything aboot what the war will be for? No' a thing does yin o' us ken. Wars are no' made by workin' folk at all! They are made wi' the ither crowd, an' they laugh in their sleeves when they hae sent us awa' back to our work an' oor hames as quate as mice," and Davie looked round in triumph, asking with his eyes, and in the tones of his voice, for confirmation of his views from the others. Thus they talked and discussed, exchanging opinions about all things in strong but expressive language, as the train sped northwards bearing them home. District meetings were organized, and the leaders put persuasively the arguments for the acceptance of the terms laid down. All through the crisis the men had behaved admirably, for they had learned to trust Smillie, even when they felt doubtful of his policy. Robert took a big share in the organizing of these meetings and in addressing them. He flung himself into this work whole-heartedly. The terms certainly did not please him; but, as the majority at the London Conference had decided to recommend them to the men, he thought it his duty to sink his personal opinions, and in the interests of discipline and the unity of the organization--as he had already had his say and had been found in the minority--he put all his efforts into trying to get the men to accept the suggested terms, and go forward as one united body. His persuasive powers of appeal, and his straight, direct way of argument, commended him to his comrades. By the time that the ballot had been carried through in the various districts, it was mid-February, and the Scottish delegates met in Edinburgh to give the result of the voting among the rank and file. Robert attended the Conference, and while he had appealed to the men to accept the terms of the London Conference, he secretly hoped that the ballot vote of the men would decide to fight; for, like Davie Donaldson, he believed they had again been side-tracked. He wondered how Smillie regarded the matter. He had not had an opportunity of talking with Smillie to learn his opinion, but he felt sure that his leaders did not like the terms either. If, however, the men had agreed on acceptance, he could not help matters; but a direct refusal from the rank and file would, he thought, be an intimation to the more reactionary leaders that the spirit of revolt was growing, and would give the rebels the chance for which they were looking. But he would soon know, he thought, as he hastened to the Synod Hall, where the Conference was to be held; for the result of the ballot was to be announced at the end of the first part of the Conference. There was some routine business to get over when it opened, and after a while the President rose and gave the result of the ballot, which showed a considerable majority for acceptance, and this brought the adjournment for dinner. Robert felt that he wanted to spend a quiet five minutes or so before the Conference resumed; so he hurried through with his dinner and then strolled out into Princes Street Gardens, which attracted him very much. His mind seemed to want peace and quietness, and as he walked along, turning over the situation and examining it from all points of view, the fluttering of early mating birds among the shrubs soon shifted his thoughts to other things; and, as they romped and courted, and fought among the bushes, his thoughts went back to the moor at home, and the little wood, and the memories of other things. The vague stirrings of power within him had become more pronounced during the last six months, and he felt conscious of a growing sense of importance. It was not that he was conceited, but his mental muscles, as it were, seemed to have gained in power from the strenuous exertions which they had lately undertaken. He knew that he possessed talents far above the average of his class. He was sensible of a certain superiority, yet it was not from the contemplation of this that he drew his elation. He saw the issue quite clearly and knew the pathway which must be trodden. He was not personally ambitious for the sake of making an impression or gaining power. He knew that in too many cases men had in the past made their position a sinecure in the Labor Movement and he condemned their action. The Movement must be served and not lived on. Not personal betterment, but the betterment of the whole lot. Whatever it demanded of service from anyone should be given willingly, no matter in what direction the call were made. Musing thus, he strolled along among his hopes of the future. His life's work lay here, working for his own class--for humanity. There was nothing else to win him; for like most young men in like circumstances he had already concluded that now, since Mysie was not to be his, there was nothing else to which he could better devote his life. Where was Mysie, he wondered? What had happened to her? She had completely gone out of everybody's knowledge, and no one seemed to know anything about her. He moved slowly along and at the thought of Mysie his former decision seemed a cold one and he felt that she still held a big place in his life. Moving towards a seat a little way ahead so that he might enjoy this mood, the figure of a girl started up as if to go, and immediately he rushed forward, all his pulses afire, and his whole being stirred beyond words. "Mysie!" he exclaimed, jumping forward, "Guid God! where have you come from? Where have you been?" and his hands were holding hers, and his eyes greedily scanning her face as if he would look into her very soul, and read the story of the last few months. "Oh, Rob," she said, with a gasp, "I didna think I wad meet you here." "Sit down," he said hurriedly, as he recovered himself. "Sit down and rest. You're ill. What's the matter? Where have you been? Tell me all about it!" There were tears in Mysie's eyes too, as she weakly sat down, unable to do anything else. She had recognized him as he approached, and had started up to get away; but he had also recognized her, and she was too late. "Hoo is my mither an' my faither?" she enquired, after a short silence, as she tried to recover herself. "Hoo are they a' at hame?" the greedy heart hunger for loved ones drove her to the impatient enquiry. "Did they miss me muckle, Rob? Were they awfu' vexed at what I did? Tell me a' aboot it then, I want to ken." "But you must tell me first aboot yoursel', Mysie," he replied evasively, searching in his mind the best way to adopt in telling her of the things he knew would wound her. "Come, Mysie," he urged, "you surely can trust me. I have always been your friend, and I only wish now to hear all about you. Why did you go away?" She saw him look at her, and a quick flush overspread her thin, pale cheeks as she detected his look. He had no need to ask further. "Oh, Rob, I wish--I wish I had died a year syne!" and a wild burst of sobbing came over her as she spoke. "Dinna greet, Mysie," he said, as his hand reached out and began to stroke her hair tenderly. Then after a short pause, "Wha was he, Mysie? Tell me, an' I'll tear the black heart oot o' him!" But Mysie only cried, uncontrollably, and hid her face in her hands; for the homely doric on Robert's tongue touched her and it came readier to him in moments like these, and the tender touch of his hand upon her head gave her comfort, soothing her, and staying her grief, as a child is quieted by the loving hand of a mother. "I'll tell you a' aboot it, Rob," she said at last after a short time. "An' I hope you'll no' tell onybody. There's naebody to blame but mysel' for a' that has happened, an' I maun bear the punishment if there is punishment gaun," and bit by bit, with many an effort to compose herself as she spoke, she told him the whole sad story from beginning to end. "There was naebody to blame, Rob--naebody but mysel'! I should hae kent better. But I never thocht it wad hae turned oot as it has done. I hae been gey ill, an' I maun say that Peter has been awful guid to me. He's done his best to get me better, so that he can marry me afore it happens. I lay for nearly six months, an' I wasna carin' whether I died or no'! I was fair heartbroken, an' didna mind what happened. This is the first day I hae been oot. He cam' this mornin' frae his lodgings tae ask me tae gang oot a wee while in the sunshine, seein' that it was sic a guid day, and Mrs. Ramsay brocht me oot here, and warned me to sit till she cam' back. When I saw you comin' I got up to run awa', but I dinna ken whaur to run to; for this big toon is a' strange to me, an' I'm feart." "Oh, if I had only kent! You maun keep yoursel' as free frae worry as possible, an' try an' get better," he went on, trying to speak as lightly as possible. "Keep up your spirits, an' you'll maybe soon be a' better." "Aye, Rob," she said, "but it's no' easy. An' I hae been gettin' waur instead o' better. I ken mysel' that I'm no' improvin', an' I often think it wad hae been better if I had died. When folk don't want to live--when they've nothing to be happy aboot they are better to dee!" "But you maunna talk like that, Mysie," he said again. "You'll get better yet, an' be as happy as ever you were. It is only because you are ill noo an' you sae weak, that mak's you talk like that. An' forby you maun mind that there are ither folk wha'll be vexed if you dinna get better. Your faither and your mither wad like to see you weel an' happy, an' oh, Mysie, Mysie, I want you to get weel!" he broke out passionately--pleadingly, the misery in his voice going to her heart as it cried to her, ached for her, and suffered for her. "Wad you hae married me, Mysie, if I had asked you afore you went awa'?" and his hands were again stroking tenderly the brown hair and patting the thin cheeks as he spoke and plead. "Ay, Rob," she answered simply, "I wad hae married you. I sometimes think yet that I'll never marry onybody else. As a lassie I aye dreamed in my ain mind that I'd be your wife. It's awfu' hoo the things that folk want maist are aye the things they never get!" "Mysie, wad you marry me yet?" he asked, impulsively. "Jist this minute? An' I'll tak' you hame, an' naebody will ken onything. I'll take a' the blame, an' you can say that it was me. I'll nurse you back to health again wi' my mither's help an' naebody need ken the richt wye o' it!" "No, Rob," she said after a short pause. "I couldna dae that. It wad neither be fair to you or me, nor to onybody else." "But, Mysie," he went on in the low tender voice that was so difficult to withstand, "you don't like Peter weel enough to be his wife. You say you never intended to be onybody's wife but mine; an' what wye should you no' do as I propose? You ken I'll never do onything else but love you. You ken that, Mysie!" "Ay, Rob," she answered, "I ken a' that. Naebody kens it better than me noo; and that's what mak's it sae awfu' hard to refuse. But it wadna be richt at a', an' that's a' that can be thocht aboot it. You maunna ask me ony mair." "But I will ask you," he cried in another burst of passion, "an' I'll keep on askin' you. You ken you are mine, an' naebody else has a richt to you. I love you, Mysie! Oh, can you no' see, lassie, that it wad be a' richt if you'd do as I want you?" "No, no, Rob. Dinna say that. It wadna be richt at a', an' I'd be doin' anither wrang thing if I did." "But you said jist the noo, that you sometimes thocht you wadna marry onybody else?" "Yes, I ken I said that," she replied. Then with pain in her voice as it grew more pitiful, "Dinna ask me, Rob, to do that. I ken it wadna be richt, an' you munna ask me ony mair; for though I said that I sometimes thocht I wadna marry onybody else, I canna marry you noo. Oh! if only my mither kent, it would break her heart, an' my faither wad dee o' the disgrace! What do they think o' me, Rob? Tell me a'--hoo are they, an' if they miss me very much." "Your faither and mither nearly broke their hearts," he said simply, "an' at nicht your mother lies an' thinks an' wonders what has come owre you. You ken hoo a mither grieves an' worries aboot her bairns. She never thocht o' sic a thing happening in her family. She was aye sae prood o' them a'. I heard her say ane day to my mither that she dootit you maun be deid, or you wad hae sent her word; and that you wadna hae gane wrang. She never, she said, kent o' you takin' up wi' men, an' was sure that naething o' that kind had happened." "Did she really think that, Rob?" asked Mysie, glad to know that her mother had believed in her virtue, yet pained. "Rob, if only mithers wad be mair open wi' their lassies an' tell them o' the things they shouldna' do, an' the dangers that lie afore them. But tell me aboot them a'. What did my faither say aboot it? How are they a' keepin'?" This was the question which Robert had feared most, for although Matthew Maitland had said very little, everybody knew that he grieved sorely over his daughter's disappearance, and at the time was lying very ill. He was fast nearing the end, which most colliers of the day reached--cut off in middle life, made old by bad ventilation in the mines, and black damp. His condition was almost despaired of by the doctor, and when Robert left Lowwood that evening for Edinburgh, he was in a very critical state. Two months before, the oldest boy, who was some two years younger than Mysie, had been taken suddenly ill, and had died after a few days' illness. How was he to tell Mysie of this? How tell her that John was dead, and her father perhaps dying? How tell of her mother eating out her heart in the hungry longing for news of the missing girl, and killing herself with work and worry? "Your faither's no' very weel, Mysie," he began evasively, his eyes turned away from her, in an attempt at hiding what he felt. "What's wrang wi' him, Rob?" she asked, the quick alarm in her voice cutting his heart as she spoke. "He hasna been workin' for fully a fortnicht," he replied. "But what's wrang?" she persisted. "Is he ill?" "Mysie, I'd raither onything than be the means o' painin' you, for you are no' in a fit state to be worried." "You maun tell me, Rob," she cried fiercely, her face showing excitement. "What is it that is wrang? Is he awfu' ill?" "He's lyin' gey bad, Mysie, an' when I cam' awa' this mornin', I didna like the look o' him at a'. He was kind o' wanderin' in his mind, an' speakin' to you an' John, jist as he used to speak when we were a' bairns thegither. He was liltin' some o' thae auld sangs he used to sing to us. But dinna greet, Mysie, you'll mak' yoursel' waur. You are no very strong, you ken, an' if you worry it'll mak' you waur. You should raither try an' bear up, an' get strong, an' maybe gang an' see him. He'd be awfu' prood to see you, an' so wad your mither." "No, no," she cried. "I canna gang. It wad kill them to see me noo, an' I couldna bear't, if they should be angry wi' me. I couldna face their anger, Rob." "Weel, Mysie," he said, drawing a long breath, as if to face a stiff proposition, "there is no other way out of it, but that you'll hae to marry me now--just this minute, an' gang back wi' me. If you do that, I can tak' you back wi' me, an' gang to your faither an' say that it was me that was responsible. It can be done, Mysie, if only you'll agree to it. Come, Mysie!" he cried in a burst of passionate pleading. "I want you. Mysie, Mysie! Say that you'll come." Robert looked at her pale, thin, emaciated face with greedy pleading in his eyes. He saw the thin-looking, hungry body as it shook with her sobs, and that terrible cough, which seemed as if it would carry her away before his eyes. "Say you'll come, Mysie!" he pleaded, his hands held out appealingly. "Say you'll come, an' it'll be so easy." "No, no," she sobbed vehemently, "I canna do that. Dinna ask me ony mair, Rob, I canna do that. It wadna be fair." A hopeless look came into his eyes as he listened to her words, for he knew that Mysie could never consent to his proposal. Frail as she was, and torn by her wish to agree, yet he knew she meant it, when she said no. "Where do you live, Mysie?" he enquired at last, thinking to find some way of helping her. "Wad you gie me your address, so that I'll ken where you bide?" "No, I dinna want to tell you, Rob. You'd better gang awa' noo. Mrs. Ramsay will soon be comin' for me. Gang awa' an' leave me. I want to be a wee while by mysel'. Oh, dear! Oh, dear! I wish I could dee an' leave it a'!" Robert stole away on tiptoe, as if he were afraid longer to intrude upon her grief--his mind in a whirl, and his heart heavy with sorrow. He returned to the Conference to find that the debate was in full swing, and that Davie Donaldson, was laying about him in vigorous style, denouncing the leaders for recommending the terms to the men, and telling them that the "wee chocolate-moothed Chancellor had again diddled them." But he felt no interest in Davie's denunciation, and could not smile at his picturesque language. His mind would revert to the gardens in Princes Street, and he saw the thin white figure on the seat, the picture of hopeless misery, her frail form torn with sobs; and heard the wail in her voice as she moaned, "Oh, dear! Oh, dear! I wish I could dee an' leave it a'!" Some of the young delegates wondered why Sinclair remained silent in such an important debate. They had succeeded in raising a question which at any other time would have brought him to his feet; but he sat impassive and silent, and above all the clash and glamor, above the applause and the interruptions, above all the witty sallies which brought unexpected laughter, he saw only the thin, white lonely figure--the dejected and outcast, the poor plaything of fate, and heard the heart-breaking cry, "Oh, dear! I wish I could dee an' leave it a'!" and in every syllable there was a stab of pain. The Conference ended, and the delegates made homeward. The terms had been agreed to, so far as Scotland was concerned, and all pointed to peace. "You didna speak the day, Sinclair, and I fairly thocht you wad hae been into the fecht," said one delegate to Robert, as the train moved away from the station. "No, I wasna feelin' up to the mark," he returned, in a tone that hinted that he did not want to be troubled, and he sat back in his corner in silence. In the gray quick gloaming the moors and the hills, viewed from the train, seemed to him a country without hope. There was sadness in it, and pain, and the gray wintry sky brooded of sorrows to come. Occasionally a few sheep would start away from where they had been grazing close to the railway, startled by the noise of the train. Thin wisps of gray ragged clouds hung low, as if softly descending upon the hills, in fateful sinister storms, and a fiery flash of yellow left a strip of anger on the western horizon, where the sun had gone down a short time ago. Gray mists and grayer moors, with occasionally a solitary tree standing out in the distance, as if to accentuate the loneliness and the sorrow of the world in their ragged branches, which seemed ready to pierce the sky in defiance of the anger of the, as yet, unleashed storm. On rushed the train, and through the mists there kept coming before his eyes the white lonely figure, moaning in fatal grief--grief inexorable and unrelenting, while the flying wheels groaned and sobbed and clicked, with the regular beat of a breaking heart, as if they were beating out the sorrows of the world, and over all they sang the dirge of the broken life of a maid. "Oh, dear! Oh, dear! I wish I could dee an' leave it a'!" CHAPTER XXII MYSIE'S RETURN When Mrs. Ramsay returned she found Mysie in a fainting condition, thoroughly exhausted, and on the point of collapse. Mrs. Ramsay saw, by her red swollen eyes, that she had been weeping. With the help of her daughter the kind woman, who had done so much for Mysie during the past few months, got her to the street, and procuring a cab, got her back to the house, much alarmed by the patient's condition. All night Mysie tossed and raved in a high fever and delirium, while Mrs. Ramsay sat by her bedside, trying to soothe and quieten the stricken girl. As she seemed to get no better the older woman grew more alarmed. "Oh, my puir faither!" moaned the girl. "Oh, mither, I am vexed at what has happened. Oh, dear, I wonder what I'll do!" "There now, dearie!" said Mrs. Ramsay in warm sympathetic tones, as she stroked the burning hands and brow. "Try and quieten down and go to sleep. You were getting on very well, you know, and making fine progress, but you'll make yourself worse than ever if you carry on like that. There now, dearie! Try and get to sleep, and you'll soon be better again!" But Mysie was silent only for a moment, and the low moan soon broke from her lips again, like the wail of some stricken thing at night upon the moor, and still she tossed and tumbled feverishly in her bed. In the morning the doctor came and shook his head. Mysie was ill, very ill. Her condition was serious, and it was little he could do. Only care and good nursing and try to keep her from worrying. He left a prescription, and Peter soon had the necessary medicine, and later the patient grew calmer, and finally sank into a deep sleep; and so the old fight had to be fought over again, to get her strength restored and her vitality increased. Mysie did not mention another word of home. She lay quiet, hardly even moving and seldom speaking; but the burning fire that consumed her was apparent in her hectic cheeks and glowing eyes, and one could see that her mind was away, never dwelling upon her surroundings, but was wandering among the heather hills and quiet valleys, where the call of the curlew and the shout of the lapwing stir the primitive impulses of those who love the haunts of the moorland life, and weave so much romance into the lives and souls of the country bred people, who never grow to love the ugly towns, but whose hearts remain with their first love--the moors, and the hills, and the mountain brooks for ever. She seemed to grow a little stronger as the days passed. She took her medicines regularly and without protest; but deep down in her heart she felt that she would never get better, and her only desire, that had been shaping itself ever since Robert had told her of her father's condition, was to be strong enough, to go home to Lowwood, just to see her parents, her brothers and sisters, once more; then she could die in peace. If only she could do that, she would not care what happened. Nothing else mattered; but she must get home. Nothing would prevent her from doing that. It was the instinct of the wounded animal, dragging itself home to die--home to its home in the kindly earth, away from contact with other things--just to be alone, to nurse its suffering and its misery, till the last shred of strength had gone, and the limbs stiffened out, while the glazing eyes looked forward as the pain increased, across the barriers of other worlds to a land of plenty--a land of green shrubs, and sweet waters bubbling from scented hillsides, overhung with blue skies which never brewed storms. A land of bud and bloom and blossom, scented and sweet, with every desirable weed and tasty herb--a land of life full and beautiful, of warm suns, calling up dreams from a blossoming mist of bluebells, creating the freshness and the happiness of youthfulness in every living thing. A land where far vistas and wide horizons, bounded by green hills, brought visions from the inner self, with joyous abundance through lusty life, and glorious passionate being--a land sweet and fruitful, and never-ending in its beauty and its means of happiness! Slowly the days passed, and her strength gradually increased little by little, until a month had gone past, and she was able to be about the house again; but this determination in her heart to go home grew stronger with every day that passed, and it seemed to give her strength and vitality, and her hope became more definite and more sure. She pictured her home again, as she had known it; the little kitchen, with its white scrubbed floor and a few newspapers spread over its newly washed surface to keep it clean from muddy feet; the white-washed jambs of the fireside, and the grate polished with blacklead; the clear-topped fender, with its inscription done in brass in the center, "Oor ain fireside"; the half-dozen strong sturdy, well-washed chairs; the whitewood dresser, with its array of dog ornaments and cheap vases, and white crocheted cover; and the curtains over the two beds in the kitchen. All these things she loved to think about, and she saw them pictured in her mind as real as they'd ever been to her when her own life was centered in them, and her fancy took delight in these secret joys. It was her home she saw always, the humble "but and ben" with the primitive conditions of life, the crude amenities, the sweet joys of simple unaffected people; but it was her home. One day, Mrs. Ramsay had gone out on an errand that detained her some time, Mysie seized suddenly again in a more intense form by her desire to go home, feverishly dressed herself, and hastily scribbling a note of thanks to her good friend and nurse, she stole out on to the street, a poor, forlorn, weak girl, but thoroughly determined to go home to where her heart called her. Out upon the street, she grew frightened. She did not know anything about the city, nor in which direction to turn. She had no idea how far it was to the station. She was helpless and alone, and very much excited. A boy passed her, whistling as she had often heard her own brothers whistling, and hastily calling to him she accosted him thus: "Could you tell me hoo far it is to the station?" "Whit station?" asked the boy, and she suddenly remembered it was Princes Street, and mentioned it. "Oh, ay; it's no' faur," he said airily, as he pointed in the direction of it. "Jist gang alang that way," and he turned away as if to leave her. "Wad you tak' me to it, an' I'll gie you a shillin'?" she asked, and he eagerly turned at once to close the bargain. "Oh, ay," he agreed, "I'll soon tak' you there," and the two set off; and guided by the boy, whose knowledge of the city seemed to her wonderful in one so young, they arrived at the station, with Mysie very tired and half-fainting with excitement. "Hae you a ticket?" asked the boy, judging from her appearance that she needed to be reminded of such things. "No, I forgot I hadna got yin," replied Mysie. "I wonder where I'll hae to gang to get yin. Hoo much will it be, think you?" "Oh, I dinna ken," said the boy. "Come alang here to the bookin' office, an' ask a ticket for the place you want to gang to, an' the clerk will soon tell you the price o't." Luckily Mysie had a few pounds in a purse which Peter had given her some time ago, in case she might want to go out, he said, and buy something she might want. Going to the booking office, and guided by her little friend, she timorously made known her wants, and a ticket was given her; and she returned under her youthful escort, who enquired the time of the trains leaving of a porter, and conducted her to the platform, and helped her into the train, which soon started off on the homeward journey. "Thenk you," said the boy, his eyes glowing with pleasure at the two shining half-crowns which Mysie had given him, and he waved his hand to her as the train steamed out of the platform. "Going home, going home," sang the wheels as the train rushed along. "Going home," with every beat of her heart they answered her with their cheery monotone. "Going home," they gurgled, as they freely ran down the gradients. "Going home, going home," as they ran along the flat moor. "Going home, going home," they panted up the inclines, but still joyous in the thought of getting there. Home, aye, home, they were taking her. Home to the cheery fireside, with the homely fare and the warm hearts! To the cosy corner by the fender at her father's feet, to the music of her mother's clicking needles as she knitted; to the sweet comfort of the love and kindness of brothers and sisters; to the warmth of glowing smiles and loving hearts. Home! Home! Oh, God! Comfort of weary and battered humanity, dragging its wounded and broken life to the shelter and the sanctity of love. So rose her hopes, and her heart sang as the brooding night lowered and the wind rose, bringing the rain lashing from the spring clouds to burnish the moor with storms. Home to the hearts that loved her first, and would love her to the end. At last the train steamed into the little station from which she had first gone to the great city, and everything looked just the same as upon that night, when she had stolen across the moor to run away where she expected to hide her shame, and try and redeem that one mistaken impulse, which had been so thoughtlessly indulged, and so terribly paid for in suffering and tears. The station-master looked at her keenly as she passed. She seemed so frail and weak looking to be abroad in such a night; but she passed on and out upon the country road that ran across the moor, where the darkness always lay thickest, and where the terrors of the timid were greatest, and the storms raged fiercest. On she battled, already feeling weak and tired; but always the thought of home waiting for her impelled her onward. Home was waiting over there--waiting just two miles off, where she could see the twinkling of the lights from the pithead at which she had worked, and where she had been so happy at the dreams conjured by six and sixpence per week. Down rushed the wind from the hills, careering along the wide moor, driving the rain and hail in front, as if he would burst the barriers of the world and go free. She halted and turned her back upon the blows, as if she would fall; but there were light and warmth, and love and cheerfulness over there, if only she could hold out till she reached them. She turned again, and a sheep scampered across the moorland path just in front, and the soft bleat of an early lamb soothed the quick excited leap in her heart. The rain ceased, and a pale glitter of the rim of a moon, like the paring of a giant's nail in the sky, glinted from behind the dark cloud, and flung a silver radiance over the bog-pools around, which glittered like patches of fairy silver upon a land of romance. She was wet, but not cold. The fever in her blood raged and she staggered forward again, slowly and tottering. A smile was playing about her lips and eyes. Her lips were parted, and her breast rose and fell like the heaving beat of an engine. But home beckoned and lured her onward, and the hope of a long dream filled her soul. Again a sharp scurry in front drove her heart to her mouth, as two hares battled and tore at each other for the love of the female which sat close by, watching the contest. The sharp swish of the wings of lapwings, as they dived towards her, filling the moors with their hard rasping double note, and also battling for possession of a mate, stirred her frightened blood; and at every step some new terror thrilled her, and kept her continually in a state of fear. Still she plodded on, and another squall of rain and hail followed, giving place soon to the glory of the cold moon, and again obscuring it in a quick succession of showers and calm moonshine. But there was home in front, and she was always drawing nearer. Just a little while now, a few hundred yards or so, and she would be there. Weak and exhausted, stumbling and rising again, driven by that unrelenting, irresistible desire, this poor waif of humanity, impelled by sheer force of will, staggered and crawled towards its hope, forward to its dream, and at last stood by the window of the home it had sought. Panting and utterly worn out, she stood holding on to the window ledge, her will now weakened, her strength of mind gone, and her desire forsaking her now that she was there. The wind fell to a mere whisper, and she stooped to look in at a chink in the shutter, the tears running in hot, scalding streams from her eyes and blinding her vision. The soft stirring of little limbs beneath her heart brought back the old desire to hide herself from everyone she had known. Oh, God! It was terrible thus to be torn; for she had sung the song of all motherhood in her own simple way--the song of the love that recreates the world. The same song that enables motherhood to commune with God. "I will walk in the pure air of the uplands, so that your life shall be sweet and clean. I shall bathe my body in the sweet waters of the earth, so that you shall be pure; I shall walk in meditation and solitude, so that your thoughts shall be worthy thoughts; I shall dwell on the hillsides, so that your mind shall be lofty; I shall love all living things, so that you shall be godly in the love of your kind; I shall be humble, so that you shall not be proud; I shall be tender, wandering among the sweet flowers, so that you shall never be rough or unkindly; I shall serve, so that you shall be kingly in your service to others. "Down in the valleys I shall linger, drinking in the music of sweet streams; and the songs of the morning and the eventide shall make you gentle and happy. The tender grass shall be my couch upon the moor, so that you can know the restfulness and comfort of love. The grateful trees shall shade me from the fierce heat of the sun, so that you shall be restful, yet active in kind deeds. Oh, I shall clothe me in the sweetest thoughts, and sing the sweetest songs, speak the kindliest words, and do the friendliest deeds--I shall lie down in gratitude for all that has ever been rendered to me, and shall keep faith with love, so that you--you who are me, you who are my heart and mind, my body and soul shall be ushered into the world as a savior of the race; and the lyrics of the dawn and the dayfall, of the golden, glorious day, and the silver radiant night, shall all be thine to interpret, in spirit and in word and service." Thus had motherhood sung in all ages, weaving the dreams of hope about the soul which she had called from eternity, after having gone upon that long perilous journey into the land of Everywhere to bring back a new life to the world. Mysie dashed the warm tears from her eyes, and looked again through the chink in the shutter. She had a full view of the kitchen. It was the same cosy, bright place it had always been, when she had sat there on the corner of the fender o' nights, her head against her father's knee, as he read out the news from the evening paper, while her mother sewed, or darned, or knitted. Her father sat in the easy chair, pale and thin and weak. He looked ill, and it seemed as if he were merely out of his bed, so that her mother might change the linen, for she was busy pulling off pillow-cases and putting clean ones on, and turning the chaff-filled tick to make it easier for his poor bones to lie on. He lay back in his chair, his eyes half closed, as if tired. "The wind has surely gane doon noo," Mysie heard her mother observe, as she spread out the clean white sheet upon the bed. "Ay, it seems to hae quietened," returned Matthew weakly. "It has been an awfu' nicht, and gey wild." "Ay, it has that. Peety ony puir body that has been oot in it," said her mother, with a deep sigh, as she folded back the blankets. "It's an awfu' nicht for the homeless to be oot in." Silence reigned for a short time, and only the whisper of the wind outside prevented the sobs of the poor waif at the window being heard. "You are lookin' a wee better the nicht, Matthew," said Mrs. Maitland after a long thoughtful pause, as she drew in her chair beside his. "Ay, I'm feelin' no' sae bad," he answered feebly. Then, as if having made up his mind about something, he went on, as he looked into the glowing fire, "Do you ken, wife, I hae been thinkin' a lot aboot oor Mysie a' day. I wonder what'll be the cause o't? But a' day she has been in my mind, an' I only hope naething has come to her." "I dinna ken, Matthew," she said; for this was the first time he had spoken about their missing daughter since the day they had learned of her disappearance. He had always remained silent when she had given expression to her thoughts regarding Mysie; but thinking this an encouragement, she spoke about her, and he too, in a way that made her wonder; for he was never talkative at any time, and it seemed as if his heart was hungering to talk of their bairn. "I wonder what wad hae come owre her, that nae spierin's o' her could be got. Puir Mysie! I liket that wean, wife--liket her maybe owre weel; an' my heart has been sair for her mony a time, wonderin' what has come o' her!" Mrs. Maitland lifted a corner of her rough apron and wiped her eyes, as she cried softly at hearing her husband thus speak of their missing daughter. "Do you think she'll be living, Matthew?" she asked looking through her tears at her husband anxiously. "That's hard to say, wife," he replied, a break in his voice. "Sometimes I think she maun be deid, or she wad hae come back to us in some way. I think we liket her weel enough, an' she kent it, and she was ay a guid lassie at a' times." "Ay, she was," replied the mother, "a guid bairn, an' a clever yin aboot the hoose; an' I never had an angry word frae her a' my days. Oh, Matthew," she cried out, again bursting into tears, and sobbing pitifully, "what is't we hae done to be tried like this? Mysie gane, an' guid kens where she is, an' John ta'en awa' jist when oor battle was beginnin' to get easier. Noo you hae been laid aside yoursel', an' God kens hoo we are to do, for hinna a penny left in the hoose! Oh, dear, but it's a hard lot we hae to suffer!" and she sobbed in silence, while her husband stroked her pale, thin, toil-worn hands that hid her weeping eyes. "Wheesht, lassie!" he said brokenly. "Dinna you break doon noo, for you hae been the mainstay o' us a', when we wad hae lost heart often. I used to think that oor lot couldna be harder, when the bairns were a' wee, an' we were struggling frae haun' to mooth, to see them fed an' cled. But wi' a' the hardships, thae days were happy. We were baith young, an' I was aye fairly healthy an' when we locked the door at nicht, we were satisfied that a' that belanged to us were inside, an' in safety, even though their wee stomachs maybe werena' ower fu'. But noo we canna do that, wife. Some hae gane to where want an' poverty canna hurt them, an' that is a consolation; but where will oor lassie be, that never gi'ed us a wrang word a' her days? Is she in want this nicht, the same as we are oorsels? Will she be hungry an' homeless, ill clad, an' oot in the storm? If she is, then God peety her. If only we had her aside us, hunger wad be easier tholed for us a'," and Matthew, unable to control himself longer, completely broke down and wept, mingling his tears with those of his wife, because of their misery and poverty and suffering. The girl outside could hardly restrain herself at thus hearing her parents speak. She sobbed and held on to the window ledge, her eyes fixed greedily upon the open chink in the shutter, listening to, and looking at her parents in their misery, as they sat and talked so kindly and anxiously about her--talked so that every word was a stab at her heart; for she had never heard them open their hearts like this before. "Ay, wife," he said after a time, "it was a sair blow to me. I could hae fain dee'd at the time; I was fair heartbroken. It's a gey queer world that brings the keenest pangs frae them that yin likes best. I could hae dee'd gladly to hae saved that bairn frae the slightest hurt!" "Matthew," said the mother, speaking with all her soul in her eyes, as she looked at him, "if by ony chance it should turn oot that Mysie gaed wrang an' fell into disgrace, wad ye tak' her back, if she should come hame again?" and there was a world of pleading in the mother's voice as she spoke. "Tak' her back! Oh, God, I'd dae onything to hae her here at this meenit, nae matter though it should be proved that she was guilty o' the warst sin under the sun. Tak' her back! Oh, wife! my heart is breakin' for her!" and he lifted his thin worn hand to his eyes and sobbed in his grief. "Weel, Matthew," returned the wife, "if ever she does come back, nae matter when it may be, or hoo it may be, I'm glad you'll no be harsh wi' her. You'll just speak to her as if naething had happened; for I ken she'll be mair feart to face you than onybody else. Jist try an' mak' her believe, when you speak, that she had gane awa' to the store a message, or to the well for watter, an' that she had bidden owre lang, as she an' ither weans used to do when they got started the play, an' forget to come hame. Jist speak to her that way, Matthew, an' the hame-comin', if ever it comes, will no' be sae hard for the puir bairn. For God knows, it micht be hard enough for her!" The girl outside, listening eagerly to every word, tried to cry out with the pain of all this talk by her parents, but her tongue clove to her parched mouth, and her lips were stiff and dry. "I'll never be harsh wi' a bairn o' mine, wife," he replied brokenly. "I liket Mysie owre weel ever to be harsh wi' her. Oh, if only I could see her afore me this nicht, I wad gie a' I ever had in the world. To hae her sittin' here, as she used to sit, her wee heid wi' its soft hair against my knee, an' my haun clappin' it, an' her bonnie een lookin' up at me, as if I was something she aye looket up to, as bein' better than ony living being she ever kenned, wad be mair pleasure for me this minute than if I got a' the money in the world. I'd swap heaven and my chances o' salvation, wife, jist to hae her sittin' here on the fender, as she used to sit. Hunger an' a' the rest wad be easy borne for that." There was a soft rustling sound at the window as he spoke, and a slow step was heard, which seemed to drag along towards the door, then a fumbling at the sneck, the handle lifted, and the door opened slowly inwards, as if reluctant to reveal its secret. It was a tense poignant moment for all; for both the father and mother, weak as the former was, rose to their feet expectantly, their eyes searching the slowly opening door, as a thin pale draggled figure entered and staggered forward with a low pitiful cry of "Faither! Mother! I've come hame!" and tottering forward, fell at Matthew's feet, clasping his knees with the thin fragile hands, while the tears of a heart-breaking sorrow flowed from the appealing eyes, upturned to the amazed parents. "Mysie! Mysie!" he sobbed, clasping her to his thin worn knees, and kissing the bent head, as she sobbed and cried. "Oh, Mysie! Mysie! but you hae been a lang time at the store!" CHAPTER XXIII HOME "Oh my puir wean! My bonnie bairn!" crooned Mrs. Maitland, as she bent over the figure of her daughter who, clinging to Matthew's knees, was looking up into his face, as he lay back in his chair where he had fallen, when Mysie fell at his feet. "Oh, my puir lamb, you're wet to the skin, an' fair done; for God knows its an' awfu' mess you hae cam' hame in." "Puir thing," she wailed and crooned, again breaking out after having kissed and fondled Mysie's wet face. "We hae lang hungered for you--hungered for you for a gey lang time, an' noo you hae cam' hame, near to daith's door. But we'll nurse you back. We'll mak' you strong and healthy again. Oh, Mysie, my puir lassie. What ails you? Where hae you been? What has happened to you a' this time? But what am I thinking aboot," she broke off, "sitting here, when I should be gettin' some dry claes for you, an' a bed ready." She rose and began to busy herself shaking up a bed and diving into drawers, bringing clean clothes forth and hanging them over a piece of rope which stretched across the fireplace, so as to air and heat them, the tears streaming from her eyes and occasionally a low moan breaking from her as if forced by some inward pain; while Matthew, nearly overcome with excitement, could only lie back in his chair, his eyes closed and his hands stroking tenderly the wet young head that lay against his knee. "Faither," murmured Mysie, brokenly and weakly, "oh, faither, I've come back. Jist let me lie here near you. I jist want you to clap my held, to lean against you, an' gang to sleep. Are you angry wi' me, faither? Are you--" and Mysie's eyes closed in a faint, as she lay limp against his knee. Just then the door opened and Mrs. Sinclair came in. She always came in, after she had got everyone in the house to bed, to see how Matthew felt. It was her first errand in the morning and her last before retiring at night. She was generally the last visitor, and the door was always locked and barred when she went away. "Oh, Nellie, come awa' in," said Matthew. "You're a God's send this nicht. I'm glad to see you. Mysie's jist cam' back, an' she has fented. Gie's a bit haun' wi' her to get her into bed. Puir thing. She's fair done up," and Matthew tried to raise up the prostrate figure of his bairn; but sank back too weak, and too overcome to do anything. "Dinna you trouble yourself, Matthew," said Mrs. Sinclair, gathering the prostrate girl in her arms and raising her up on her knee like a child. "Bring some dry claes. Jenny, an' get some warm watter bottles in the bed. Puir thing, she's in an awfu' state. She's a' tremblin' an' maun hae been awfu' ill," and she worked with and stripped the wet clothes from the girl and soon had her in bed, but in spite of all her efforts Mysie remained unconscious. She then left to get the doctor summoned, leaving the sorrowing parents to look after the girl till she returned. When she did come back, Matthew was in bed and his condition very much worse. The excitement had been too much for him in his weakened state and he lay exhausted, crying like a child. Soon the doctor came and did all in his power. At the end of an hour Mysie's eyes opened and she looked about her. "Where's my faither?" she asked weakly. "Oh, I'm gled I'm hame." "He's in bed," answered Mrs. Sinclair. "An' you're no' to talk the nicht, Mysie. Jist lie still, like a good lass, an' drink this, an' in the mornin' you'll may be a bit better." And Mysie drank, and with a sigh of happy contentment, she turned her face to the wall, glad she was now at home--home with her wounded spirit and broken life. The soft easy chaff bed gave her more of rest and satisfaction than if it had been eiderdown. She traced as of old the roses upon the cheap paper with which the box bed was papered, and which had been her mother's pride when it was put on. Mysie watched the twining and intertwining of the roses, as they reached upward toward the ceiling through a maze of woodbine and red carnations, and noted that the curtains upon the bed were the same as they were when she had last slept there. The old wag-at-the-wa' clock which had belonged to her grandfather, wheezed wearily from the corner and the shrill eerie call of a courting cat outside broke familiarly upon her ear. Thus surrounded by the sights and sounds of old, a glad contentment in her heart, she soon dozed off into a deep sleep. When Mrs. Sinclair went home just as midnight was striking she found Robert sitting by the fire wondering at her absence. He had just returned from a meeting at a neighboring village, and finding his brothers and sisters all in bed and his mother not in the house with his tea ready for him as usual, he wondered what was the matter. "I was owre at Matthew's," she replied in answer to the question she knew he was going to ask. "Is he waur the nicht?" he asked quickly. "Weel, it's no' him, although he's gey upset too; but Mysie has cam' hame the nicht, an' puir lassie she is in an awfu' state," and she was quick to note the soft blanching of his cheek as she spoke. "Mysie hame," he echoed with quick interest. "Ay, puir lassie; but I doot if I'm no' cheated that Mysie'll no' be lang anywhere. The doctor says she's to be keepit quate; for she's gey low. In fact he felt me at the door that he dinna think she could last a week." Robert sat a long time looking into the fire, while his mother got ready his tea, and described to him all that she knew of Mysie's return and of her sad condition. "You'd hardly ken her," she went on. "She's that thin and white and faur gane lookin', forby havin' a boast that wad fricht you. Puir lassie, I was vexed for her an' Matthew too is gey upset aboot it. Dae you ken, Rob, I believe they mun be gey hard gruppit. Wi' Matthew being off work, and John deein' an' a' the ither troubles they had this while, I think they canna be ower weel off." "Ay," he said, "they canna be ower weel off; for they hae had a lot to dae this while. You micht look to them, mither. We are no sae ill off noo, an' we can afford tae help them." "Weel, Rob, I've been aye givin' them a bit hand, buying beef for soup an' that' an' daein' a' I could. But I'm awfu' puttin' aboot ower puir Mysie. She's gey faur gane, an' wherever she has been she's been haein a bad time of it." "I saw her at Edinburgh," he said quietly, as she paused to pour out the tea. "In Edinburgh?" "Ay," he replied. "Last month when I was at the conference," and Robert told his mother the whole story of his meeting with Mysie and of her disappearance and all that had happened to her from the time she had gone away. "But you never telt yin o' us, Rob," she said after he had come to the end of the story. "No, I never telt ony o' you; for Mysie made me promise no' to tell; an' forby she wadna' gi'e me her address. But I was that upset that day that I couldn't collect mysel' an' I minded o' a lot o' things I should hae done an' said after I left her. It was terrible," and he relapsed into silence again, as he went on with his supper. His mother saw all the pain in his heart that night, though neither spoke much of the state of his feelings for Mysie; but it was evident to her who saw all the cross currents of fate, perhaps more clearly than Robert knew. She looked at him with furtive pride. There was no showy parading of what he felt, but only the set of the mouth was a little firmer perhaps than usual and the eyes a little softer and glistening. That was all. "Ay, Robin," she said brokenly, unable to hide her pride and weakness. "I ken a' that you hinna telt me. I guessed it years syne; but I'm sure noo. An' I'm awfu' vexed, laddie; ay, I'm awfu' vexed," and with that he withdrew to his room, more touched with her simple words of sympathy than anything she had ever said to him in all her previous life. Mrs. Sinclair went to bed, but she knew her laddie had not done so. She heard him in his room and knew that in the silence of the night and in the privacy and secrecy of his own room he was fighting out his battle with fate, and she knew that no one could help him--that only the fiber of his own soul could help him through. In the morning he rose early and went for a walk, for it was Sunday. Returning, he found his mother with the latest news of Mysie's condition. She waited until the other members of the house had gone out, and then with a sigh observed very quietly but with a world of tender sympathy in her voice: "Mysie's sinkin' fast, Robin. I think you should gang ower and see her. She canna' last very lang, puir thing, an' she was askin' aboot you when I was ower. I think she wad like to see you. You'll gang ower and see her, Rob," she entreated, a sob in her throat as she spoke. "She'll be awfu' pleased to see you." "Ay, I'll gang ower, mither," he replied simply. "I'll gang ower efter a wee while." But it was drawing near to the darkness when he managed to summon sufficient resolution to face the ordeal. Mysie was lying in the room and he went in to see her--her whom he would have given his own life to restore to activity and health again. A low moan occasionally escaped her as she panted and battled for breath and the color came and faded from her cheeks in quick fleeting waves. Oh God! Was this Mysie--this faint apparition of the girl whom he had loved? Even in the short month when he had seen her in Edinburgh a very great change had been wrought upon her. The eyes, softly glowing with a quiet radiance as they rested upon his face, were sunk, and the voice faint and weak. A thin white hand lay upon the coverlet and the great waves of brown hair which had been his pride, were tumbled about the thin face framing it in a tangled oak brown frame of deepest beauty. She lifted her hand as he approached, a sweet smile breaking through her pain, caught him in radiance of love. "I'm glad you've come, Rob," she panted. "I jist wanted to see you again--an'--an' tak' good-by wi' you," and the quick catch in her words gripped his heart as he knelt beside the bed, taking the thin hand between his while the tears started from his eyes and fell upon the white bed cover. "Oh, Mysie," he said brokenly. His voice refused to go further and he bent his head upon the bed, trying hard to control himself and keep from breaking down before her. "I'm awfu' vexed, Rob," she said, after a while. "It was a' a mistak' an' naebody's to blame. I ought to hae kent better mysel'," and she paused again for breath. "I--I should hae kent better, that nae guid could come--oot o' it--I was just carried awa'. Dinna ever blame lasses--nor men either, when things happen. They--they canna help themsel's--" and here again she paused for breath, gasping and fighting at every word. "It's a' a mistake, Rob, an' I think it's a' in the way folk look at thae things." Another pause, while her chest heaved and panted. "Maybe we dinna look at thae things richt," she again resumed. "We--we mak' mistak's and canna help oorsel's; but God dinna mean it as--as a mistak'. It's a' because we think it is. Everything's richt--but we mak' them wrang in the way we look at them. It wad hae--been a' richt--in oor mind, if I had been married afore--afore it happened--but because we werena married--it was wrang. It's a' a mistak' Rob, a' a--" and a burst of coughing nearly choked her and a flood of blood began to gurgle in her mouth. Robert grew alarmed and lifting a cloth began to wipe the blood from her mouth, looking on her so concerned and anxious that she tried to smile to him to reassure him. Presently she lay back with eyes closed and her hand limp in his. A wild fear took possession of him as he looked upon the scarcely moving breast, a fear which seemed to communicate itself to the sufferer, and she opened her eyes again, but the voice was weak and very far away. "Dinna be angry wi' onybody, Rob. It was you I liket, it was you I wanted--but it was a' a mistake." "I'm no' angry, Mysie," he said stifling his sobs, his tears falling upon the white thin face. "Oh, Mysie, I'm only vexed. I'm only vexed aboot the hale sad business. There now, dearie," he said bending low over her and kissing and stroking the pallid brow and caressing the face so dear to him. "There noo, I'm no' angry. You're mine, Mysie. You've always been mine, an' I'm no' angry. But oh, I love you, Mysie, an' it's breaking my heart to part frae you. Oh, God!" he groaned in agony. "What does it a' mean? I canna' bear it,--I canna' bear't," and a wild burst of grief swept over him as he flung his head and arms upon the bed in a vain attempt to control his sobbing sorrow. A long pause--then the white hand was raised and crept slowly over his shoulder, working its way among the thick shaggy hair of his head as the fingers strayed from curl to curl, patting him and soothing him as a child is soothed by a mother's hand. It rested upon his bent head and the eyes opened again. "Ay, Rob, I'm vexed for your sake--but it was a' a mistake." She went on halting and very weak. "It was a' a mistak'--an' naebody is to blame. We are just--driven alang, an'--we canna help oorsel's--it's awfu' to hae--sic feelin's--an'--an' no' hae any poo'er--to guide them richt--it's ay the things we want maist--that we dinna get. Kiss me, Rob--kiss me, as you kissed me--yon--nicht on the muir. Haud me like you--an' I think I can--gang content. Oh, Rob,--ay liket you--it was you I wanted a' the time!" He clasped her tenderly in his arms as he kissed her mouth, her eyes, her brow, her hair, stroking her and fondling the dear face, catching hungrily the smile that came to the pale lips, and lingered there like a blink of sun upon a hillside after the rest of the landscape is clothed in shadow. Again there was a pause while he searched the pale face with the lingering smile, noting the veined, almost discolored eyelids, transparent and closed over the tired suffering eyes. Then a burst of coughing again and the blood in thick clots gurgled up from the throat. Then after a little she spoke again. "Oh, Rob, you hae made me very happy. But I'm vexed aboot you--an'--an' Peter. He tried to dae what was richt; but it wasna to be--I hope you'll--no'--be angry wi' him. He was like me--he couldna' help it." "Oh, Mysie, I'm no' angry wi' him," he replied brokenly, trying hard to make his voice sound dearly. "I'm no' angry wi' onybody." "I'm glad o' that, Rob," she said, her hand caressing his head. "You was ay a guid hearted laddie--I'm awfu' glad." Then her mind began to wander and she was back in Edinburgh speaking of her father and John. "Oh, faither," she rambled on. "Dinna be angry wi' me. There's naebody to blame. Dinna be angry." Then Robert was conscious that others were in the room, and looking up he beheld his mother and Jenny Maitland and behind them with anxious face and frightened eyes stood Peter Rundell, the picture of misery and despair. "She's kind o' wanderin', puir thing," he heard the mother say in explanation to the others. "She's kind o' wanderin' in her mind." It was a sad little group which stood round the dying girl, all anxious and alarmed and watchful. Then after a while she opened her eyes again and there was a look of startled surprise as if she were looking at something in the distance. Then she began to recognize each and all of them in turn, first Robert, who still held her hand, then her mother and Nellie, and Peter. A faint smile came into her eyes and he stepped forward. Her lips moved slowly and a faint sound came falteringly from them. "Dinna be angry wi' onybody," she panted. "It was a'--a--mistake." Then raising her hand she held it out to Peter, who advanced towards the bedside and placing his hand on Robert's she clasped them together in her own. "There noo--dinna be angry--it was a' a mistake. It was Rob I liket--it was him--I wanted. But it--was--a' a mistak'. Dinna be--" and the glazed sunken eyes closed forever, never to open again, a faint noise gurgled in her throat, and the dews of death stood out in beads upon the pale brow. A tiny quiver of the eyelids, and a tremor through the thin hands and Mysie--poor ruined broken waif of the world--was gone. "Oh, my God! She's deid," gasped Robert, clasping the thin dead hands in a frenzy of passionate grief. "Oh, Mysie! Mysie! Oh God! She's deid," and his head bent low over the bed while great sobs tore through him, and shook his young frame, as the storm shakes the young firs of the woods. Then suddenly recollecting himself as his mother put her hand upon his bent head saying: "Rise up, Robin, like a man. You maun gang oot noo." He rose and with tears in his eyes that blinded him so that he hardly saw where he was going, he stumbled out into the darkness under the pale stars--out into the night to the open moor, his grief so burdening that he felt as if the whole world had gone from his reckoning. "Oh, my poor Mysie," he groaned. "It was all a horrible mistake," and the darkness came down in thick heavy folds as if the whole world were mourning for the loss of the young girl's soul, but it brought no comfort to him. CHAPTER XXIV A CALL FOR HELP It was a quiet night in early April, full of the hush which seems to gather all the creative forces together, before the wild outburst of prodigal creation begins in wild flower and weed and moorland grasses, and Robert Sinclair, who had walked and tramped over the moors for hours, until he was nearly exhausted, his heart torn and his mind in an agony of suffering, sat down upon a little hillock, his elbows on his knees and his hands against his cheeks. The moor-birds screamed and circled in restless flight around him. They were plainly protesting against his intrusion into their domain. They shrilled and dived in their flight, almost touching the bent head, with swooping wing, to rise again, cleaving the air and sheering round again; but still the lonely figure sat looking into darkness, becoming numbed with cold, and all unconscious of the passage of time. Gradually the cold began to tell upon him, and he started to his feet, plodding up the hill, through the soft mossy yielding soil. Back again he came after a time, his limbs aching with the long night's tramping; but yet he never thought of going home or turning towards the village. "Oh, Mysie!" he groaned again and again, and all night long only these two words escaped his lips. They came in a low sad tone, like the wind coming through far-off trees; but they were vibrant with suffering, and only the moor-birds cried in answer. "Oh, Mysie!" and the winds sighed it again and again, as they came wandering down out of the stillness between the hills, to pass on into the silence of the night again, like lost souls wandering through an uncreative world, proclaiming to other spheres the doom that had settled upon earth. "Oh, Mysie!" groaned a moorland brook close by, which grumbled at some obstruction in its pathway, and then sighed over its mossy bed, like a tired child emerging exhausted from a long fever, to fall asleep as deeply as if the seal of death had been planted upon the little lips. Occasionally he shifted his position, as his limbs grew cramped, or rose to pace the moor again to bring himself more exhaustion; but always he came back to the little knoll, and sat down again, groaning out the sad plaintive words, that were at once an appeal and a cry, a defiance and a submission. By and by the first gray streaks of dawn came filtering through the curtains of the cloudy east, touching the low hills with gray nimble fingers, or weaving a tapestry of magic, as they brightened and grew clearer, over the gray face of the morn. Soon the birds leapt again from every corner, climbing upon the ladders of light and tumbling ecstasies of mad joy to welcome the day, as if they feared to be left in the darkness with this strange figure, which merely sat and groaned softly, and looked before it with silent agony in its eyes; and now that the light had again come, they shouted their protest in a louder, shriller note; they mounted upon the waves of light and swooped down into the trough of the semi-darkness, expostulating and crying, not so much in alarm now, as in anger. For with the light comes courage to birds as well as men, and fear, the offspring of ignorance, which is bred in darkness, loses its power when its mystery is revealed. But even with the coming of the day the still silent figure did not move. It continued to sit until the birds grew tired of protesting, and even the mountain hare wandered close by, sniffing the breeze in his direction, and cocking its ears and listening, as it sat upon its hind legs, only to resume its leisurely wandering again, feeling assured that there was nothing to fear in the direction of this quiet, bent figure of sorrow, that sat merely staring at the hills, and saw naught of anything before him. The things he saw were not the things around him. He was moving in a multitude again. He was walking among them with pity in his heart--a great pity for their ignorance, their lack of vision; and he was giving them knowledge and restoring light to their eyes, to widen their range of vision, so that they could take things in their true perspective. He was full of a great sympathy for their shortcomings, recognizing to the full that only by sowing love could love be reaped, only in service could happiness be found--that he who gave his life would save it. The great dumb mass of humanity needed serving--needed love. It passed on blindly, wounding itself as it staggered against its barriers, bruising its heart and soul in the darkness, and never learning its lessons. Saviors in all ages had lifted the darkness a bit, and given knowledge, and sometimes it had profited for a while till false prophets arose to mislead. It was a seething feverish mass, stamping and surging towards every blatant voice which cried the false message to it, rousing it to anger, and again misleading, until it often rose to rend its saviors instead of those who had duped it so shamelessly. All the tragic procession filed past, and he gave them peace and knowledge. By and by they grew to a long thin stream, feverish and agitated, seemingly all converging towards a point--pain and anxiety in every quick movement, and suffering in every gesture. He looked with still more and more compassion upon them, with a greater love in his breast, but it did not calm them as before, and at last in desperation he stretched out his hands in appealing pity for them, his whole being aglow with the desire to help and pity and love, and he found that the scene changed. He was on the moor, and there was the discomfort of cold in his limbs; but--yes, he was looking at the pit, and there was a long stream of men, women and children, principally women and children, running frantically across the moor towards the pit, and he could hear the faint sound of their voices, which clearly betokened suffering, anxiety and alarm. Something had happened. He must have been looking at that procession for a long time, he realized, and pulling himself together, he bounded to his feet and was off in a long striding race through the moor towards the pit, his heart telling him that something had happened which was out of the ordinary kind of accident that regularly happened at a coal mine. He bounded along, knowing as he went that there was something more of sorrow for his mother in this, whatever it was. He felt so, but could not account for the feeling, and as this thought grew in intensity in his mind, he changed his course a bit, and made for home, to ascertain what had really happened. It was something big, he felt, but whatever it was, his mother must again be called upon to suffer, and his alarm grew with his pace, until he arrived breathless at the house. One look at her face, and he knew his instincts had told him the truth. She was white and strained, though tearless, but her eyes were full of an awful suffering. "What has happened, mother?" he demanded, as if he could hardly wait for her to answer. "The moss has broken in, an' twenty-three men are lost. Jamie an' Andra are among them. They gaed oot themselves this morning, telling me they could work fine, even though you werena there. Oh, Rob! What will I do! Oh, dear! Oh, dear! My bonnie laddies!" and with a sob in her voice she turned away, and Robert was again out of the house, and running through the moor to the pit, as hard as desperation could drive him. His two brothers were down there, and they must be got out. Even as he ran he wondered what strange freak of fate it was, that had kept him out there on the moor all night and so saved him from this terrible fate. He could understand how his brothers would feel at the chance of working one day by themselves. He had always been their guide and protector. They had gone into the pit with him when they left school, and had just continued working with him since, learning their trade from his greater experience, and trusting always to his better judgment when there was danger to avoid. They would go out that day with the intention of working like slaves to produce an extra turn of coal. Even though it were but one extra hutch, they would fill it, and slave all day with never a rest, so that they could have the satisfaction of seeing approval in his eyes, when they told him at night how many they had turned out, and how well things had gone generally with them in his absence. He reached the pit, to find that the moss was already rising in the shaft, and that there was no possibility of getting down to try and save these twenty-three men and boys who were imprisoned in the darkness beneath. He came across Tam Donaldson, who was the last to get up. "Tell me aboot it, Tam," he said. "Is there no chance of getting down? Do you think any of them will be safe so far?" and a whole lot of other anxious questions were rattled off, while Tam, dripping wet from having to wade and fight the last fifty fathoms toward the pit bottom, through the silent, sinister, creeping moss that filled the roadways and tunnels, stood to give him an account of what had taken place. "They were a' sitting at their piece, Rob--a' but James and Andra. They were keen to get as muckle work done as possible, an' they had some coal to get to fill oot a hutch, when a' at yince we heard Andra crying on us to rin. Had they a' ran doon the brae we'd a' hae been safe, for we could hae gotten to the bottom afore the moss; but some ran into the inside heading, an' hadna time to realize that their outlet was cut off, an' there they are; for the moss was comin' doon the full height of the road when I ran back to try an' cry on them to come back. So I had to rin for't too, an' jist got oot by the skin o' my teeth. "I kent fine it wad happen," he went on, as Robert stood, the tears in his eyes, as he realized how hopeless the position was of ever being able to restore these men and boys again to their homes. There was anger in Tam's voice as he spoke. "It's a' to get cheap coal, an' they ought to hae known, for they were telt, that to open oot that seam into long well workings so near the surface, an' wi' sic a rotten roof, was invitin' disaster, wi' as muckle rain as we hae had lately. They are a lot o' murderers--that's what they are! But what the hell do they care, sae lang as they get cheap coal!" Robert turned away sick at heart. It was certainly a foolish thing, he had thought at the time, for the management to change their method of working the coal; for even though the seam had grown thinner, he felt that it could have still been worked at a profit under the old system. He knew also that the men were all upset at the time by this change, but the management had assured them that there was no danger, and that it would mean more money for the men, as they would be enabled to produce more coal. This certainly had happened for a week or two, but the rates were soon broken, because they were making too high wages; and the men found, as usual, that their increased output had merely meant increased work for them, and increased profits for the owners. Was there nothing to be done? Robert wondered, as he paced restlessly back and forth, his mind busy, as the mind of every man present, and anxious to make any sacrifice, to take any risk, if by so doing they might save those imprisoned in the mine. Even while his mind was working, he could not help listening to the talk of those around him. There were strange opinions expressed, and wild plans of rescue were suggested and discussed and disputed. Everyone condemned the coal company for what had happened, but over all there were the white-faced women and the silent children; the muffled sobs, the tears, and the agony of silent wet eyes that spoke more pain than all the tragedies that had ever been written. Robert could not help listening to one man--a big, raw, loosely-built fellow, who stood in the midst of a group of women laying off his idea of a rescue. "I'm rale glad to be out of it," he said, "for Jean's sake, an' the bairns; but for a' that I'd gang doon again an' try an' get them oot if there was ony chance o' doin' it." "Hoo is Jean?" one woman interposed to enquire about his wife, who had been ill a long time. "Oh, she's gettin' on fine noo, an' the doctor has a hopeful word o' her," he answered. "In fact, I was just feeding the birds the last time he was in, an' asked him hoo she was doin'." This man, Dugald McIntosh, had one god--his canaries. He read all he could get to read about them, and studied the best conditions under which to rear them, sacrificed everything he could to breed better birds, and this was always a topic for him to discourse upon. "I was just busy feedin' them when he cam' in, and after he had examined her, I asked him hoo she was gettin' on." "Fine," he said, "gi'e her plenty o' sweet milk noo, and fresh eggs, an' she'll sune be on her feet again. Fresh eggs! mind you, an' me canna get yin for my canaries! I thocht it was a guid yin!" Robert turned away; but there was working in his mind an idea, and he ran round to the colliery office to the manager, who was nearly mad with grief and anxiety at what had happened. "Come in, Sinclair," he said simply. "Can you suggest anything to help us? Whatever is done, it can only be done quickly; for the moss is rising rapidly in the shaft, and even though some of the men are safe in the upper workings, it is only a question of a very short time till the moss will rise and suffocate them, or until the black damp does so. If you have any idea that can help, out with it and let us make a trial, for the inactivity is killing me." "I have been thinking, Mr. Anderson," replied Robert, "that we might go down the old air-shaft over in the moss there, and run along the top level, which is not far from the surface, and try and blast it through on the heading into which the moss broke." It might be full of moss too, for no one knew the extent of the breakage in the metals, and even though it were clear, the damp would be lying in it; but surely they might make an attempt on it. Robert remembered working this level to within about nine feet from going through on the heading. If he had plenty of hands, just to go down and drill a hole in anywhere, and blast out the coal with a shot or two wherever he could best place them, he might succeed in getting through to the men. It might be that after the first rush filling the roadways, the flood of moss had drained off, and was not now running so thickly down the heading. "Let me go and try, sir," he pleaded eagerly. "I think I can manage, if the level is still unbroken. We can work in short turns, so as not to be overcome with the damp. Will you let me have a try? I believe it's the only chance we have, and if we do succeed, look what it will mean to the women in the village. Will you let me try?" "Yes," replied Anderson, reaching for his lamp, "and I shall be one of the triers too. Go out and pick seven or eight men. I'll get the necessary tools and get off over the moor to the old air shaft. It may still be open. It is a pity we let it go out of repair, but we can have a trial." Robert ran out, a hope filling his heart, telling his news to those round about, and the first man to step forth, before he had finished, was Dugald McIntosh, the man who had put more value on his canaries than on his wife's health, who quietly lifted up the drills the manager had brought, and slinging them lightly over his shoulder, was off across the moor at a run, with a dozen men at his heels, all eager to get to grips with the danger, and try to rescue their imprisoned comrades. CHAPTER XXV A FIGHT WITH DEATH Robert Sinclair seemed to be the one man who knew what to do--at least, he seemed to be the only one who had a definite aim in view and as if by some natural instinct everyone was just ready to do his bidding. He was the leader of the herd towards whom everyone looked ready for a new order to meet any new situation which might arise. Initiative and resource were a monopoly in his hands. He was silent, and worked to get ready to descend the old air-shaft, with grim set lips. Yet there seemed to be no sense of bustle, only the work was done quickly and orderly, his orders being issued as much by signs as by speech, and soon a windlass was erected with ropes and swing chair fastened, into which he at once leaped, followed by another man. Tools and explosives were packed in and lamps lit and the order given to lower the chair. Robert felt a queer sort of feeling as he stood waiting on the first motion of the little drum round which the rope wound. He was cool and clear brained--in fact he wondered why he was so collected. He felt he was standing out of all this maelstrom of suffering and terror. Not that he was impervious to anxiety for the men below, not that he was unmoved by all that it meant to those standing round; but after that first wild throb of terror that had clutched at his heart when his mother had told him the dread news and that his two brothers were imprisoned in the mine, something seemed suddenly to snap within him, the load and the intensity of the pain lifted, and from that moment he had been master of the situation. He glanced round him as he waited quietly in his swinging seat. He felt as he looked, no sense of fear or impending doom. He knew that black damp probably lay in dense quantities down in that yawning gulf below him, he knew that the sides of the shaft were in a bad state of disrepair, and that they might give way at any time as the swinging rope must inevitably touch them, and bring the whole thing in upon him, with hundreds of tons of débris and moss. Yet it was not of these things he thought. Perhaps he did not think of anything particularly, but a far-off lilt of a children's game which was played at school, kept iterating and reiterating through his brain, and everything seemed done to that tune. "Don't take a laddie, oh, Laddie oh, laddie oh, Don't take a laddie oh, Take a bonnie wee lassie." It sang continually within him and men seemed to move to its regular beat, as they hurried to get ready. He looked at the hills, and noted how quiet everything seemed, their curving outlines gave such a sense of eternal rest. There was a patch of lovely blue sky above him, he noticed where the clouds opened up and a glint of golden glorious sunshine came through; but it looked garish and it closed again and the white clouds trailed away, their lower fringes clinging to the hill tops like veils of gossamer woven by time to deck the bride of Spring. A lark rose at the edge of the crowd of weeping women and children as if unmindful of the tragedy over which it sang so rapturously, and he noted its fluttering wings and swelling throat as it soared in circles of glad song. All these things and more he noted though it was but a momentary pause. "Are you right?" came the question from the men at the windlass, far away it seemed and unconnected with the scene. "Right," he answered with a start, and looking round he seemed to become aware of the white-faced, red-eyed women among whom his mother's face seemed to stand out. She was not weeping, he noticed, but oh God! her face seemed to turn him with the intensity of the suffering in her eyes. He realized that he had not noticed her before, and now with a wild throb of pity he stretched out his hands towards her, a look of suffering in his eyes, as if he were feeling the pains of humanity crucified anew, and the chair began to drop slowly below the surface, swinging down into the darkness and the evil dangers that lurked below. Her face was the last thing he saw--a face full of agony yet calm with a great renunciation coming to birth in her eyes, her lips drawn thin like a slit in her face and all the color gone from them, the head bent a little as if a great blow had fallen upon her--an island of agony set in a sea of despair. A wild impulse seized him to go back. It was too much to ask of a woman, he felt. Too great a burden of tragedy to heap upon one soul, as he cast his mind back through the suffering years and viewed all the pain she had borne, and the terrible Gethsemane which her life had been; but as the chair swung round he clutched the swaying rope and with the other hand steadied it from crashing against the side of the shaft as they slowly dropped lower and lower into the darkness and the evil smells which hung around. "Things look bad here," said his comrade as they passed down where at some time a huge portion from the side had fallen out and down into the bottom of the old shaft. "Ay," answered Robert, "everything seems just ready to collapse," and they dropped lower and lower, swaying from side to side, cautiously guiding their swinging chair from the moss-oozing side, their nerves strained as they listened to the creeking rope as it was paid out from above. "Holy God," cried his mate, "that was a near thing," as a huge mass of rocks and slimy moss lunged out a little below them and hurtled away in a loud rumbling noise. Robert pulled the signal cord to stop and looked up to see the white clouds passing over the narrow funnel-like shaft in which they hung. Then he gave the signal to let out again noting how thick with damp the atmosphere was becoming, and having difficulty with his light. Lower and lower they swung and dropped down into the old shaft and as the rope creaked and crazed above them it lilted: "Choose, choose, wha' you'll tak', Wha' you'll tak', wha' you'll tak', Choose, choose wha' you'll tak', A laddie or a lassie." And the memory of the old lilt brought back other scenes again and he found himself guiding the chair from the shaft side steering it off with his hand at every rhythmic beat of the child song. Soon they reached the bottom of the shaft, for it was not very deep, and found a mass of débris, almost choking up the roadways on either side of the bottom. But they got out of their chair and soon began to "redd" away the stones though they found very great difficulty in getting the lamps to burn. Occasionally, as they worked, little pieces came tumbling from the side of the shaft, telling its own tale, and as soon as Robert got a decent sized kind of opening made through the rocks which blocked the roadway he sent up the other man to bring down more help and to get others started to repair the old shaft by putting in stays and batons to preserve the sides and so prevent them from caving in altogether. He found his way along the level which had been driven to within nine feet of going through on the heading in which the inbreak of moss had taken place. He noticed the roof was broken in many places and that the timber which had been put in years before was rotten. Strange noises seemed to assail his senses, and stranger smells, yet the lilt of that old childish game was ever humming in his brain and he saw himself with other boys and girls with clasped hands linked in a circle and going round in a ring as they sang the old ditty. "Three breakings should dae it," he said as he looked at the face of the coal dripping with water from the cracks in the roof. "If only they were here to put up the props. I could soon blow it through," and he began to prepare a place for batons and props, pending the arrival of more help from those who were only too eager to come down to his aid. It was almost an hour before help came in the shape of two men carrying some props. Then came another two and soon more timber began to arrive regularly and the swinging blows of their hammers as they drove in the fresh props were soon echoing through the tunnels, and Robert set up his boring machine and soon the rickety noise of it drowned all others. He paused to change a drill when a faint hullo was heard from the other side. "Hullo," he yelled, then held his breath in tense silence to hear the response which came immediately. "Are you all safe?" he roared, his voice carrying easily through the open coal. "Ay," came the faint answer; "but the moss is rising in the heading and you'll have to hurry up." Robert knew this, and one of his helpers had gone down an old heading to explore and had returned to say that it was rising steadily and was now within two hundred feet from the old shaft down which he had descended. "Where away did the roof break?" roared Robert as he changed his second drill. "Half way doon the cousie brae," came the answer, "an' we're all shut in like rats. Hurry up and get us oot," and again the rickety, rackety noise of the boring machine began and drowned all other noises. He soon drilled his holes and he could hear them on the other side singing now some ribald song to keep up their courage, while others who were religiously inclined chanted hymns and psalms, but all were wondering whether Robert and his men would be able to break through the barrier in time to save them before the persistently rising moss claimed them. He charged his shots and called them to go back, telling them the number of his charges, then lit his fuse and ran out of the old level to wait in a place of safety while the explosion took place. Soon they boomed out and the concussion put them all in darkness; but they soon had the lamps re-lit and were back in among the thick volumes of powder smoke, groping about and shading their lamps and peering in to see what their shots had done to lessen the barrier between them and their imprisoned comrades. Then the shovels set to work and tossed the coal which the shots had dislodged back into the roadway and soon the boring machines were busy again, eating into the coal; for those tireless arms of Robert's never halted. He swung the handle or wielded the pick or shovel, never taking a, rest, while the sweat streamed from his body working like some mechanical product for always in his mind he was calculating his chances for being able to blast it through the barrier before the moss rose. "It has only a stoop length an' a half to rise now," reported one of the men. "It's creeping up like the doom o' the day o' judgment. But I think we'll manage. If these shots do as well as the last ones we should be within two feet of them, an' surely to God we can bite the rest of it, if we canna blaw it. Let me stem the shots, Rob, an' you take a rest." "You go to hell," was the unexpectedly astounding reply; for no one had ever heard Robert Sinclair use language like this before. "As soon as thae shots are off an' if they blaw as well as the others we'll turn out the coal an' then you can gang up the pit, every yin o' you. I'll soon blow through the rest of it, and if you are all up by then it will make for speed in getting the others out. We're going to have a race for it even though we manage as I'm thinking to. So get out of the way and don't talk. Again the air's getting too dam'd thick for you all remaining here. There's hardly as muckle as would keep a canary living," and again he called to those on the other side to beware of the shots, and again ran out to a place of safety while the explosions took place. Once more the result of the shots was good; but the smoke choked and blinded them and one man was overcome by the fumes. They carried him out the road a bit and after he showed signs of coming round, Robert gave instructions for him to be taken to the surface. "Oh, Lod, but it's nippin' my e'en," said one as he rubbed his eyes and blew his nose, sneezed and finally expectorated. "It's as thick as soor milk, be dam'd!" "Well, get him up, and I'll away back and redd out the shots and try and get it through again. The moss is rising quicker noo an' it has only aboot eighty feet to come." So back he went among the thick choking volume of smoke, tripping and stumbling and staggering from side to side as he scrambled on. Would he be in time to blast the barrier down before the steadily creeping moss rose to cut off his only avenue of escape? "My God! What's that?" he asked himself as he paused while a rumble and crash behind him told him that the old shaft had caved in burying his comrades in rocks and moss and water. He ran back but could get no further than within a stoop length of the old shaft. There were hundreds of tons of débris and all was finally lost. For the first time terror seized him and he tore desperately at the bowlders of stone, cutting his fingers and lacerating his body all over with cuts and bruises. He raved and swore and shouted in desperation, the sweat streaming from every pore, his eyes wild and glaring, but he was soon driven back by the moss which was oozing and percolating through the broken mass of bowlders and gradually it forced him back with a rush as it burst through with a sudden slushing sound as if suddenly relieved from a barrier which held it. Back he rushed, his light again becoming extinguished, the flood pursuing him relentlessly, the air now so heavy that he could hardly breathe, but groping his way he reached the first end roadway down which for the moment the flood ran to meet the rising moss creeping up relentlessly from below. Choking and only half conscious he staggered on with all sense of disaster gone from his mind, with no thought of his comrades on the other side waiting so impatiently to be released, and singing their frothy songs in the hope that all was well, his legs doubling below him, and his lungs heaving to expel the poison which the thick air contained. Down at last he fell, his head striking against the side of the roadway, and he lay still. The moss might rise hungrily over him now, the rotten roof might fall upon him, all the dangers of the mine might conspire together against him; but nothing they might do could ever again strike terror into the young heart that lay there, feebly throbbing its last as it was being overcome with the deadly poison of the black damp. He was proof against all their terrors now, the spirit could evade them yet; for though the old shaft might collapse and imprison his body and claim it as a sacrifice to the King Terror of the Underworld, no prison was ever created that could contain the indomitable spirit of man as God. He was free--free, and was happy and could cry defiance to the dangers of the mine, to the terrors of time itself. He could clutch the corners of the earth, and play with it as a toy of time, among the Gods of Eternity. "Choose, choose wha' you'll tak'," throbbed the young heart and a smile of triumph played upon the lips as the pictures of bygone times flitted across his dying brain. He was again the happy infant, hungry it may be, and ill-clad, but Heaven contained no happier soul. The little stomach might not be filled with sufficient food; but the spirit of him as it was in younger years knew no material limits to its laughter in the childish ring games of youth. Again he was waiting in the dark wintry mornings on Mysie, so that she would not be afraid to go to work on the pit-head; ay, and he was happy to take the windward side of her in the storm, and shield her from the winter's blast, tying her little shawl about her ears and making her believe he did not feel the cold at all. He was back again at his mother's knee, listening to her glorious voice singing some pitiful old ballad, as she crooned him to sleep; or lying trying to forget the hunger he felt as the glorious old tune seemed to drown his senses while he waited to say his prayer at night. "Jesus, tender shepherd, hear me, Bless Thy little lamb to-night, In the darkness be Thou near me, Keep me safe till morning light." Then there was the "good-night" to everyone and the fond kiss of the best of all mothers, the sinking into sleep that billowed and rocked the weary young spirit of him, crushed and bruised by the forces of the world, and finally the sweet shy smile of a young girl blushing and awkward, but flooding his soul with happiness and thrilling every fiber of him with her magic as she stood upon the hill crest, outlined against the sunset with a soft breeze blowing, kissing the gray hill side, bringing perfumes from every corner of the moor and beckoning him as she rose upward, he followed higher and higher, the picture taking shape and becoming more real until it merged into spirit. And the creeping moss moved upward, hungry for its prey and greedy to devour the fine young body so fresh and strong and lusty; but it was balked, for it claimed only the empty shell. The prize had gone on the wings of an everlasting happiness and the spirit of the moor, because there is no forgetting, triumphed over the spirit of destruction, so that in the records of the spirit he shall say: "I shall remember when the red sun glowing Sinks in the west, a gorgeous flare of fire; How then you looked with the soft breeze blowing Cool through your hair, a heaving living pyre Fired by the sun for the sweet day's ending; I still shall hear the whirring harsh moor-hen, Roused from her rest among the rushes bending I shall remember then. "I shall remember every well-loved feature, How, on the hill crest when the day was done, Just how you looked, dear, God's most glorious creature, Heaven's silhouette outlined against the sun; I shall remember just how you the fairest, Dearest and brightest thing that God e'er made, Warmed all my soul with holy fire the rarest, That vision shall not fade." But pain and tragedy forever seem to have no limit to their hunger; and in the clear spring air above the place where the bodies of her boys lay, Mrs. Sinclair's heart was again the food upon which the tragedy of life fed. All the years of her existence were bound up in the production of coal, and the spirits of her husband and of her sons call to-day to the world of men--men who have wives, men who have mothers, men who have sweethearts and sisters and daughters, stand firm together; and preserve your women folk from these tragedies, if you would justify your manhood in the world of men. 
48925	----	produced from scanned images of public domain material from the Google Print project.) [Illustration: _Frontispiece_: THE MINERS' HALL, DURHAM] A HISTORY OF THE DURHAM MINERS' ASSOCIATION 1870-1904 BY ALDERMAN JOHN WILSON, J.P. _Corresponding Secretary to the Association, Chairman of Durham County Council, and Member of Parliament for Mid-Durham Division_ "A tale should be judicious, clear, succinct; The language plain, and incidents well link'd; Tell not as new what everybody knows, And, new or old, still hasten to a close." COWPER. Durham PRINTED AND PUBLISHED BY J. H. VEITCH & SONS, 24 AND 25 NORTH ROAD 1907 _PRICE THREE SHILLINGS AND SIXPENCE_ To MY COLLEAGUES THE MINERS OF DURHAM this outline of their associated history is respectfully dedicated by one who knows the hardships and dangers of their lives, who understands their character and esteems it, who has been with them in their struggles for freedom, equality, and a better life, whose greatest pride is that from early youth he has been (and still is) one of them, whose highest honour is that he is trusted by them to take part in the varied and important duties of their association, and whose hope is, that avenues of greater good may by their united and individual efforts be opened out to them. CONTENTS PAGE PREFATORY EXPLANATION xi THE PREPARATION 1 LAYING THE FOUNDATION 11 REARING THE BUILDING 16 THE LEADERS 37 OPPOSITION TO THE BUILDING 41 HISTORY 46 AFTER WORDS 336 CHANGES 337 IN MEMORIAM 346 AU REVOIR 350 APPENDIX I 355 " II 356 " III 358 INDEX 361 INDEX TO ILLUSTRATIONS MINERS' HALL, DURHAM _Frontispiece_ N. WILKINSON _facing page_ 25 T. RAMSEY " 40 J. H. VEITCH " 43 THE FIRST DEPUTATION " 47 W. CRAWFORD, M.P. " 99 W. GOLIGHTLY " 105 J. FORMAN " 123 W. H. PATTERSON " 160 ALDERMAN J. WILSON, M.P. " 182 J. JOHNSON, M.P. " 217 T. H. CANN " 276 ALDERMAN W. HOUSE " 293 ALDERMAN S. GALBRAITH " 305 H. F. HEATH " 337 PREFATORY EXPLANATION It is necessary that I should set forth the reason why this attempt has been made to place on record, in a compact form, the rise and progress of our Association, with the changes which have taken place in our position. The inception lies in a letter received from one of our lodges, and addressed to the Executive Committee: "Seeing that matters of a definite nature relating to the history of the Trade Union movement in the county of Durham, in its social, political, and industrial aspects, are difficult to obtain, we would suggest to our Executive that it would be opportune at this juncture to ask Mr Wilson, on behalf of the Association, to write a short, concise history of the movement in the county, giving the social and industrial changes that have followed its progress, and that the Executive issue the same free or at cost price to lodges for distribution amongst the members." This was considered by the Committee. It met with their approval so far as the history was concerned, but they, with very generous feelings, remembered the many things I have on hand. They felt confident that such a work would be appreciated by our members, but they were loath to impose more work upon me. Their desire that I should prepare such a work was expressed in such a kind and considerate manner--not as a Committee dictating business to its Secretary--that I could not have refrained from taking the task, even if it had been irksome; but the request was in harmony with my own desire, and therefore, if the labour had been more arduous, it would still have been one of pure love and pleasure. Yet, although it is pleasant, it is well to recognise a difficulty which meets us at the start. It arises from the fact that at the commencement of our Association no records were kept, or, if kept, have been lost. The first Minutes that can be found commence with 1874, and even the Minutes for the years 1874-1875 are not all in existence, and some which are, have been mutilated by portions of them, and circulars, being cut out. In the period referred to we were in the same position as other similar bodies or nations. At the rise of these there is always the vague and uncertain period where tradition plays the part of accurate historical record. In the struggle for a position there is no time for systematic book-keeping, or, if books are kept, there is no care in preserving them. This is borne out fully in our inception and our early existence, and therefore for facts in relation to our commencement and the first few years of our existence as a Trades Union body we must depend upon outside sources wherever such are available. In this some little assistance will come from "Fynes' History," which, of course, cannot supply much, as it deals with matters largely anterior to our commencement. If we turn to the files of newspapers we by diligent and close search can gather from published reports of meetings and proceedings of that time useful information. There is another source of information--viz. the books of the employers. In respect to this matter I cannot too strongly express my thanks to the proprietors and editor of _The Durham Chronicle_ for the kind and ready manner in which they placed at my disposal the whole of the files of their paper, commencing with 1869, and allowed me to have them for use in our office. They have very largely helped me to fill in the hiatus up to 1876. My thanks and yours are due to the employers and Mr Guthrie for the free access they gave me to their books at any time and in the fullest manner. They have not only allowed me facilities for examination, but Mr Guthrie has assisted me in my search, and has copied out portions which I deemed necessary for our purpose. The difficulty has therefore been lessened, and the work lightened by the help mentioned, but if this had not been so the work would still have been commenced, as the object lies near my heart, for two reasons--first, because to me there is no dearer or more attractive institution in the whole country than our Association. I will not say it is superior to all others, but I will assert it has none, or not many equals. From very small beginnings, from very unlikely conditions, and in the face of bitter and opposing circumstances and forces, there has been reared not merely a strong Trades Union as strong as any extant, but one as beneficial as it is strong. The second reason is the usefulness of the record. If, as Pope says, the "proper study of mankind is man," then, if on a slightly lower plane, it must be an important matter for a man to know the history of the class to which he belongs and of any institution of which he is a member. It is useful, too, in showing our young men the condition we have come from, the toil and anxiety those who were the initiators had to face, and the large amount of unremunerative labour they had to perform. Our present position has been bought with a price, the amount of which is unknown to this generation, many of whom are like the prodigal, who inheriting a fortune and knowing nothing of the hardships involved in the accumulation, squanders with indifference that which has cost bitter years and much hardship. Let me conclude this preface by saying I offer no plea for inability. That is too well known, by myself at least. If he is a wise man who knows his own limits and failings, then I am a very wise man. But one other thing I know as well: I have a full knowledge of your toleration, and that you are ready to give full credit for good intentions. The history shall be the best that I can do, keeping in view all the circumstances. I remember that we do not want a mere comment upon our history; that I could make from my experience, but it might not be accepted as reliable, and therefore what we must aim at (even if it be tedious) is a matter-of-fact statement, because that is all we desire. I fear the history will not be very concise; but that, like all other words, is relative. If it is not as short as some would desire, it shall not be verbose. We will waste no words nor use any useless verbal padding; we will "nothing extenuate nor write down aught in malice." Each general event shall have its place and mention. This note may be added, that at the commencement of the Association it was embracive of all sections of labour in and about the mines. Before we had been long in existence there was a desire for the formation of separate organisations, as it was felt that there were certain peculiarities connected with the other occupations which the miners could not technically deal with. The first to leave were the enginemen, then followed the mechanics, and then the cokemen at the end of 1874. With this notice it will be understood that I deal with the miners alone, only mentioning the others as they come into play with us, and especially after the Federation was formed. I propose to deal with the work with regard to the chronological order of the events rather more than in symmetrical chapters, and therefore after we get the Association formed we will take a year or more, just as the business is great or small, as a definite period. HISTORY OF DURHAM MINERS' ASSOCIATION THE PREPARATION The Association was not a sudden and startling phenomenon, but was a pure evolution. It was no growth of a day like Jonah's gourd, but it was the outcome and the harvest of a long, painful sowing-time. In our Hall we have two busts. These are no doubt looked upon (if noticed at all) with casual indifference. Few of us regard them as expressions of important periods in our struggle for Right and Equality, and as part of the preparatory process, the consummation of which is our grand Institution, of which we are justly proud, for our history fully illustrates the sentiment: "Truth struck to earth will rise again." It is not my intention to take a long and detailed retrospect, but just to enumerate a few of the events happening after 1860, all of which were assisting in clearing the ground, and inciting our formation and preparing men's minds gradually for, such an institution. These I will place in chronological order. First, there was the Mines Act which came into force in July 1861, which amongst other important provisions provided that no boy should go down the mine under twelve unless he could produce a certificate that he could read and write; that boys under twelve should go to school five hours per day; that minerals should be weighed, and that the workmen should be at liberty to appoint a checkweighman. Another of the series was the Hartley calamity on the 16th of January 1862--a calamity which is unique in the history of mining disasters, which moved the heart of the nation, and turned the minds of men everywhere to two very important matters--first, the sinking of two shafts to every mine; and second, to the provision for the relatives of those who lose their lives, or for the workmen who are injured. And thus it has ever been: our industry has offered up its human sacrifices before necessary reforms have been introduced. Death has in many instances opened the gateway to life and blessing. It is sad, but yet true. Then we had two very notable strikes--one at the Brancepeth Collieries, which is known as the "Rocking Strike." The name arose from the custom which obtained of setting out the tubs if they were not level full when they came to bank. In order that this might be attained the hewer used to walk around the tub and strike it with his "mell," or rock and shake it so that the jolting on the road out-by might not lower the coals below the rim of the tub, and thus result in the forfeiture of the entire contents. This system was enforced even after the Act of 1861, and in such a glaring manner, that the master's weighman was paid a commission upon every light tub he found. The demands of the workmen were payment by weight and an advance in wages. Those whose memory goes back to that period will remember the meetings that were held, and especially one not far from Mr Love's (the owner of the collieries) house, just outside Durham city, then called Mount Beulah, now by the more earthly name of Springwell Hall. At that meeting on the platform was a working model of a miner rocking a tub, and a song composed by a local poet (Mr Cooke of Trimdon Grange) was sung. Part of the refrain was, as near as I can remember, as follows:-- "The rocking so shocking long, long we have bore, Farewell to the rocking, we will rock them no more." The second strike took place at Wearmouth, and was the real, although not formal, starting-point of our Union. This strike commenced about the middle of April 1869, and arose out of the conditions contained in the "Bond" of that year, which was brought out as usual in the month of March, when the hewers were told that, owing to the depressed condition of trade, there would have to be a considerable reduction in prices. In one instance the score price was reduced from 7s. to 5s. 10d., and the yard price from 1s. to 8d. There was no opposition offered at the time, as the men were willing to give the lower rate a fair trial. Afterwards they found they were not able to make a fair day's wage. They worked on until the 18th of May, when after going into the pit they all came out, and held a meeting on the green, and appointed a deputation of six to wait upon the manager and Mr Stobart. No concession being made the report was given, when the men declared it was impossible to maintain their families, and resolved that they would not resume work until the previous prices were paid. It is not part of my purpose to enter into all the phases of the strike, but one thing I will set forth, as it shows the method adopted to break the ranks of the workmen. The manager of the colliery was a man well-known in the North of England Coal Trade, Mr R. Heckles. He, believing there was great power in the beer jug, when the strike had continued for a fortnight sent six notes for fifty men each to get a quart of ale per man. These were placed before a meeting of 250 men. "On the offer of the beer being announced the men replied that the notes were to be sent back, as the day had gone by when the men were to be bought with beer, but that beef and bread would be better, and a resolution was carried not to resume work except at last year's prices." The breaking of the bond brought the workmen into collision with the law, and four of them were summoned to appear at the Sunderland Court, on the 21st of June 1869. They were charged under the Masters and Servants Act. One of the cases, that of Thomas Fenwick, was taken. The magistrates were told they could impose a fine of £20, or commit to prison for three months. The defence was conducted by Mr Roberts, the "Pitmen's Attorney-General." The Bench decided that the defendant should give sureties of £20 to return to work, or be committed to prison for one month. Mr Roberts took objection, and pointed out that there was no attesting witness to the signing of the contract, and asked for a case to the Queen's Bench on the point. On that being raised the case was adjourned for a fortnight. On the 6th of July the case again came up for hearing. The objection raised by Mr Roberts was then gone into. It was to the effect that the defendant was a marksman (that is, made his mark and did not sign his name), and that the bond was never read over to him. The matter was contested for a considerable time. Eventually Mr Roberts said he had "been told by the most influential men among the workmen that they wanted to be free from the villainous and iniquitous bond, and they would undertake to leave the houses within nine days." On that promise being made and accepted by the solicitor for the owners the bond by mutual consent was cancelled. The men immediately arranged for vacating the houses and handing in their lamps. In one instance this was done in a unique and striking manner. The men formed in procession, over 300 in number, each man carrying his lamp and a copy of the colliery rules. Marching to the colliery they handed in their lamps, and returned the rules to the overman. The effect of the trial was speedily seen in the solidifying of the whole of the workmen at Wearmouth, as the deputies and others (while passively remaining from work, had never taken active part in the strike) now threw themselves into the struggle, and made common cause with the hewers, and the further effect was the impetus given to the cause of unionism throughout the county until it consummated in the Durham Miners' Union. Another element assisting our formation was the desire for association which was burning in the breast of a few men whose ardour could not be damped by repeated failures or retarded by opposition or hardship. The last of the series of these attempts was in 1863, the meeting being held in the Victoria Hotel, Newcastle. There were 30 delegates present--27 from Northumberland, and only 3 from Durham, Whitworth, Washington, and Usworth, the membership being slightly over 4000. We are told by Fynes in his history that it was resolved to hold meetings in Durham "with the view of moving the men of this county to join them." At the next meeting Mr Crawford was appointed agent and secretary, with Mr Joseph Sheldon as a colleague. In that capacity the writer first saw Mr Crawford. He was the principal speaker at a meeting held on Sherburn Hill. He was on his way from the Leeds National Conference, and we find by reference to the report of that meeting that he was Chairman of the Committee on Law. This union of the two counties continued until the Northumberland men felt that to them it was like being connected with a body of death, and they realised that the connection would in the end be fatal, and in 1865 resolved to separate. This resolution was carried into effect, and county organisations were formed. The two agents were allotted as follows:--Mr Crawford being kept in Northumberland, and Mr Sheldon became the agent in Durham. His term of office was very short, as the Union here very soon died out. At the united meeting, embracing the two counties, held on November 21st, E. Rhymer was the only delegate, and he delivered a very characteristic speech, of which the following is a portion:-- "With respect to the county of Durham he was sorry that they appeared as a black spot in England respecting the Miners' Association. They numbered about 1000, but there were only 74 represented at that meeting. The hours of the men were eight hours working. The average wage being from 4s. to 4s. 6d. The hours of the boys upon an average were fourteen per day. The system with respect to the boys was the most wretched in the civilised world. They never saw the light of the blessed sun from Sabbath to Sabbath. He had authority to tell them that the district which he represented begged of them through him to send help to save them from starvation and misery." These are very strong words and true, for the state throughout was deplorable. Here and there small societies existed having no federal connection, but they were of no earthly use. They only showed in darker colours the disorganisation which had set in. To use Milton's illustration, they made the darkness more visible. Still, there were some brave spirits who not only deplored the condition, but, as Fynes says, "set themselves the almost Herculean task of revising the Union and substituting harmony for the discord which then prevailed." For that purpose meetings were held in various parts of the county. The speakers who attended them ofttimes found themselves sleeping in a room whose walls were the horizon and the roof studded with the stars of heaven. Prominent we find the names of W. Crake and J. Richardson (two men who were sacrificed as the result of the Wearmouth strike), W. Patterson, T. Ramsey, and N. Wilkinson. Not only were there local men at these meetings, but strangers were sent from other districts, seeking to infuse new life into the apathetical and indifferent men of Durham. The most notable of these meetings was held at Thornley on Saturday, the 25th of September 1869. Amongst the speeches delivered I find two given at great length in _The Durham Chronicle_ of the 1st of October by Mr T. Burt and Mr W. Brown, who was then residing in Yorkshire, but who afterwards became the agent for the North Staffordshire miners. The chair was occupied by Mr W. Patterson (our Patterson), and there were about 1000 men in attendance. If it were convenient I would place on record in this history those speeches in full, as they were worthy of the men and the occasion. One or two sentences may be quoted from Mr Burt's speech. He urged that "there were many reasons why men should be united: wages, better conditions, and safety at work." Their wages were not so high as they ought to be, neither was their social condition what it might have been, and he would candidly confess that the miners themselves were most to blame that such was the state of affairs. Had they worked together and exercised confidence where they displayed little else but petty jealousy, had they not spent their money for naught, their position might have been different that day. If proof were needed let them look at other classes and districts. "If the miners of the county of Durham compared their condition with any of the great combined bodies of English workmen they would at once see how different their position might have been had they been united. If they compared non-Union districts with Union districts they would contrast the rate of wages paid in Lancashire, Wales, Yorkshire, and Northumberland; and they would see a striking example of the effects of Union and non-Union." These remarks suggest a curious contrast between our relative position compared with other districts now and then, and the comparison proves the force and wisdom of Mr Burt's exhortation. In this connection I find a letter from Mr Crawford bearing on the same subject, and published in _The Durham Chronicle_ of the 15th of October 1869, which I insert in full. Sir,--Seeing that the Durham miners are again trying to form amongst themselves an organisation for mutual protection, you will perhaps allow me to say a few words, having had some experience in connection with their last one some six years ago. Many of your readers will remember the strenuous efforts then made to organise the whole county, and at least the partial success which attended that undertaking. A great portion of the county did become united, and at one time promised satisfactory success. But those who expected such an accomplishment were doomed to be disappointed. After a short time the whole fabric collapsed, and miners were again subjected to all those difficulties and impositions which necessarily follow in the train of disorganisation. Since that time my mind has often been occupied in trying to ascertain the cause or causes of that disastrous downfall, and I have long since concluded that the following were the main if not the only causes which led to such a direful result:-- 1st. Yearly hirings. For years before the Union began, these had existed in the county, and their baneful effects had been to reduce the wages of the miners from fifteen to thirty per cent. The coal was no better to get, and its market value ranged about the same. What, then, was the cause of men being reduced in some instances from 13s. 6d. to 9s. per score? It may be truly attributed to disorganisation and yearly hirings. When the Union began these still continued, and hence the impossibility of men gradually recovering that which they had lost. These yearly hirings had brought the county to the lowest possible social condition, and when brought, kept it there, rendering organisation difficult, and when attained making its continuance more difficult still. They have been the curse, the withering blighting curse, of thousands of miners in that county. Again, the county is too wide and extensive for one association. To make the work not only practical, but effective, it ought to be divided into three, or perhaps four separate districts. These districts ought to be thoroughly independent of each other; not only doing their own business, but being self-supporting. Of course, in many instances, one district would find its interests best furthered by rendering assistance to a neighbouring one. In such cases let relief be unsparingly given. The more mutual support and sympathy there existed between the districts, the greater the chance of permanent success. Yet, in their working, collecting, and distribution of their finances, let an entire separation exist. We have not space to go fully into this matter here; but if the past will prove anything, it will prove what I have just said. And, if an instance is wanted, it will be found in the two _distinct_, but _successful_ associations, which for years have existed in Yorkshire. Other causes operated to make short the existence of the last organisation; but these were unquestionably the main ones, and ought, therefore, to be avoided this time, especially the latter, that power being now with themselves, to put into immediate effect, while the former must be a work of time, at least for a few months. The present condition of the Durham miners calls aloud for a change, and the power to effect that change is with themselves. Let them bestir, set to work in right earnest, and if that work be characterised by prudence and determination, I doubt not but that ultimate and entire success will crown their efforts. WILLIAM CRAWFORD. Bedlington, Northumberland, _October 11th, 1869._ LAYING THE FOUNDATION Currently with these meetings arising out of the Wearmouth strike, and the other matters mentioned, the young Union was gathering strength. Delegate meetings were being held, the machinery of the Association was taking shape, and the constitution outlined. The first of these was held on Saturday the 3rd of July 1869, the chairman being Mr J. Richardson of Wearmouth. In his opening remarks he said: "They had met not as delegates of an organised body of miners, but as representatives of collieries not yet united, to devise means whereby an organisation could be established throughout the county of Durham." No attempt was made to transact any business, but a number of addresses were delivered. The speakers were Mr Lynney of Wearmouth, Mr B. Irving and Mr Scranghann of Houghton, Mr Noull, Windy Nook, and Mr G. Parker of Spennymoor. All spoke of the deplorable condition of the county, and expressed their firm belief that nothing but union would bring about an amelioration. The next meeting was held in the Market Hotel, Durham. I again quote from _The Durham Chronicle_ report: At the hour named there was only a limited attendance of delegates and, no others coming up as time passed on, no business was done, and the delegates present merely contented themselves with discussing the project of a county Union, to which the delegates from Thornley and Houghton stated the men in their respective districts gave perfect accordance, uniting with the Union in both cases the scheme of a benefit society. Mr Richardson of Wearmouth thought they ought to form their Union first, and leave the question of benefit and emigration societies in connection with it to a future time. A resolution that Wearmouth, Thornley, and Houghton form the nucleus of an organisation or union among the miners of the county, and that a paid agent be appointed to explain to the men the aim, object, and principles of the proposed association, was then passed. The following is the district set out for the lecturer to visit:--Ryhope, Seaton (and Seaham), Hetton, South Hetton, Haswell, Shotton, Castle Eden, Wingate, Trimdon, Fire Houses (Trimdon Grange), and Thornley. The agitation of the proposed organisation to be directed against the yearly bond. The next account available is that of a meeting held at the half-way house near Thornley on the 23rd of September. It was held in connection with the demonstration referred to above, at which Mr Burt and Mr Brown spoke. The following are the names of the delegates who answered the roll, with the collieries represented:-- W. Crake, Wearmouth. H. Robson, Ryhope. W. H. Patterson, Heworth. T. Ramsey, Trimdon. J. Wylde, Quarrington Hill. E. Furneval, Felling. R. Bousfield, Houghton. J. Colledge, Murton. A. Cairns, Thornley. N. Wilkinson, Trimdon Grange. C. Flynn, Shiny Row. C. Nicholson, Seaham. This meeting was the most ambitious of any held, as a properly arranged business programme was before the delegates. The items discussed were the wages and expenses of the agent. The point discussed was not merely the amount per week, but whether he should be charged for stamps and all cost of correspondence. The meeting was equally divided, when the question was remitted to the lodges. Next came the "Formation of a Central Fund." In this matter there was great fear as to the permanency of the movement. The predominant feeling was that it was better to wait until the roll of members reached a few thousands. Mr Patterson was among those who hesitated, and expressed himself in the following terms:-- "They had several times tried to form a Union, but had failed, the men appearing somehow to have little confidence in them." The Wearmouth delegate was more optimistic. He did not think it was necessary that they should have 5000 members before the fund was formed. Mr Patterson had hinted the Union might fail, but there was not the least fear in his mind that such would be the case. Following these came the persons to attend the delegate meetings (whether strangers should be admitted), the pay for attending (this was fixed at 6s. 6d. and third-class fare), the appointment of a committee to draw up rules, the adoption of a "Pass Card" as a guarantee of membership, the collieries for the agent to visit, and the appointment of an Agent, Secretary, and Treasurer. These offices were filled as follows:--Mr J. Richardson, Agent for three weeks; Mr Isaac Parks, Secretary; and Mr N. Wilkinson, Treasurer for three months. The next meeting was held on Saturday, 20th November. It is important that we should note this meeting, as it was the real beginning of the Association. The following is the full report from _The Durham Chronicle_:-- DURHAM MINERS' MUTUAL ASSOCIATION "A meeting of the delegates of this Association was held in the Market Hotel in this city on Saturday, when the delegates present represented 4328 members. The following resolutions were passed:--(1) Resolved that Stanley be exempted from paying any contributions this day. (2) That all members receive rules free. (3) That each delegate speak in rotation as on the list, and not to speak more than five minutes each time. (4) The following were appointed trustees:--Alan Murray, W. Crake, Isaac Parks, W. Patterson, R. Carr, W. Wilson, John Armstrong, and T. Noble. (5) That each delegate have one vote. (6) That Mr John Richardson be Agent and Secretary, and be paid 32s. per week, and allowed third-class railway fare when on the business of the Association when such business calls him more than four miles from his residence, the delegates to decide his place of residence. (7) That the delegates should manage the business at present, and that in future a president should be chosen at each meeting of delegates who shall have a casting vote. (8) That each delegate be prepared with security for the person proposed by his district for the office of treasurer. (9) That all suggestions be sent in at least seven days before the meeting. (10) That the miners of the county of Durham have their attention called to the objects contemplated by the Association by hand-bills, and that 500 be printed. (11) That the agent go into the Crook and Spennymoor districts and explain the advantages of the society." Here we have the Union for the whole county fairly established on a weak foundation. Sufficient to dishearten, looking from our present proud position, but it must be remembered that there were giants in those days--brave, hopeful men, who were not to be turned from their purpose by any hindrance. They felt that united effort was the breath of our life, and they kept their eyes on that goal. A united Durham was their battle-cry and inspiration. If there had been any possibility of diverting them, the next meeting, which was held on 18th December 1869, was sufficient. That meeting was held again in the Market Hotel. There were delegates from only 19 collieries, representing 1964½ members. The outlay for the previous fortnight was £8, 11s. 5d., and there was a saving of £50, 11s. 1½d. Mr N. Wilkinson was appointed treasurer. Rules were submitted from various collieries. The agent was instructed to visit the Derwent District, and a very wise provision was made that no suggestion should be put on the programme that infringed the general rules. It was a little anticipatory, seeing the rules were not formed, but those men knew well that without order and law it was impossible to have any useful progress. Later experience proves the wisdom of their provision. REARING THE BUILDING The end of 1869 saw the foundation of the structure laid. The beginning of 1870 found the builders hard at work raising it. The first move made was to hold fortnightly delegate meetings. These appear to have been of the nature of Committee and Council Meetings combined, and were usually held in the Market Hotel, Durham. The first in the year was held on Saturday, 1st January. The first business, even in this early stage, was to deal with that permanent disease of Trades Unionism, the unfinancial member; for from the origin of things there have been men who were ready to take all and give nothing. Various schemes were suggested for dealing with such people, many of which were crude, but in the end the means most favoured by the delegates was analogous to, but somewhat more drastic than, the rule at present in operation for compelling members to keep themselves straight on the books. The other questions dealt with were the proposed formation of a sick fund, with sundry minor or local matters. Passing over the meeting held on January 15th, except to note that the number of men represented was 2500, and the fortnightly contributions amounted to £48, 18s. 1½d., we come to an important one held on the 29th. The numbers in union were the same as a fortnight before. The meeting was important, because it is the first time we find the yearly bond as part of the business of the council. There was a very lengthy discussion upon, or rather expression of condemnation of, the bond. The most noteworthy portion of the proceedings was a letter from Mr A. Macdonald, as President of the Miners' National Association. The letter is worthy of note, because it is the first recorded instance of his official connection with Durham, and because of its opposition to the system of yearly bindings. He was desirous to ascertain what were the views of the miners in the county upon it. The Government were pledged to bring in a Mines Regulation Bill during the next session of Parliament, and it was necessary that their views should be expressed with a view to insert a clause in the new Bill to provide for fortnightly or monthly agreements. In Mr Macdonald's opinion, as in that of other leading gentlemen connected with the organised coal districts in Great Britain, it was useless to attempt to better the condition of the miners in Durham so long as that system existed. The unanimous agreement of the meeting upon the subject was "that Mr Macdonald should be informed that the miners of the county of Durham considered the bond to be a great evil, and would hail with the greatest gratification any legislative enactment providing for its abolition." At the meeting held on 12th February a much more satisfactory report was presented. The membership had increased to 3537½, and the contributions to £80, 4s. 8d. There had been a deposit of £70, making the banking account £288. In addition to this large increase in funds and numbers encouraging reports were given by the delegates as to the requests which were made from unorganised collieries for someone to attend to assist in inducing the men to join. In connection with this desire there came a question from Mr Macdonald and Mr Burt asking whether the young Association would take an active part in arranging for meetings, passing of resolutions, and getting up petitions in furtherance of the Mines Bill about to be introduced into Parliament. These gentlemen were extremely desirous that a series of meetings should be held, and they were willing to attend them if arranged. The result of the request was an agreement to hold three meetings at Sunderland, Bishop Auckland, and Durham, and the appointment of a committee to make the necessary arrangements. At this meeting we have the first mention of an entrance fee, which was to be 6d. for a month, the payment of delegates out of the local funds, the attendance of trustees at every delegate meeting, and the most important appointment of President and Executive Committee. The custom had been to appoint a president from each delegate meeting _pro tem_., but now it was deemed advisable to elect for a longer period. The appointments were as follows:-- _President_ W. Crake, Monkwearmouth. _Committee_ Christopher Nicholson, Seaham. Isaac Parks, Trimdon. Martin Thompson, Murton. John Jackson, Thornley. Mr Allonby, South Hetton. W. H. Patterson, Heworth. W. Anderson, Murton. These with the treasurer formed the committee. It was further arranged that the delegate meetings should be held once a month, and that the contributions be forwarded fortnightly to the general treasurer. As a result of the arrangements for holding mass meetings in the county, two were held: on the 25th of February at Bishop Auckland, and on the 26th at Sunderland. These were addressed by Messrs Burt and Macdonald. Both meetings were very well attended; the object was to discuss the proposed new Mines Bill. Strong speeches were made against it. "It was too narrow in its application. It would permit a boy to be employed for 14 hours in the mine, and he would have to work a length of time equal to 62 days in the year, more than the child in the factory. There was a deficiency with regard to weighing. That they demanded should be remedied, because the system of measuring and gauging simply meant robbery and double robbery. In some districts the arithmetical tables had been altered to make a ton equal to 25 and even 28 cwt. Then there was a great need for more inspectors and for properly trained managers, for the absence of competent men had been a fruitful source of colliery accidents. Deputies and overlookers were not chosen, as they all knew, because of their excellence and skill, or their high moral qualities, but more because they were sycophants and tyrants in the hands of those who owned the mines." There came a powerful appeal from Mr Burt on behalf of the Union. "Every great movement in the world was carried on by combined efforts. Single individuals had never been able to accomplish much. In all parts of the world one heard the declaration made that workmen were doing too much work, and receiving too little remuneration, and it needed but the organisation of this great army to gain for themselves justice. If they joined that army they would have education, temperance, prudence, and virtue rising up in the place of moral degradation; happiness in the place of misery; and comfort in every home where wretchedness now only prevailed." At the monthly meeting held on the 12th of March 1870 there were delegates from 28 collieries, with a membership of 3650, being an increase for the month of over 100. The monthly income was £138, 17s. 3d. Of that sum £57 was paid for collecting the signatures for the petition to Parliament _re_ the Mines Bill, and a balance of £70 was added to the banking account. Two petitions were in evidence, one being 35 and the other 36 yards long--the cost in the former case being over £12, and in the latter over £4. A deputation attended this meeting from Yorkshire soliciting subscriptions for a colliery on strike in that county. In response to the appeal £10 was sent, so that very early in its history the young society was learning the luxury that comes from doing good to your neighbour--a lesson it has not forgotten in its older and stronger days. The next monthly meeting was held on the 9th of April. There was a sad falling off in the membership represented. The chairman was able to "congratulate the meeting on the fact that the bindings had passed off so satisfactorily, and that a slight increase in price had been secured." There were only 25 collieries represented, with a membership of 2898. The variation in the number of delegates may be accounted for by the system of paying the delegates, it being borne by the lodges, and not as at present. A complaint was made by the delegates in regard to the dismissal of men at the late bindings. It was said that there were 30 at Trimdon Grange who had been treated in that manner. The owners had shifted 16 of them, but a claim was made for removal allowance from the Union at the rate of 5s. for the first mile and 1s. per mile afterwards. The meeting held on the 23rd of April had a very full programme of business. The county was called upon to deal with another serious strike at Wearmouth, and the support of the men severely taxed the energies of the Union. A great deal depended upon the result of that contest. The business part of the meeting, apart from Wearmouth, was the appointment of a secretary and extra agents. The points under consideration were the number to be appointed, whether they should be in districts or be centralised, and what should be the salary. The decision was there should be two agents, and the salary 27s. 6d. per week, with house and firing. With respect to the secretary, it was resolved to appoint one--the choice in this, as in the agents, being left to a subsequent meeting. On the 7th of May a full detailed list of the collieries and members was given, which it may be interesting to set forth. Number of Name of Colliery Members Income for Month Trimdon 165½ £8 5 6 Trimdon Grange 64½ 3 4 6 Shiney Row 62 3 2 0 Philadelphia 40 2 0 0 Murton 342½ 17 4 6 Ludworth 32 0 16 0 South Hetton 90 3 18 0 Whitworth 107 5 7 0 Addison 120 5 12 0 Norwood 33 1 11 0 Evenwood 63 2 1 0 Shildon Lodge 41 2 1 0 Page Bank 28 0 14 0 Black Boy 77 5 3 0 Tudhoe 120 6 0 0 Adelaide 90 4 15 0 Thornley 230 11 10 0 Heworth 70 3 10 0 Seaham 150 4 3 0 Felling 20 1 0 0 Quarrington Hill and Coxhoe 52 2 11 6 Derwent 174 4 7 0 The appointment of agents and secretary was then taken, the following being the result:-- As agents, Mr Munson, Philadelphia; Mr Crawford Bedlington, and Mr J. Richardson; the secretary being A. Cairns, Thornley. Mr Richardson was assigned to North East, Mr Crawford, Central, and Mr Munson, South-West. Each district to have a sub-delegate meeting, Birtley, Thornley and Bishop Auckland being the places of meeting. Mr Crawford was not long in the county before he began to make himself felt, and let the people know he was around, as the Yankee would say. In _The Durham Chronicle_ for the 3rd of June 1870 there is a very striking letter in his best style. Those of us who knew him are well aware what his best meant in 1870. He was writing in defence of Trades Unions--some writers had been speaking about the "terrible tyranny" of these unions. He turned on them, and showed that, "if there were tyranny anywhere, it lay on the side of the employers, and that the workmen were at all times inclined to act in a right and courteous manner. Still, while they so act, they have to be utterly and fiercely condemned, and the employing class applauded and eulogised for acting in a manner diametrically opposite, and about as near an approximation to truth and right, as are the North and South Poles. This seems a most anomalous condition of things, that with one class right should be called wrong, while with an opposite class that which is really wrong should be called right. But I have no hesitation in saying that, if the doings of working men's associations be closely and impartially sought into, it will be found that, instead of any of their members receiving full licence to do as they like, every action is closely watched, and not over-considerately examined, and that, if there be a fault, it often is in the executive power pressing rather too hardly any portion of their fellows who may wish to seek for an amelioration of their wrongs. Let the general public examine both the origin and mode of conducting our trade disputes, and, as a rule, it will be found that, instead of the toiling population deserving their unsparing contumely, the employing class are alone the undivided cause of these struggles, and the course they generally afterwards pursue ought to call forth the bitterest indignation, and often does beget in the heart of the working men a feeling of dislike and disregard not unmixed with contempt." At the meeting held on the 4th of June a fourth district was formed. It was called the South-Western, and Mr Patterson was appointed agent to it. As a further consequence of this additional district the Executive Committee was increased from seven to nine, the wages of the agents being fixed at 25s. 6d. and expenses. At this meeting we have the first safeguarding rule against collieries striking illegally: "That any colliery coming out on strike in an unconstitutional way be not allowed any support from the Central Fund, or have their case considered at the Central Board." The next delegate meeting was held on the 30th of July. There was an attendance of thirty-two delegates. The only matters needing a place in our history were the appointment of another agent or assistant, and an increase in the wages of the agents. [Illustration: N. WILKINSON] It was decided to appoint "Tommy Ramsey," and his wage to be 28s. per week. The wage of the other agents was fixed at 25s. per week, with 10s. travelling expenses and 5s. per week house rent. These sums to include all expenses within their respective districts. The first Annual Meeting was held on December 3rd, 1870, in the Market Hotel, Durham, and the proceedings and programme occupy three columns of _The Durham Chronicle_. The reason arises out of the dual nature of the meeting, it being council and committee. The secretary's report showed that there were 1891 financial members on the books, and the total worth of the Society was 7s. 1½d. per member. Our purpose will be met if we select the main points, leaving those of a local and temporary character. First, in that general category we have a request for Durham to join the Amalgamated Association of Miners. This was not acceded to, but copies of the rules were written for. Second, the appointment of treasurer and his payment. Mr N. Wilkinson was appointed, and his salary was to be 25s. per quarter (much less than many of our local treasurers receive now). Yet Mr Wilkinson felt proud of the office, and promised to merit their confidence during the year. Third, the question of sending a delegate to the Miners' National Conference, and the business, which was to discuss the Mines Bill. It is very obvious that the county was feeling its way very carefully, and with great regard to economy, for one delegate said it would take one-twelfth of the income to send a representative, independently of the entrance fee. It was finally agreed to send Mr Crawford. Fourth, the question of cumulative voting was brought forward by Murton as follows:--"That each delegate have an additional vote for every 100 members he represented." The proposal, however, was lost by fourteen to eight. Fifth, the appointment of the officers for the year. These were elected as follows:-- Secretary, A. Cairns; Treasurer, N. Wilkinson; President, W. Crawford; Vice-President, W. H. Patterson; the Committee being Mr Munson, T. Mitcheson, M. Thompson, M'Mann, J. Jackson, W. Coulthard, and I. Perks. A very fitting finish to the year 1870 will be a reference to another letter by Mr Crawford. The object of his attack was the Rev. Mr Blagdon, Newbottle. This gentleman had said he hated and detested unions, and this roused the temper of Crawford, and plainly he talked to him. He reminded the parson of the condition of the miner, and he pointed to the contrast between his conduct and that of Christ. "But I suppose," said Crawford, "things are changed. Of course, we live in an age of progression, and we ought to leave behind us those old and antiquated practices of practical philanthropy. Christ always spoke the truth too. When He made a promise it was always kept." Then he asks: "What wrong are the workmen doing? Our only aim is the establishment of common justice amongst mankind. We have myriads of men, women, and children who but seldom receive an approximate sufficiency of the commonest necessaries of life. And it is a self-evident fact that nothing will render human existence so miserable and short as social destitution, bringing, as a matter of consequence, mental pressure or anxiety of mind. Even comparative want is prejudicial to physical health. This brings care and anxiety. They act and react on each other, often doing their deadly work ere men have passed half their allotted threescore years and ten. That these things exist are incontrovertible facts. And does their removal by moral and philosophical means not _in part_ pertain to the work which this gentleman has chosen for himself in life? History and observation alike teach that, where a people are socially depressed, moral culture is a most difficult matter, and, where moral cultivation is no easy task, to spiritualise is next to an utter impossibility. So that in reality, when rightly viewed, there is a very near kinship, and ought to be, in working a very close connection between the Union to which the Philadelphia Society belongs and the work in which this reverend gentleman is engaged. Whether or not Mr Blagdon will endorse these sentiments I cannot say; however, be that as it may, when in future he makes a promise let him keep it, and likewise cease to give utterance to such vehement expressions as hating and detesting that about which he seems to understand but little indeed. By pursuing such a course he will in future save himself the merited contempt of his parishioners." This quotation will serve a twofold purpose: it will give an example of Mr Crawford's vigorous style of writing when roused and at his best, and it will indicate the kind of opposition the young Association was met with at this very delicate and important period of its existence. Those who should have welcomed all effort towards better things should have assisted instead of thwarting and maligning. The year 1871 found the builders of the Association untiring in their efforts, but still meeting great discouragements. These came mainly from the apathy of the people whom they were trying to help. Like Nehemiah they had their Sanballats, who did their best to prevent the work; but, inspired by the belief in the power of a united people to better their own condition, they fought and built, making headway but slowly. In the early part of January a Miners' Conference was held in Manchester to consider the Mines Regulation Bill, the Trades Union Bill, the Truck Bill, and kindred subjects. The delegate from Durham was Mr W. Crawford, and the number he represented was 18,000. Before proceeding further with the account of the building we will place on record the first collective action taken by the young Association. This was in relation to the inundation which happened at Wheatley Hill on Thursday, the 19th of January 1871. The colliery had been in operation about six months; there were thirteen hewers, five putters, and three helpers up, with the necessary deputies and others, at the time it occurred. There were five lives lost, and others had a very narrow escape. There is no need to describe in detail the whole circumstances. It will be sufficient to say that a man named Roberts was in a place which was being driven in the main coal at Thornley for the purpose of tapping some water which was lying on the Thornley side in order that it might be run to the other colliery which lies to the "dip." In addition to those who lost their lives, other two were rescued after being in the mine fifty-four hours. The Miners' Association was not slow in taking part in the subsequent proceedings, and at the inquest which opened on the 25th at the Colliery Office, Wheatley Hill, by Mr Crofton Maynard (whose able services are still given to inquiries into the sad accidents in the Easington Ward), the Association was represented by Mr W. Crawford. On his application that witnesses should be summoned on behalf of the workmen the Coroner readily consented to an adjournment until Wednesday, the 8th of February. The adjourned inquest was held at Wingate Grange, when Mr A. Cairns, Secretary, and Mr W. Crawford, Agent, were present on behalf of the Association, with Mr Kewney, Solicitor, of North Shields, to watch the proceedings. After a very long and exhaustive inquiry the verdict was "that the deceased were killed on the 19th of January by a burst of water in the Wheatley Hill pit, through the gross negligence of W. Spencer, head viewer, W. Hay, resident viewer, and Thomas Watson, overman; and that the said W. Spencer, W. Hay, and T. Watson did kill and slay the five deceased previously mentioned by neglecting to put in proper bore holes for the safe working of the mine." On that verdict the Coroner committed the accused for trial at the Assizes on a charge of manslaughter. The trial took place at the March Assizes before Baron Martin. The counsel for the Association were Mr Herschell (afterwards Lord Chancellor) and Mr J. Edge. The writer of this history was in court, and heard the trial, and the able speech made by Mr Herschell, whose object was to show that there had been a violation of the Mines Act of 1860, the fifteenth rule of which was to the effect "that bore holes should be kept in advance, and if necessary on both sides, on approaching places likely to contain a large quantity of water." The Grand Jury had thrown out the Bill, but the case was still proceeded with. It was clear the judge was against the proceedings after the throwing out of the Bill; and eventually the workmen's counsel withdrew the case, because the judge was of the opinion that Roberts (the hewer in whose place the water broke away) should have known as well as the manager how near the water was to them, and because, on the technical point, it was quite clear how the judge would direct the jury. The accused were therefore acquitted. One little piece of funny puzzling of the judge is very vividly remembered. Roberts was not a native of the county, but was doing his best to train himself in the peculiarities of a dialect which, when spoken by a Durham man, is to a stranger difficult to understand, but more so when it comes from a Welsh tongue. At one part of the proceedings the judge asked Roberts what he was doing when the water broke in. The reply was: "Aw hed getten me jud korved, and the hole marked off, and was gannen back for the drills." With surprise the judge repeated the question, and received the same answer. Perplexed, but not enlightened, a second query was put: "What did you do then?" "Aw run doon the board and up the stenton." Innocently the judge put a supplementary question: "Was it a wide plank you ran along?" thinking the word board meant a piece of timber laid for Roberts to walk on. Upon an explanation being given he confessed that, in the whole of his experience, he had never been so much puzzled before. In our review of the building of the Association it will not be necessary to mention the work in the county except so far as it relates to the object we are dealing with: the raising and strengthening of the organisation and the changes in policy and procedure. The first Council in 1871 was held on March 25th. The attendance of delegates was moderate, and Mr Crawford, the President of the Association, was called to the chair. At this meeting we have the first mention of the Yearly Demonstration. It was moved "that the Council take into consideration the desirability of holding a general meeting of miners in the central district, the expenses of such to be paid from the Central Fund." The time named was shortly after Easter. It was likewise arranged for the agents to live in Durham. Mr Crawford at that time was residing in Sunderland, and Mr Patterson in Bishop Auckland. This, it was felt, interfered very much with the necessary consultation and arranging of work. A series of resolutions was brought forward by Mr Crawford. First, that "minerals be weighed only, seeing that measuring and gauging are sources of endless losses to the hewers." Second, "that miners ought to be allowed to place on the pit bank as checkweighman a man of their own choice, whether such person be one of the workmen or not." Third, the appointment of an additional number of inspectors or sub-inspectors is required--the number of pits in 1869 in the whole country being 3206, and only 12 inspectors, which gave an average of 267 pits each. The following resolution was carried:-- "We believe that to make inspection thoroughly effective, mines ought to be inspected at intervals not exceeding three months." The fourth resolution was "that no boy should be allowed to work more than ten hours a day." The Murton delegate seconded the resolution, and said: "Miners were often referred to as an ignorant set of men, but if they received more attention than they did in the seed-time of life perhaps better fruit would be received. At present their boys went to work at half-past four in the morning, and did not leave the mine till half-past five in the evening. By the time they got home, washed themselves, and had a little refreshment it was seven o'clock. Certainly night schools were provided for the boys, but he could not see the utility of them, as the minds of the lads after being so many hours in the pit were incapable of receiving instruction. Providing schools under these circumstances for pit lads was like preparing food for persons who had no appetite." That speech is worth quoting and remembering, because it gives us so clearly the condition in that year and shows so graphically the change since then. The young men at least will do well to ponder the lesson. To them it means much, and tells them the benefit they have (in this alone) received from the labours of those men who so unselfishly toiled in the early days. At this time a question arose which evoked great feeling in the Thornley district in particular, and throughout the county in general. This was the refusal by Mr Cooper, the manager at Thornley, to bind Mr A. Cairns, the Secretary of the Association, who was checkweighman, and Mr J. Jackson, one of the Executive Committee. At that time, it should be remembered, a man to be a checkweighman must be, and remain, a workman on the colliery, and therefore be "bound" as all other men were. The situation is interesting for two points--first, because it was productive of some very strong letter writing by Mr Crawford in defence of the two men; and second, because it is the first recorded instance of an offer from the men to apply arbitration as a means of settling disputes between employers and workmen under this Association. The offer was contained in a resolution passed at a special Council held in the Market Hotel, Durham, on 8th April. The following is a portion of the resolution:-- "This meeting strongly urges on the Thornley workmen the propriety of offering to submit the whole case to arbitration, the members of the Board chosen to be composed of an equal number from both sides; the arbitrators to elect an umpire whose decision shall be final." I quote two sentences from one of Mr Crawford's letters: "The entire transactions both on the part of the masters, and these perfidious hirelings [certain blacklegs] is contemptible in the extreme, clearly showing to working men that where they have not, by combination, the power to protect themselves they will only be endured so long as they are passive slaves in the hands of grasping greediness. Men need to arise, and by an active concentration of organised power frustrate that intolerance so rampant among them, an intolerance diametrically opposed to the spirit of the age, and one that will not hesitate to build its own advancement on the spoliation and desolation, and if necessary the damnation, of myriads of immortal beings." OUR FIRST GALA The first in the long series of meetings was held in Wharton's Park, Durham, on Saturday, the 12th of August 1871. For some time prior district meetings had been held in different parts of the county, and great efforts made to secure a good gathering. In addition, a "sum amounting to £20 was offered in three prizes for a Band Contest, and liberal money prizes for various athletic sports." There was a charge for admission, and it was estimated that between 4000 and 5000 paid for admission. The speakers outside the Association were A. Macdonald, W. Brown, Staffordshire, and John Normansell, Yorkshire. The local speakers were Mr W. H. Patterson, Mr Hendry, Addison Colliery; Mr T. Ramsey, Mr N. Wilkinson, Mr Allens, Mr Young, Addison Colliery; and Mr Ferguson, Edmondsley. The platform was decorated with the Thornley banner, and in the arena was a banner bearing the inscription: "A fair day's wage for a fair day's work." The chairman was Mr W. Crawford. His first words were: "This is the first great Gala Day of the Durham Miner's Mutual Confident Association, and I only pray that it will not be the last." He reminded them that he and his colleagues had only been trying to organise the county. They had met with great difficulties, but they were still alive, and more likely to continue alive than ever. "I can assure you," he said, "that on this, the 12th day of August 1871, the Durham Miners' Association was never in a more healthy position; never more healthy with regard to its feeling and determination to carry on its great work of organising the county; never more healthy with respect to its funds; and never more healthy in reference to the general progressive tendency of its operations, since the first day the Association was established." To quote the speeches would be foreign to the purpose of this history. The speakers were men who did great work in the Trades Union movement in the period with which we are now dealing. William Brown had peculiar methods, partaking more of a religious revivalist. He ofttimes at home opened his meetings with prayer, and had a small collection of songs (entitled melodies and poems), from which he would sing before he commenced to speak (and he was a singer). For some months it was the privilege of the writer to be engaged as a lecturer in the Midlands by the Miners' National Union in 1878, three weeks of which were spent with Brown in North Stafford, and therefore there was a good opportunity of judging. At this first Gala Brown sang two of these songs, and recited the following poem:-- WORKING MEN "Think what power lies within you, For what triumphs you are formed; Think, but not alone of living Like the horse from day to day; Think, but not alone of giving Health for pelf, and soul for pay. Think, oh! be machines no longer, Engines made of flesh and blood; Thought will make you fresher, stronger, Link you to the great and good; Thought is a wand of power, Power to make oppression shrink, Grasp ye then the precious dower, Poise it, wield it, work and think." These men, heroes of the highest order, who inaugurated one of the finest series of labour meetings ever held in this or any other county, who saw the possibilities which lay within us, and who spoke such words of hope, have all passed to the reward which awaits the good and the true who battle for the right in whatever clime or sphere of life. Their spirits still live and move and have being in many to-day, bearing testimony that "the good men do lives after them." A delegate meeting was held on the 9th of September 1871, Mr Crawford presiding, at which three general matters were transacted. It was decided to retain a solicitor to transact the legal business of the Association and act as adviser. Arrangements were to be made to open a proper banking account, and it was resolved to join the Miners' National Association. The next delegate meeting of importance was held in the Shakespeare Hall, North Road, Durham. Mr J. Forman was now chairman (although still continuing to live at Roddymoor)--Mr Crawford being appointed secretary, Mr Wilkinson treasurer, and Mr Patterson agent. The matter under discussion was the wage settlement, some dissatisfaction being manifested at the difference between the men underground and those at bank, and a report was made of the first case settled by arbitration. This was at the Lizzie Colliery, the arbitrators being T. Taylor-Smith and Mr W. Crawford. THE LEADERS With the Council meeting held on Tuesday, March 26th, 1872, by the election of Mr Forman as president and Mr Crawford as secretary, and the regular meetings with the employers being recognised, we have the Association fully and solidly established. Before we proceed further it will be in natural order if we take a short glance at the men who were at the head of it. There is no need to enlarge upon them; a bare outline will be sufficient. The first in prominence and force was Mr W. Crawford. When appointed he was outside the county, but owing to his having been secretary of the combined counties he was known to the Durham men as an able and forcible Trades Unionist. When the separation between the two counties took place he was engaged as secretary of the Northumberland Association. This post, says Fynes in his history, he filled "with great ability until June 1865, and made himself a great favourite in Northumberland, but he then left the Association in order to take the secretaryship of the Cowpen Co-operative Store at Blyth." Mr Burt was elected to succeed him. In 1870, when Mr Crawford applied for the position of agent in Durham, he was selected from a number of candidates. It was at this time that the writer had the pleasure of making his acquaintance, and had large opportunities of forming an estimate of his ability. Never had any man more force of character or more executive power. His individuality was very large. He had no love for platform work, and the love for that sphere lessened as he grew older; but he had no superior and few equals in his grasp of, and power to find a solution of, the peculiar difficulties and complications which arise in an occupation like the miners. He was a solver of difficulty and a manager of men, and in every way fitted for the post of secretary of a trades organisation. From his appointment to his death he filled it with a skill few men can command. _N. Wilkinson_, the first treasurer of the Association, had worked at Trimdon Grange as a fireman. At the date of his appointment he was earning a living by tea selling, having lost his employment on account of his Trades Union principles. His first appointment was temporary, and when elected permanently he was living at Coxhoe. As soon as the Union was fairly started he was made treasurer permanently, and so acted till 1882. As a speaker he was of a blunt, straightforward order. As Othello says: "His was a round unvarnished tale and he told it right on." At the commencement, when announced on the bills it was as "Nicky Wilkinson," and no man could be in the least doubt but that when he spoke to them on the Union and its usefulness it was from the heart. As a man in those stern and trying times he was, as those who were his colleagues would testify, a man upon whom they could depend in any testing circumstances. _Mr J. Forman._--He was the first regular chairman. At the time of his appointment he was checkweighman at Roddymoor, and when spoken of it was as "Forman of Roddymoor." He came from Northumberland to Annfield Plain when a young man. He acted as president of the Association for a time, and followed his occupation as checkweighman; then in 1874 he was appointed a permanent official, and removed to Durham. He continued in that position until his death on the 2nd of September 1900, at the age of seventy-seven. He was an ideal president. It is not saying too much--his superior could not be found. The fact of his appointment to that position indicated the prominent part he took in the formation of the Union. He was more of an adviser than a platform speaker. He preferred a quiet, retiring life in which he could be useful rather than ornamental. Although shunning public notoriety he was no shirker when danger demanded the presence of men, for in all the explosions which happened during the term of his office he was one of the foremost; and almost single-handed he stood out for the dust theory when men of noted scientific knowledge were against him. _W. H. Patterson._--His life's work, from start to finish, was the most conclusive testimony as to the sincerity of his purpose. There were men then, as now, whose motive is the loaves and fishes, willing to gather where they strew not and reap where they have not sown; but Patterson was not one of these. From the time when, but a mere boy living at Windy Nook, he threw himself into the work, with earnestness and energy, until his death, when a comparatively young man, he devoted himself and the best he could give to the establishment of and care for the Union. When it prospered no man was more cheerful, and when dark times came upon it his sorrow was genuine and large. He was not a Crawford (few were), yet for persistent plodding he was equal to any. With youthful buoyancy, and a heart full of desire and determination, he was the very man for the position in which he was placed. It would have been a useful addition to our own literature if he had placed on record the hardships he, with "Tommy Ramsey" endured in 1870-72. They lodged many a time in a room the walls of which were the horizon and the lamps the stars above them. Money was not plentiful, and it was not every person who dared to take an agitator in to lodge. It was in many quarters considered a crime almost deserving of capital punishment. "_Tommy Ramsey._"--What can be said of "Tommy"? He was a most perfect type of an old school miner, and a sound Trades Unionist, one of the heroes of '44. There are numbers of men in the county who will remember the rugged old warrior in the noble cause, just as the picture hanging in the Hall describes him--a rough but true diamond of the first water. With bills under his arm and crake in hand he went from row to row announcing the meetings and urging the men to attend. His words were few, but forcible; not polished, but very pointed--and they went home. Like Longfellow's arrow shot in the air, they found a resting-place. He had one speech, the peroration of which was something like the following:--"Lads, unite and better your condition. When eggs are scarce, eggs are dear; when men are scarce, men are dear." It was impossible to miss the meaning in those words. Their simplicity was their greatest eloquence. His work was far from pleasant or safe. The writer of this was witness of a brutal attack on the old man by a bully who would disgrace any place in which he lived. This antipodes of a man, to curry favour with the manager, and to please those who bought him body and what soul he had, ill used Ramsey, and burnt his crake. At the subsequent meeting Crawford was wild in his denunciations. The words still ring in my ears. Brave old "Tommy" cared not; he got a new crake, and turned it with more emphasis. Grand old Ramsey, you are right now; if not, many of us have a poor chance. You in your way, in accordance with your ability, tried to open the prison doors to those who were bound, and to stir up a love of freedom in the breast of those who were in willing slavery. [Illustration: T. RAMSEY] THE OPPOSITION TO THE BUILDING This was fourfold, and it may be interesting to look at these _seriatim_. The first was not in the least unexpected. At that time Capital and Labour were looked upon as being natural enemies, and all their relations were on that principle. We see now how foolish is that idea. Then conflict and doubt formed the atmosphere which surrounded the two great parties in the industrial world. If men having common interest joined themselves, in order that they might act for the common welfare, the leaders were to be dealt with harshly, and if necessary banished. It was no infrequent occurrence, when the spirit of Union was abroad, for men to be driven away from localities they loved and from associations endeared by years of enjoyment. This was done with the view that terror might be struck into the hearts of others. The principle was: Drive away the shepherd and the sheep will flee. So much was that spirit abroad that in many places the establishment of the Permanent Relief Fund was treated coldly, obstacles thrown in its way, if not bitterly opposed, because it was regarded as the thin edge of the Union wedge. What more natural than for fierce opposition to rear itself, with threats for the braver spirits, and bribes and allurements for those whose nature was susceptible to such influences? Ale-houses were used as a means for preventing Unionism taking root and spreading. The sorrow of it is there have always been spirits who are ready to act meanly when required. This opposition was, therefore, to meet and bear down and convince that a trades organisation was not an institution prone to evil, and set up for no other purpose. The men who are alive to-day, and who took part in that opposition, would, we may assert with confidence, confess their mistake if they were interviewed on the subject. Then the law was against the Trades Unionists. We complain now, but they had more reason in those days. We must lift ourselves into the condition of things prior to the 1875 Act, which did a great deal towards equalising the positions of the employer and employed. The Master and Servants Act, with all its one-sided applications, was in force. For a long time an agitation was carried on for its repeal, but after twenty years the only result was the appointment of a select committee to inquire into the operation of the law. The law was very unequal. It had been framed on the principle that the workman alone was inclined to do wrong, and therefore wanted hedging in and punishing. In the year 1865 there were 1100 arrests under the Act in the country. Eight hundred of the accused were sent to prison. An Amending Act was passed in 1867, but between that time and 1875, 774 were convicted. "The state of the law was simply infamous. Its provisions made it a criminal act if a workman broke a contract, even under the most justifiable circumstances. He was arrested by warrant, and if the breach of contract was proved the magistrate was bound to inflict the punishment of imprisonment with hard labour. If, on the other hand, the employer broke the contract, ever so flagrantly, he could only be summoned by a civil process, and his punishment was simply a fine." [Illustration: J. H. VEITCH] Then they were hindered by a system of boycotting before the word became proverbial. It was not merely difficult, but impossible in some places to get a meeting-place. The writer knows of one colliery where a place could not be got. Even the co-operative hall was closed against the Union, and the Union money had to be taken in the corner of a field. Beyond this, in Durham the printers refused to do the Union printing--all except Mr J. H. Veitch, who dared almost social ostracism and took the work, and the connection then formed has continued up till now. The refusal arose from two reasons--first, there was a fear that the Union would not be able to pay for the printing; and second, Trades Unions were in bad odour in the county generally, and none the less in Durham. There was none of the respectability about the institutions there is now, and little hope of them. Broadheadism at Sheffield, with its destructive policy, had filled men's minds with fear. The form of reasoning was: "Trades Unions are guilty of these evil things; this is a Trades Union, therefore it will be guilty of doing evil." Just as logical as if a man had said: "Murder is committed in England; these people are English, therefore they will commit murder." Mr J. H. Veitch (all honour to him) had none of those fears, nor that false logic. He took the work when social ostracism was in the air. We cannot forget the act nor the man. Another great obstacle against which they had to contend was a host of anonymous writers, who wrote behind a variety of _nom de plumes_--such as "Geordie Close," which covered W. P. Shield, and "Jacky Close," but none under their own names. These writers used the most scurrilous and slanderous language about, and attributed the vilest motives to the men who were at the head of the movement. The situation was a complete analogue to that when Nehemiah commenced to build the walls of Jerusalem. Sanballat and Tobiah and Geshem laughed him to scorn, and despised him, and said: "What is this thing that ye do; will ye rebel against the king?" But as those sneerers in the far-off Jewish times had no effect on the builders of that day, so in those days the founders of our Association, the builders of our broken walls, heeded not those snarlers of thirty-six years ago, and the result is an all-round benefit. The greatest of all the species of opposition they had to meet arose from the apathy and indifference of the people. Although the condition was bad in the extreme, yet often the earnest spirits and others scattered about the county had to ask each other, in the query of the prophet: "Who hath believed our report?" The state of apathy was quite natural. It was not because there was no real love of Union; it was the outcome of repeated failures. "Hope deferred maketh the heart sick." There had been spasmodic attempts at associated effort. The result was a feeling of hopelessness. Like men of whom we read in waterlogged ships or analogous situations on land, having tried oft to save themselves, they give up in despair, and say "Kismet," like an Eastern fatalist. The hold this feeling had on the mind is seen in the small results for a considerable time after the Association commenced. A thousand or two was their whole membership, their council was their committee as well, and the numbers so small that a room in an ordinary hotel could with ease contain them. At their meetings, sparse in attendance, they were often insulted and sometimes maltreated by the men they had come to help. In this alone there was sufficient to deter them, and to lead men of talent and energy (such as they were) to turn themselves to other objects in life; but they loved their class, and, while they had aspirations for better conditions, they desired to raise their fellows with themselves. Any one of them could have made a position in other directions if their aims had been selfish; but they were men of different mould, and they were inspired by the love of the cause, and confident in its ultimate success if once they could clear away the dark pessimism which had fixed itself in the minds of the workmen. For this they endured the hardship and faced the opposition, until finally men saw the solidity and permanency of their work, with the result that the institution they founded occupies a rightly deserved foremost place among Trades Unions. 1872 The Coal Owners' Association--The Abolition of the Bond--First general Advance--Formation of the Joint Committee--First Gala--Mines Regulation Act--Second Advance _The Coal Owners' Association._--One of the results of the formation of the organisation was the commencement of the Durham Coal Owners' Association. There had been an association under the name of "The North of England United Coal Trade Association," but its functions were vastly different from those of the present organisation. Then the sphere of operations was parliamentary and legal, but the new body was formed for trade purposes. The first meeting to consider such a step was held on February 1st, 1872. There was an adjournment for a fortnight, when a set of rules was submitted setting forth the conditions of membership, contributions, the assistance to be rendered, and the appointment of officers. The chairman and vice-chairman were respectively Hugh Taylor and W. Stobart, and the secretary was T. W. Bunning. No sooner was the Association formed than communications were opened with the Miners' Association, as the following letter will show:-- Neville Hall, Coal Trade Office, Newcastle-on-Tyne, _Feb. 5th, 1872._ Mr Crawford, my dear Sir,--I am directed to inform you that, at a large meeting of the representatives of the household coal collieries, held here last Saturday, it was resolved-- That it is considered desirable that a meeting should be held between the coal owners and a deputation of the representatives of the workmen, at one o'clock on Saturday, the 17th instant, at the Coal Trade Office, to discuss the various questions now in agitation by the workmen, with a view to their adjustment, and that a copy of this resolution be forwarded to Mr Crawford. Will you be as kind as to acknowledge the receipt of this letter, and let me have the names of the deputation who will attend. I beg to remain, dear Sir, very respectfully yours, THEO. WOOD BUNNING. [Illustration: (Back Row).--N. WILKINSON. (_Treasurer._) W. H. PATTERSON. (_Vice-President._) M. THOMPSON. T. RAMSEY. G. JACKSON. J. FORMAN. (Front Row).--W. ASKEW. W. CRAWFORD. (_President and Secretary._) J. HANDY. T. MITCHESON. The First Deputation from the Durham Miners' Association to the Coal Trade Office, Newcastle-upon-Tyne, February 17, 1872] There were about a score of representatives of the employers present during the meeting, while ten delegates, representing 20,000 workmen, took part in the conference on the latter's behalf. Mr Hugh Taylor occupied the chair, and the delegates were introduced by Mr Crawford. The first question for discussion by the conference was then brought forward--viz. the yearly bindings. At the outset the employers intimated that they were perfectly willing to abolish the bond, and establish in its place either monthly or fortnightly agreements, giving preference to the former. The workmen's delegates at once intimated their readiness to abolish the yearly bond, and thanked the masters most kindly for the manner in which they had met them on that question. The men proposed in the place of the yearly bond to establish a fortnightly agreement, and it was ultimately decided to discuss the terms of the agreement at a second meeting to be held shortly. The next matter was the question of the hours of boy labour, but after a short conversation it was also agreed to allow this question to stand over until the second meeting. The next question was with reference to an advance of wages. On this point the owners admitted that the men ought to share the present prosperous condition of the trade, the only difference of opinion that arose being what that share ought to be. The employers were of opinion that they and the men ought to meet as two associations--the combined masters on the one side and the combined workmen on the other--and discuss the question as to what would be fair to both parties. It was suggested at the same time that any advance asked or conceded should be based on prices in force at bound and unbound collieries of the county of Durham in April 1871. On the part of the employers it was pointed out that a great many collieries had at the present time presented petitions for an advance of wages, and in some cases they had intimated their decision of laying the pits idle in case their demands were not conceded, and it was now suggested that the delegates from the workmen present should do their utmost to get the petitions placed in abeyance until the next conference was held. This was readily agreed to, and the meeting then terminated. It is satisfactory to note that during the continuance of the conference a most pleasant and amicable feeling prevailed on both sides. The Association being formed and officered preparation was made for the removal of grievances. The first to which attention was turned was the abolition of the "Yearly Bond." For a long time there had been a protest against the system of partial slavery implied in a contract covering a year. The system was as follows:--On a Saturday near the 20th of March the whole of the workmen were called to the colliery office, and there the manager would read over (nearly always in tones inaudible to all except those who were close to him) the conditions of labour for the next twelve months. There was usually a balancing of the prices. As an inducement to the men there was, say, a sovereign given to the first man bound, ten shillings to the second, five shillings to the third, and then two shillings and sixpence to every man after. The crush to secure the first place was generally so great that the manager was fortunate if he were not carried off his feet. As a preparation for this rush certain men would be bribed to incite, and thus induce men to act in an unthinking manner. This bare outline will suffice to show the evil of the "Bond," and that it was a wise step on the part of the newly-formed organisation to attempt to substitute a shorter term of contract. The first meeting for that purpose between the employers and workmen was held on February 17th, 1872. As this was the first united meeting in a series which has been for the benefit of all concerned it will be interesting to place on record the letter from the employers inviting the representatives of the Miners' Association to meet them. Of course, the employers were made aware of the desire amongst the people for this and other reforms, and that knowledge induced them to arrange matters amicably if possible. Another thing was in favour of the workmen: not only was their Union gathering strength, but the state of trade was in their favour. One result of the war between France and Prussia was to increase the demand for British coal, the result being a coal famine and excessive prices. The old pit heaps even were sent away, and a common saying at the time was: "Anything black was sold for coal." A conflict, therefore, would have been a dangerous and destructive thing. (_First General Advance_) IMPORTANT CONFERENCE OF COLLIERY OWNERS AND MINERS' AGENTS IN NEWCASTLE (_Durham Chronicle Account_) Agreeably to an arrangement made at the conference between the colliery owners and the miners' delegates held on the 17th inst. an adjourned meeting between the two bodies took place on Saturday at the Wood Memorial Hall, Newcastle. There was a large attendance of the masters, Mr Hugh Taylor, Chipchase, being in the chair. Mr W. Crawford, President of the Durham Miners' Mutual Confident Association, acted as principal spokesman for the miners' delegates, who were eight in number. It will be remembered that at the last meeting the masters agreed to the abolition of the yearly bond, and the first question, therefore, taken into consideration at the present conference, was the nature of the future agreement between the masters and the men. On the one hand, the employers suggested monthly notices on both sides; but the men on the other hand were unanimous in the request for a fortnightly notice, with the option of either giving or receiving the same on any day except Sunday. After some discussion, the masters acceded to the wishes of the men on this point. The next question taken into consideration was the advance in pay demanded by the men. A proposition for an increase of 35 per cent. on all prices paid in April last was submitted by the delegates, who, in answer to questions by the owners, admitted that the advance requested appeared to be a large one, but they urged that it was made in consequence of the low rate of remuneration received by the miners of the county at the time referred to. To this advance the owners objected on the ground that it was excessive. They also urged that for several years past coal had been low in the market, and the working of pits had been unremunerative, and submitted that it was unfair on the part of the workmen, when a slightly better price had been obtained, to make an exorbitant demand. They also pointed out that the advance asked for was greatly in excess of that obtained by the miners in other parts of the country. To this argument the delegates replied that they were of opinion that the advance asked for was not greater than the excessive profits of the masters would allow to pay; in fact they only wanted a reasonable ratio of the profits made by their labour, and they were also of opinion that the 35 per cent. advance would not place the miners of the county of Durham on an equality with the workmen of other counties. After some further discussion, the delegates intimated that they would be satisfied, if the owners did not feel disposed to give the increase asked for, with the average score price paid in Northumberland and South Yorkshire. They were willing, if the masters would divide the two last mentioned counties into four quarters each, and would select, according to arrangement, two collieries from each of the eight quarters, to accept the averages of the prices paid at the sixteen collieries as the standard scale in the county of Durham. The owners, after hearing this proposition, asked the deputation if the average would be accepted by the men at those collieries in the county who were at present working for only 5 per cent. less than the proposed standard. The delegates replied that every such colliery would accept the average if the masters would give it to the men of those collieries who were at present working for 50 per cent. less than the average named. After some further discussion the delegates retired. On being called back into the room they were informed by the chairman that the owners did not think it was desirable to go to either Northumberland or South Yorkshire for an average, as they were of opinion that they were quite competent to manage their own affairs; and that they had agreed, in a spirit of conciliation, to offer an advance of 20 per cent. on all prices over and above all consideration money paid on April last. The deputation stated that they had no authority to accept the offer of the owners, but they would in due course communicate it to the general body of the men. The conference shortly afterwards broke up. The day fixed for a meeting on this question was the 2nd of March. In the meantime a special Council meeting was held in the Town Hall, Durham, Mr W. Crawford, as President, occupying the chair. There were present 160 delegates, and the members represented were about 20,000. The business was the discussion of the matters to come before the employers and the appointment of a deputation to attend the meeting. The adjourned conference was held on Thursday, March 21st, and for the purpose of giving a proper knowledge I herewith record the press report from _The Durham Chronicle_. CONFERENCE BETWEEN DURHAM COAL OWNERS AND WORKMEN Another conference between the Durham coal owners and a deputation of the workmen of the county took place on Thursday sennight in the Wood Memorial Hall, Newcastle. The chair was occupied by Mr J. B. Simpson, Low Hedgefield, and there was a good attendance of the representatives of the owners, the deputation being, as at previous meetings, headed by Mr W. Crawford. Before proceeding to the disposal of the questions for which the conference had been convened, it was intimated to the deputation that Haswell Colliery was idle. It was explained that the workmen at that colliery had received an advance of 6d. per score on last April's prices in November last, and they now wanted an advance of 20 per cent. on that concession. A telegram was also produced which intimated that a strike on the same ground had occurred that morning at Castle Eden Colliery. The course adopted by these two collieries was utterly opposed to the arrangement which had been made between the two Associations of employers and workmen at their conference, and the representatives of the former body intimated that if such constant violations of the arrangements arrived at at these interviews were to continue, it would be better to break off all negotiations at once, and each side follow its own policy. The members of the deputation expressed their utter surprise and utter ignorance of the events that had occurred at the collieries named, the first intimation of which they had received was at that meeting, and they desired to be allowed a private consultation before they proceeded further. After a short consultation in private, the deputation drew up the following telegram, the substance of which they communicated to the employers:-- We regret to hear that Haswell and Castle Eden Collieries are idle. You must know that you are wrong, and we strongly advise you to commence work to-morrow, otherwise steps will be taken to repudiate such reprehensible conduct, and if necessary the strongest action will be taken in the matter. This was deemed satisfactory, and the conference then proceeded to the business which had drawn them together--viz. the remuneration of the offhanded men and boys. The employers stated that they had agreed to give all offhanded men and boys who work underground 20 per cent. advance on last April's prices, the same as they had conceded to the hewers. To the men who work above ground--viz. to the cinder drawers, joiners, blacksmiths, firemen, screenmen, and banksmen, and all other men and boys, with the exception of the enginemen and a few rare cases of cinder drawers--they offered an advance of 12½ per cent. on last April's prices. The deputation, while expressing their perfect satisfaction with the underground men and boys' advance, suggested the propriety of the same advance being extended to all those men, as enumerated, who work above bank. On the part of the employers, however, it was stated that the reason only 12½ per cent. was offered to the above-bank men was that a reduction of 8 per cent. in their working hours had been conceded; and further that their work was not of so risky and dangerous a nature as that of the underground men, and also that there was always a superabundance of men willing to work on the screens, and to do other work above bank. After a conversation, the terms offered by the employers for both descriptions of men were accepted. The report of the interview was given to a delegate meeting, Mr Crawford again presiding. The number of delegates was very large. The points under discussion were the two offers contained in the report above. It was agreed that the offer of the owners should be accepted, with the understanding that it come into operation at once. This was the whole of the important business discussed. It will serve no useful purpose to deal with every local strike, they are incidental to the main course. Mention will only be made when any incident cognate to the general purpose be connected with them. With that idea in view I refer to the strike at Seaham. This strike commenced on Monday, 17th May. The main causes of the stoppage were the length of the hours of the hewers and the time when the shifts should be worked. The hours of the putters had been reduced from twelve to ten, the pit at the time being a single or day shift. With the reduction of the hours the employers wanted to arrange for two shifts of putters and three shifts of hewers. Against this the workmen not only protested, but stopped work without notice. Two things are noticeable, and of interest to us. We have the first breach of discipline, and the first instance of censure of the general officials, because, in accordance with the obligations of their office, they enforced the rules of the Association, and candidly and clearly told the men their opinion. The cause of complaint with reference to Mr Crawford and the officials of the Union, was a telegram sent to the lodge, which, with slight verbal variation, has formed the model of all sent since under the same circumstances. It read as follows:--"Do go to work. You must know you are wrong. You will get no support. Liable to punishment. Do return." For sending that message Mr Crawford was subject to some very scurrilous remarks at the meetings which were held in connection with the strike. These remarks called forth a public reply. In the press of that day is found a letter which contains an unflinching and manly statement of the facts of the case: the cause of the strike, the illegal position of the men, and an extenuation of the action of himself and his colleagues. I quote the concluding words. After pointing out how expeditious the agents had been in their attendance to the matter in dispute, how they (the men) were striking against their own agreement, how he had been vilified, and how his views were still unchanged, he wrote: The report of yesterday's proceedings at Seaham Colliery has not changed my views on this matter. I repeat it, the men are in the wrong, and even liable to punishment. A miner characterised the telegram as an insult to the men at that colliery. Of this I have not the slightest doubt. I have recently been accused of both insults and incivility; and why? Because, as in the case of Seaham, my opinion has been asked, or advice sought, and where such opinion or advice has been adverse to their own preconceived ideas of right or wrong, and they have been told so decisively but courteously, then I became uncivil! These are the men who can prate about liberty of speech and freedom of action, and yet, because they are supposed to subscribe their mite towards a person's maintenance,--every penny of which is doubly worked for,--would only allow his tongue to utter words in accordance with their own crude and contracted views, even though such words were a mere utterance of the most glaring untruths, and a flagrant violation of all the rules now in operation as between masters and servants in their respective relations to each other. I willingly admit that these are but a small minority among the 30,000 members now composing our Association. From the men I have received the utmost consideration, demonstrating by their conduct, that they will give to those whom they employ that treatment which they would like to receive from those by whom they themselves are employed. I commenced my present agency amongst the miners of Durham on May 16th, 1870. From then, till now, I have done my utmost to protect and further their interests in a fair and equitable manner. Where I have deemed the doings of owners or agents to be wrong, I have not been slow to condemn them, and what I have done will do again; and where I have found the workmen to be wrong, I have pursued the same course, unhesitatingly making known my views without the slightest hesitation. If any man or number of men are mean and cowardly enough to think that I shall sit and become a mere machine of repetition, I beg to clearly intimate that they are sadly mistaken. I shall retain my individuality intact, holding myself free to unreservedly express my opinion of all matters which in any way may effect the welfare of our Association, being always willing to retrace my steps, if shown wherein I am wrong; but holding on, amid the folly of fools and the abuse of knaves, if convinced that I am right. And in conclusion, allow me to say that, if such doings are not in keeping with those of the men, the sooner I am replaced the better. A Council meeting was held on the 25th of May in the Town Hall, Durham. The only thing of note was a proposition for the establishment of an institution for the benefit of old men. Nothing definite was done in the matter. After discussing it the Council decided to refer the matter to the Executive Committee, with instructions to draw up a plan or plans to be submitted to the county for acceptance or rejection. In this we have the germ which eventually developed, through the Permanent Relief Fund, into the Superannuation Fund, which has been such a blessing to hundreds of aged miners in the northern counties. On Saturday, June 1st, an important conference was held between the coal owners and a deputation of representatives of the Association. The deputation consisted of J. Forman (President), W. Crawford (Secretary), W. H. Patterson (Agent), N. Wilkinson (Treasurer), T. Mitcheson, Coundon, M. Thompson, Murton, G. Jackson, and H. Davison, Thornley. The first question was the dispute at Seaham and the night shift in general. There was a long discussion, and eventually the employers promised not to commence any more night-shift pits unless it were a case of absolute necessity. The conference next turned its attention to the first rank for pony putters. The proposal of the men was that the distance should be 100 yards. It will be as well to say here that afterwards the distance was fixed at that number of yards. The next subject was as to how many tubs should constitute a score. There was no uniformity in the county. Although twenty of anything is generally reckoned a score, yet at some collieries it was as high as twenty-five. The object was to reduce it to twenty, and the deputation was willing to rearrange the prices wherever the number was reduced. The owners thought it unwise to alter the arrangements, and suggested an adjournment, which was agreed to. The last question was the arrangement of a uniform time for the foreshift men to go down. The custom varied; at some places it was as early as one or two in the morning. The hour named by the representatives of the workmen was from four o'clock. The employers had no very strong objection, except that of interfering with other classes of labour--such as cokemen, waiters-on, and others who would have to commence later, and therefore be later at work. The deputation replied by instancing the Peases firm, where the system had been introduced and was working satisfactorily. The employers asked for time to consult the trade, and promised to inform the coal trade how emphatic the workmen were in their desire for the change. THE FIRST GALA ON THE RACE-COURSE, DURHAM Beyond this gala, which may be truly classed as the first, there will not be any need to mention the yearly gatherings in this history. Its importance compels notice. Important it was, for two reasons--first, its place in the series; and second, because of the public feeling, and in many quarters fear, which was felt as to the consequence of bringing such a large number of the miners and massing them in the city. As showing the state of feeling I will insert a portion of an article which appeared in _The Durham Chronicle_ for Friday, June 14th, 1872. The coming demonstration has occasioned not a few timid residents much uneasiness during the past few days, on account, as they imagine, of the extreme likelihood of the affair resulting in a scene of riot and disorder, and two or three nervous females in business in the town have so far given way to their fears that they have actually consulted their friends as to the propriety of closing their shops in order to protect their persons and property from "those horrid pitmen!" Even the borough magistrates, too, seem to have had an idea that the dog-fighting and pitch-and-toss portion of the mining community was going to be introduced into the city by the approaching gathering, for they declined when first requested to grant the usual licences to the proprietors of the refreshment booths. A full meeting of the borough magistrates was, however, subsequently held, and the Bench after hearing a statement from Mr Crawford, the principal agent of the Durham Miners' Association, relative to the object of the miners in assembling together agreed to issue the required certificates. For our own part, we have not the slightest doubt of the proceedings being characterised by anything but the best of feeling and order on the part of the men taking part in the demonstration, which we are sure is intended to partake more of the character of a monster "outing" of a class of men whose only desire is to discuss amongst themselves the best means of improving, in a rational and legal manner, their condition, rather than an assemblage of either political or social conspirators and agitators. Almost the worst contingency, however, has been anticipated, as there will be a force of 40 policemen on the ground, the expense of the attendance of 20 of whom will be borne by the Miners' Association, whilst the remuneration of the remaining 20 will be defrayed from the funds of the borough watch rate. In addition to this, many tradesmen barricaded their shop windows, and an urgent request was made to the Mayor to have soldiers in readiness. Mr J. Fowler stood in defence. His reply was characteristic, but correct: "I know the pitmen better than you, and there is no fear." He was borne out by the proceedings, which were in the highest degree satisfactory. The first part of the procession came in at 7.30 A.M., and from first to last the most complete good order obtained. There were in all 180 collieries present--the membership of the Association being 32,000. The speakers were A. M'Donald, then President of the National Association of Miners; W. Brown, Stafford; and T. Burt, Northumberland. The local speakers were W. Crawford, W. H. Patterson, H. Davison (Thornley), N. Wilkinson, T. Mitcheson, G. ("General") Jackson, T. Ramsey, and W. Askew. The following resolutions were submitted:-- 1. The change which during the past twelve months has taken place in the position of the Durham Miners' Association, both numerically and financially, ought to be encouraging to all who take an interest in its welfare. During that period differences, as in other places, have arisen; but, so far, they have been managed without a single pit having been stopped, or the loss of any work whatever. This is a condition of things which, taken all together, ought to give the utmost satisfaction to all parties concerned. 2. This meeting begs to utter its indignant protest against the action of the Select Committee in the way they have amended the Payment of Wages Bill. It at the same time most earnestly calls upon Government to restore it to its original form by amendment whilst it is under the consideration of the committee of the whole House. It further begs to state that no measure will be satisfactory to the miners of the county of Durham that does not contain payment of wages weekly without any reduction whatever. 3. That this meeting also has learnt with surprise that it has been stated that the miners of Durham do not want weekly payment of their wages, and that they are not aggrieved with the present reduction. They beg to give the statement, by whomsoever made, an unqualified denial. 4. This meeting likewise looks upon the Criminal Law Amendment Act of 1871 as an insult to the working classes of this country. It at the same time pledges itself to every legal means to have the law repealed or so modified as that all classes in the country will be alike in the eye of the law. 5. That this meeting regards arbitration as a logical way of settling those differences which in trade necessarily arise between employers and employed. Arbitration recognises the right of both parties to put forth views, and leads to examination or investigation, which tends to avoid strikes and lockouts, with all their commercial ruin and social misery. It has now for a short time been in operation amongst the miners of Durham, and we are able to speak to beneficial results; and we most heartily wish to have a continuance and extension of the principle. 6. That a copy of the foregoing resolutions be sent to the Prime Minister and Home Secretary. With this all too brief reference we must leave this, our first race-course gathering. If anyone be desirous of reading a very full description of the collieries attending, with their numbers on the books, the banners with their inscriptions and designs, and the speeches, let him refer to _The Durham Chronicle_ for June 21st of that year. Suffice it here to say that the day was all that could be desired. The old city was enlivened and its trade enhanced. The great crowd came and went in good order. The fears of the fearful were shown to be groundless, and the good behaviour initiated that day, amid the firing of the cannons in Wharton Park, has never varied up to the last of this series of gatherings. The cannons were fired at the expense of T. Ramsey. THE SECOND ADVANCE IN WAGES On Friday, the 12th of July 1872, a meeting took place between the employers' and workmen's representatives. The meeting was arranged in response to a request for an advance of fifteen per cent. on the rate of wages. Mr H. Taylor occupied the chair. The deputation was headed by Mr W. Crawford. At the outset of the meeting the owners complained that the men were neglecting work to a very great extent, causing a diminution in the output of not less than twenty per cent. as compared with the previous twelve months. Statistics showed that the average working time of the hewers was not more than eight days per fortnight. That entailed heavy loss on the owners, and while such neglect of work continued they could not grant the advance asked for, and they suggested the propriety of having a clause inserted in all agreements, that the men should be compelled to work at least thirty-five hours per week before claiming the highest price paid at the colliery. That meant the system of bonus money paid at many collieries, and the deputation emphatically refused it, and said they were not asking because of the state of trade only, but because of the very low condition of their wages which had obtained in Durham for so long, and which they hoped to raise, even if trade became depressed. The deputation was asked to retire, and on their return were handed the following resolution:-- The Association [Owners'] has decided to give 10 per cent. advance to all underground workmen, including banking-out men; but excepting pony putters, who are to be dealt with after the putting question has been settled in Northumberland; and 7½ per cent. to the whole of the above-ground labour; enginemen, both above and below ground, to be excepted. This advance to be on present prices, and to date from the pay commencing nearest the first day of August. This offer was brought before a special Council meeting held on Saturday, the 13th, Mr John Forman presiding. The report of the meeting with the employers was given by Mr Crawford, who went very fully into the reasons why the advance of fifteen per cent. was claimed. The Council adopted the following series of resolutions:-- 1. That in the opinion of this meeting we are more than justified in asking the 15 per cent. on present prices, which is being sought by our Association. There never was a time when the price of coals approximated to what they are at the present time, and in justice we believe that we ought to fully share in that increase and increasing prosperity. On the 8th day of the present month the following are quotations from the London Coal Market:--Kelloe, 26s. 3d.; South Hetton and Lambton, 27s.; and Hetton, 27s. 6d. Having seen coals sold in the same market for as little as 13s. per ton, or more than cent. per cent. less than now, we certainly conclude that we are more than justified in seeking 6d. or even 1s. out of 14s. or 15s. This being so, we abide by the 15 per cent. now being asked for all classes of workmen, above and below ground. 2. That the owners be requested to meet our deputation on Friday next for the purpose of reconsidering the 15 per cent. advance, or if possible on a more early day. 3. That this meeting deplores the oft-repeated statement of coal owners and others relative to the amount of work at present lost by the miners in the county of Durham. We cannot with our present knowledge admit the accuracy of these statements, but believe, on the contrary, that such statements are very greatly overdrawn, and thus an entire false impression is being conveyed to the public mind, and a positive injury done to a large body of men. We have again and again declared that in our opinion men ought to attend their work as regularly as possible, believing that to do so is for the benefit of themselves as well as the employers, and we again urge our members to be as regular as possible in their attendance at work, so as alike to benefit themselves and deprive all parties from so maligning them. The adjourned meeting with the owners took place on Friday, July 19th, when Mr H. Taylor again occupied the chair. The owners repeated their complaint about the loss of work, and asked whether the deputation were willing to give any guarantee that the men would in future work more regularly. They could not give such a guarantee, but said their Council meeting had agreed to recommend the men to work as regularly as possible. With this assurance the owners then handed the following resolution to the deputation:-- We have decided to give 15 per cent. advance to all underground workmen--including banking-out men--except pony putters (who are to be dealt with after the putting question has been settled in Northumberland), and 10 per cent. to the whole of the above-ground workmen, enginemen (both above and below) excepted. This advance to be on present prices, and to date from pays commencing nearest to Monday the 22nd and Monday the 29th of July. The deputation were not satisfied with the reservation as to the putters, and after some further discussion it was agreed to make the advance applicable to them as to the other underground workmen. FORMATION OF JOINT COMMITTEE It will be interesting to give this important step in detail. It was first mentioned in connection with certain meetings which were held mainly on the wages question or the abolition of the yearly bond. While discussing these matters Mr Crawford, on behalf of the deputation, mentioned the advisability of forming a committee of six on either side to consider local disputes and changes in wages. The first formal action taken by the employers was on July 12th, 1872, when the following resolution was adopted at their meeting:-- JOINT COMMITTEE.--Mr Crawford was also informed that on the motion of Mr Lindsay Wood, seconded by Mr Hunter, a Committee consisting of the following gentlemen:--Hugh Taylor, W. Stobart, W. Hunter, C. Berkley, R. F. Matthews and Lindsay Wood had been appointed to meet a Committee from the Miners' Union, to draw up rules for guiding the Association in receiving demands from the workmen. It was arranged with Mr Crawford, that the Committee from the Miners' Union should meet the above-formed Committee at 10.30 on Friday, the 19th inst. The suggested meeting was held on 19th July, when the following recommendation was agreed to:-- JOINT COMMITTEE.--It was agreed to recommend--That six members of each Association should meet every fortnight and discuss all demands except cases of consideration in temporary bad places, the consideration to be given in such places to be settled from fortnight to fortnight by the agents of the collieries affected. All demands to come through Mr Crawford, who is to give the agents of the colliery and the Secretary of this Association, at least three clear days' notice of the nature of the demands that it is intended to prefer at the next meeting. As a result of this recommendation a meeting was held on the 2nd of August, and the first code of rules was arranged. The names of the parties at the meeting are in the following list:-- _Owners_ Hugh Taylor. W. Stobart. Lindsay Wood. John Taylor. J. B. Simpson. C. Berkley. P. Cooper. W. Hunter. R. F. Matthews. T. T. Smith. _Workmen_ W. Crawford. W. H. Patterson. N. Wilkinson. J. Jackson. J. Forman. T. Mitcheson. R. B. Sanderson occupied the chair. The following rules were agreed to:-- The object of the Committee shall be to arbitrate, appoint arbitrators, or otherwise settle all questions (except such as may be termed county questions or questions affecting the general trade) relating to matters of wages, practices or working, or any other subject which may arise from time to time at any particular colliery, and which shall be referred to the consideration of the Committee by the parties concerned. The Committee shall have full power to settle all disputes, and their decision shall be final and binding upon all parties in such manner as the Committee may direct. The Committee shall consist of six representatives chosen by the Miners' Union and six representatives chosen by the Coal Owners' Association. At meetings of this Committee it shall be deemed that there shall be no quorum unless at least three members of each Association be present. Each meeting shall nominate its own chairman, who shall have no casting vote. In case of equality of votes upon any question, it shall be referred to two arbitrators, one to be chosen by the members of each Association present at the meeting. These arbitrators to appoint an umpire in the usual way. Each party to pay its own expenses. The expenses of the umpire to be borne equally by the two Associations. Should any alteration of or addition to these rules be desired, notice of such change shall be given at the meeting previous to its discussion. If any member of the Committee is directly interested in any question under discussion, he shall abstain from voting, and a member of the opposite party shall also abstain from voting. When any subject is to be considered by the Committee, the Secretary of the Association by whom it is brought forward shall give notice thereof to the Secretary of the other Association, at least three clear days before the meeting at which it is to be considered. The Committee to meet every alternate Friday at half-past eleven o'clock. The first meeting of Joint Committee was held on 16th August. The members were: _Owners_ R. B. Sanderson, Chairman. C. Berkley. J. B. Simpson. J. Taylor. P. Cooper. R. F. Matthews. _Workmen_ W. Crawford. W. H. Patterson. J. Forman. N. Wilkinson. J. Jackson. T. Mitcheson. There were in all six cases, which, with their decisions, are as follows:-- _August 16th, 1872._ MURTON (_Stonemen_).--Demand for an advance of from 6d. to 8d. per day. To stand over for a fortnight to ascertain the average wages of the district. OAKENSHAW.--Demand for 1s. per score on the broken and a sliding scale similar to that in the whole. The 1s. per score in the broken was granted to date from (uncertain?). The sliding scale was waived by Mr Crawford and his Committee. SEAHAM.--Mr Matthews' report objected to,--referred, together with a question of removing bottom coal (Mr T. Taylor was chosen arbitrator by the Association); any concessions made by the arbitrators to date from Monday the 19th August. ETHERLEY.--Complaint that the banksmen and others have not received the different advances granted by the Association. Mr Lishman was desired to carry out the resolutions of the Association in their entirety. SOUTH DERWENT.--Complaint that the deputies have not got the 20 per cent. advance. Mr Dickenson, having stated the circumstances of the case and the wages paid, the complaint was withdrawn; it being considered that the deputies are fully in the receipt of the advances decided upon. WARDLEY.--Longwall skirting.--This turned upon the question as to whether it was intended by the arbitrators to include skirting in their award of the 25th March 1872, but it was decided that it was not so included, and that 8d. per yard extra should be given for skirting. SHIFTERS' WAGES.--Demand withdrawn. RAMBLE.--To be considered at the next meeting. It was agreed that full particulars of subjects to be discussed before the meeting should be given at least three clear days before the meeting. THE MINES REGULATION ACT In the session of 1871 a Mines Bill was under discussion, but was not carried through its various stages. It was again introduced in the session of 1872, and for a long time its fate was uncertain. Men from all the districts were up lobbying on behalf of the Bill. Mr Crawford was sent from Durham. A Council meeting was held on Saturday, 27th July. While the meeting was in progress a telegram was received from Mr Crawford as follows:-- Crawford, London, to Mr John Forman, Town Hall, Durham.--Many hours in the Lords last night. Happily disappointed. Bill passed satisfactory. Weighing clause safe. Boys ten hours from bank to bank. A vote of thanks was carried to Mr Crawford, the Government, and to the Home Secretary for the able manner in which he had conducted the Bill through Parliament. CLAIM FOR ADVANCE OF FIFTEEN PER CENT. At the ordinary Council meeting held on Saturday, 7th September, the number of members reported was 35,000. Mr Crawford gave the result of a conference which had taken place with the coal owners with respect to another advance of fifteen per cent. Nothing definite had been done, as the employers were indisposed to comply with the request, and it was adjourned for a fortnight. That meeting was held on Friday, September 27th, in Newcastle. The deputation was informed that the subject had been fully considered. Coals were falling in price, the demand was declining, and the commercial prospects were assuming a more unfavourable aspect, and therefore they could not give any further advance in wages. The meeting terminated, but the deputation expressed their dissatisfaction with the result, and they were supported in their objection by a Council which was held on Saturday, September 28th, and they were instructed to again meet the employers. 1873 The Mines Act--The third Advance--Death of "Tommy" Ramsey--The drawing Hours--The second Gala--Advance in Wages On January 1st the new Mines Act came into force. It is no part of this history to enter into all the changes made by the new measure, but there are three portions of it which deserve a brief notice--these are the weighing of minerals, the position of the checkweighman, and the hours of the boys. The weighing of minerals clause was to provide against the "Rocking" customs such as had obtained at the Brancepeth Collieries, and which had caused the "Rocking" strike. The new Act set forth that: Where the amount of wages paid to any of the persons employed in a mine to which this Act applies depends on the amount of mineral gotten by them, such persons shall, after the first day of August one thousand eight hundred and seventy-three, unless the mine is exempted by a Secretary of State, be paid according to the weight of the mineral gotten by them, and such mineral shall be truly weighed accordingly. The clause further provided for deductions and for exemptions by the Secretary of State from the weighing clause if it were proved that the exigencies of the mine warranted it. In a note to this section Mr Maskell W. Peace, Solicitor to the Mining Association of Great Britain, warned the employers that: "This is an entirely new enactment. Care must be taken to provide the necessary machines for carrying out the provisions by the 1st of August 1872." The portion of the Act relating to the appointment of the checkweighman was a great advance in the direction of freedom of choice. Prior to this the choice of the workmen was confined to those employed on the colliery subject to the confirmation of the manager, and the man chosen was as liable to be discharged as any other of the workmen for any reason. The new Act provided that one of the workmen could be chosen either from the mine or under the firm. He need not be sanctioned by the manager, and could only be removed "on the ground that such checkweigher has impeded or interfered with the working of the mine, or interfered with the weighing or has otherwise misconducted himself." The last provision gave rise to some very glaring removals for acts done away from the mine. These anomalies were corrected by the Act of 1887. THE HOURS OF BOYS There were two provisions in the new Act relating to the hours of boys. One was for those between the ages of ten and twelve, and they were for the purpose of employment in thin seams; their time was to be for only "six hours in any one day." The other provision (which still exists) was for boys between twelve and sixteen years. The weekly hours were fixed at fifty-four. This latter provision was the cause of some confusion, seeing the hours of drawing coal were twelve, and the difficulty was to bring these boys away without interfering with that. A very important Council was held in the Town Hall, Durham. There were two questions before the meeting--first, the demand for fifteen per cent. advance; and second, the working hours under the new Mines Regulation Act. As stated in the review of the previous year, meetings had been held on the advance in September, but the employers would not give way, and asked us to wait. In consequence there was a very strong feeling in the county which found expression at the Council. There was some complaint that the Executive Committee had not been so energetic in the matter as they ought to have been. Mr Crawford defended the Committee. An attempt was made to increase the amount claimed to thirty-five per cent., but in the end the original request was confirmed. The question of the number of hours the pits should draw coal was next considered. The employers were asking for eleven hours, but this was felt to be difficult because of the Act in its application to the boys under sixteen. There was a desire on the part of many delegates that the coal drawing should be limited to ten. During the discussion Mr Crawford said: No more important question could occupy their attention than that before the meeting. Not even the question of an advance exceeded it in importance, because whether or not that was given a great deal depended on how they settled the question of the hours. He might hold views very different to what were entertained by many in that room, but he was bound to state them. The question had occupied his attention, and he was of the opinion that the owners would be unable to keep the men fully employed for eleven hours. They had, however, requested to be allowed to work those hours, and they had a perfect right to do so if they could employ the men. At the same time, he did not believe they could keep the men employed during the last hour after the lads had gone to bank. Eventually it was resolved that the employers should have the unreserved right to draw coal eleven hours per day, providing they did not violate the Mines Act relative to the boys under sixteen, nor keep the men in the pit the last hour doing nothing. The meeting with the employers on the advance was held on February 8th, Mr Hugh Taylor presiding. In a very long statement he reviewed the state of the coal trade. He reminded the deputation that, although there had been delay, there had not been any breach of faith. He brought before them the question of short time, which was an evil not only to those engaged in the coal trade, but to the country at large. He urged again the request of the employers that there should be an agreement binding men to work so many hours at the coal face. The Mines Act had been passed. It did not satisfy anyone. All they asked was that the men should do their duty. In the face of these difficulties, but in the hope that the men would help them, they had decided on an all-round advance of fifteen per cent. There were some of the lodges who refused to carry out the eleven hours' arrangement, and with a view to induce them to do so the following circular was issued:-- TO THE MEMBERS OF THE DURHAM MINERS' ASSOCIATION Fellow-workmen,--In the inauguration of any new system, difficulties always occur; whether these difficulties are easily overcome, or otherwise, will much depend on the manner and extent to which men, or classes, are affected thereby. As a matter of consequence, we have found these difficulties amongst ourselves in putting into operation the new "Mines Regulation Bill." These have arisen from various causes. We have, first, a very erroneous impression gone forth, to the effect, that after the commencement of the new Mines Bill, on the first day of the present year, no pit, or no person in a pit, must work more than 10 hours per day, or 54 hours in any one week. In the Minutes of Committee Meeting, held on the 4th inst., we clearly and distinctly stated that this view was a wrong one. We again beg to emphatically state that the law, in this particular, affects only boys under 16 years of age, and that so far as regards all parties above this age, matters remain identically as they have been. It would appear, however, that in the face of this intimation, some collieries of men are still insisting on the general adoption of the 10 hours per day, and 54 hours per week. In addition to this, we have existing at many collieries, both where men work two and three shifts per day, difficulties as to what the working hours ought to be. Under these circumstances, the owners asked your deputation to meet them last week, for the purpose of discussing, and if possible arranging, some understood mode of action. This meeting took place, at Newcastle, on Friday last. The first question asked was, what objection we had to owners working their pits 11 hours per day, and 11 or 12 days per fortnight as usual, so long as they did not violate the Act of Parliament relative to boys under 16 years of age? After talking over the matter for a long time, we retired, and in consulting among ourselves, failed to see any reason why pits should not draw coals 11 hours per day as heretofore they had done. We returned and told them that we could see nothing to prevent them from working the pits 11 hours per day, if they thought desirable to do so, and they could find men or boys to bring the coals to bank; but that, in trying to carry this into effect, they must not keep men laying at their work for the last hour doing absolutely nothing, as, if such cases did occur, they would most certainly be complained of, and a remedy sought by an appeal to the Joint Committee, in which case they would be exposed to the entire county throughout. Respecting boys being brought into the pit an hour or two after work commences, or sent home an hour or two before the pit is done at night, we cannot see that any difficulties should exist. The question was asked, should a boy be sent home for the first 5 days, having worked less by far than the allotted 10 hours' per day, and such boy should purposely remain at home on the Saturday, would such boy claim his 5 days' pay, remembering that for 5 days he had worked short time for the very purpose of going to work on the Saturday? To this the owners demurred, when we suggested the desirability of seeing boys, or their parents, and making with them necessary arrangements. We may be told that the boys are sent home to suit the owner's convenience, but we must not forget, for whatever purpose sent home, that while they worked short time they were paid full hours, and we certainly cannot see the wisdom of preventing boys from receiving 6 days' pay for working 54 hours, when, but a short time ago, they worked 66 hours for the same money. The employers, by Act of Parliament, are compelled to reduce the working hours of boys under 16 years of age, but we cannot expect them to reduce the hours of all datal men, if work can be found for them for the ordinary time. We must not lose sight of one very important fact, viz., that a reduction of working hours to those who are paid a datal wage means an advance of price, a reduction of hours, from 11 to 10 per day, is equal to 9 per cent., which practically means 9 per cent. advance, seeing that the productive powers are lessened by so much. In this manner it must be seen too, that no boy under 16 years of age is allowed to be in the pit more than 10 hours in any one single day, or 54 hours in any one week. If this is strictly seen to, a great work has been accomplished, and don't let us spoil that which is really good by trying to accomplish too much. Those lodges who object to the pit drawing coal 11 hours per day, ought to bear in mind that a reduction to 10 hours is a very serious curtailment in the drawing or producing powers of the pit, and as such only tends to lessen the power of owners to pay good wages. The profits arising from the produce of any article are up to a given quantity consumed in paying current expenses; and, therefore, the more the produce is restricted, the less means are there at command wherewith to pay all classes of workmen. The disadvantages arising from the operation of the new Mines Act must necessarily tell heavily on the mine owners in the two Northern Counties, where the double-shift system is worked, and it would be an act of imprudence--not to say injustice--and materially militate against our own interests, to increase drawbacks beyond an absolutely necessary point. We would, therefore, strongly urge on all our associated collieries to allow the employers (1) to work their pits 11 hours per day, where they can find men or boys to keep them going that time, without, of course, infringing the law, relative to boys under 16 years of age. And (2) to allow boys to be sent home on one or more days, so as to make up six nine-hour shifts in the week. By this plan no workman can lose, while the boys would materially gain thereby. We have so far worked successfully, but that success has been greatly, if not altogether, owing to the caution we have exercised, and the general reasonableness of our requests, having at all times a respect for the right, while we have tried to bring into active operation the duties of capitalists. Let us not then mar that success by an imprudent or forward act of ours, particularly at a time when a change which must tell very severely on the interests of mine owners, and which, moreover, is of our own seeking, is just being introduced amongst us, and from which boys at least must gain immense advantages. By order of the Committee, Wm. Crawford, _Secretary_. Offices--16 North Road, Durham. _Jan. 20th, 1873._ While these questions were claiming and received the attention of Mr Crawford and his colleagues a foul attack was made upon him by G. ("General") Jackson of Nettlesworth. He published a number of letters, which were not very choice in language, but prolific in the lowest form of abuse. He spoke of "that fellow Crawford," "that bully" who was feathering his nest by defrauding. This went on until the Executive came to the defence of Mr Crawford. They published a circular, pointing out the false charges which had been made, and that Jackson was a member of the Committee during the period in which he alleged the misappropriation of money had taken place. They reminded him of the neglect of duty implied in his not exposing such things before, and ended the circular by saying: "Further this Committee begs respectfully to say that they have the greatest esteem for their secretary, Mr Crawford, and are fully convinced that he has always acted in harmony with the highest principles of moral rectitude." On Thursday, 8th of May, the first of the pioneers who crossed the border line, "Tommy" Ramsey, died at the house of his brother at Blaydon at the age of sixty-two. He was buried in the cemetery at Blaydon on Monday, the 12th. The number of people attending his funeral was a proof of the high esteem in which he was held. According to the account there were fifty of the Trimdon miners, where he worked last, present, while from collieries around Durham large numbers also attended. The procession was headed by the Blaydon Main banner. We have made a note about him, as one of the leaders, but we may add a few words from an obituary which was published at the time of his death. "Old Tommy," as his brother miners of every degree loved to call him, was chiefly known to the pitmen at large as a Unionist. With a face furrowed with care and the hardships of his laborious calling, and scarred by many an accident in the pits, he was never afraid to stand up before his brethren and agitate for that amelioration in the condition of the working pitmen which has at length been conceded. His style of oratory, if it were not strictly grammatical, was gifted with a warmth of expression that told forcibly on his hearers of his own class, and his perfect knowledge of the one subject he engaged upon--the danger and the excessive toil of the miner's life--caused him to be held in respect by masters and men alike. In every movement that had for its object the freedom from the bondage the miner was held in, Ramsey was always to the front, and none mourned in bygone years more sincerely than he did the failure to establish on a firm and lasting basis the Union, by which alone he maintained were they likely to obtain their rights as workmen. When the present Association was started, amongst the dozen delegates or so who assembled at the Market Hall, Durham, bent if they could on forming a union, was "Old Tommy"; and there he attended every meeting, when to be identified as a delegate was to almost sign his own death warrant so far as employment was concerned. "Men and brothers," he said, addressing a public meeting near Thornley a few weeks after the Association was formed, "I've been a Unionist all my days, and with the help of God I will remain one to the end of the chapter." At the Council meeting held on 31st May we have the first mention of a hall for the use of the Association, with offices and agents' houses. After a lengthy discussion the project was endorsed, the money to be taken from the general funds, and the Executive were appointed a Building Committee. The Committee immediately commenced operations by purchasing a block of houses known as Monks Buildings, the site of the Hall and houses, and offering a premium of £25 for the best design for hall and offices. This was won by Mr T. Oliver, Architect, of Newcastle. The other important question was the eleven hours' drawing of coals. The system received general condemnation. At the conclusion of the consideration a very long resolution was adopted. It set forth that when the Mines Act came into operation the workmen did not think it right to curtail the producing powers of the pits, and they, therefore, fell in with the views of the owners. Having tried the system they had no hesitation in pronouncing it an utter failure on the following grounds:-- "1. Because of the great difficulty, if not impossibility, of working the pits full time on both the first and last hour of the day, thus inflicting a positive injustice on large bodies of men. We have the testimony of Lindsay Wood, Esq., in his evidence before the Coal Committee that the system of eleven hours' work entails great danger on the boys going and coming out of the mine while the pit is at full work. We regret to say that this system has already borne fruit in the slaughter of one or more boys in going and coming out of the mine during the day. This being so we now find ourselves compelled to make an emphatic appeal to the mine owners of the county to work their pits only ten hours per diem in order to obviate both this injustice and danger." As I have said, it will not assist the history we have on hand if we dwell upon the whole series of our galas, and therefore we will only make a reference to the second one in the series. It was held on Saturday, the 14th of June, and the gathering was larger than the year prior. There were three platforms. The chairmen were J. Cowen, J. Laverick, and J. Fowler. The speakers outside were P. Casey, Yorkshire; A. M'Donald, Scotland; B. Pickard, Yorkshire; Lloyd Jones, London; J. Shepherd, Cleveland; T. Burt, Northumberland; and R. Fynes, Blyth, with the addition of the Executive Committee. The speeches need not be referred to beyond the references by Mr Crawford, as indicating the progress of the Association during the year. They had added 5000 to their numbers, bringing the membership up to 40,000, and they had increased their funds from £12,000 to £34,000. They had proved their leading principle was amicability. "That principle had been not to get a thing because they had the power, but first of all to ask the question was it right that they ought to have it." The ordinary Council meeting was held in the Town Hall on July 26th. It is important because of the attempt that was made to censure Mr Crawford. For some weeks a personal controversy had been taking place between Mr E. Rhymer and Mr Crawford. Mr Rhymer had complained that, although the miners had invited him to the demonstration, yet Mr Crawford had stood in his way. This was denied very strongly, and some very curious epithets were applied to him (Mr Crawford) for making the statement. At the Council a resolution was on the programme from Ushaw Moor as follows:-- "That Mr Crawford receive three months' notice from next delegates' meeting, for his behaviour to E. Rhymer and also the Bearpark men." In a note he sent out with the programme he said "he was prepared to account for all he had done in open day, and after that, if the Association was so minded, he was prepared to leave them not in three months, but in three days or three hours." The result of the discussion was the withdrawal of the Ushaw Moor resolution and the carrying of one from Hetton which not only exonerated him, but expressed their high approval of his conduct and work in the county. On the 4th of October a Council meeting was held. The object of the meeting was to consider the advisability of applying for a twenty per cent. advance. In the end the resolution was carried, and Mr Crawford was instructed to arrange for a meeting with the employers. This meeting was held on October 17th, but was refused by the owners, and in refusing they intimated that, as the state of trade was, they would shortly be making a claim for a reduction. The refusal was reported to a special Council, when the deputation was again instructed to meet the employers. The second meeting was held on November 14th. After the question had been discussed the following resolution was handed the deputation:-- "This Association cannot accede to the application of the Durham Miners' Association for an advance in wages, but is prepared to refer to arbitration the question of whether since the last settlement of wages in February 1873 there has been such a change in the condition of the Durham coal trade as to call for an alteration in the wages now paid, and if so whether by way of advance or reduction and the amount in either case." This offer was discussed at a Council meeting, when the arbitration was agreed to; but the submission was disapproved of, and the Executive Committee instructed to draw up a counter proposal, to be submitted to a subsequent meeting for approval. Another meeting with the employers was held on Friday, the 12th of December. At the conclusion of the meeting the employers intimated that they would send their decision to Mr Crawford. On the 13th a Council meeting was held. A letter was read from the employers, in which they objected to accede to the request of the workmen for an alteration of the submission they had proposed. After a further discussion the following resolution was proposed:-- "Having fully considered the objections of the employers to our suggested basis for arbitration we fail to see the soundness of such objections. Nevertheless in order that no difficulties may arise in carrying out this matter, we are willing to alter that basis by leaving the question entirely open. Allowing both parties to bring forward all reliant matter which may bear upon their respective positions, leaving it to the arbitrator to say whether any advance ought to be given and that the Durham Coal Owners' Association be urgently requested to consider this matter on the earliest day possible." There are two matters which deserve a brief notice here, although not essentially part of the Association. These were the Royal Commission to inquire into the coal supply and the causes of the high prices, and the rise of the Franchise Association. The former of these was appointed on 21st February 1873 by the following resolution of the House of Commons:-- "That a Select Committee be appointed to inquire into the causes of the present dearness and duration of coal, and report thereon to the House." This Committee examined a large number of witnesses, including all classes connected with the coal trade. The following is a portion of their report:-- "1. Considering the great extent of the coal fields in Great Britain, the number of collieries at work, and the variety of coals produced, which though primarily used for particular purposes, will, at certain prices, be used for others, your Committee, notwithstanding intermittent and startling fluctuations in price due to temporary causes, do not believe that any combination either of employers or workmen can by artificial means succeed in permanently affecting the ordinary results of the relations of demand and supply in adjusting the quantity of coal produced to the demand, or can permanently affect the price resulting from the state of the market; nor do your Committee believe that the interference of Parliament with the course of industry and trade in coal could produce any useful or beneficial result to the public beyond what has been arrived at in recent legislation, namely, the prevention of injury to the health and morals of young children and young persons, and the prevention of accidents from wilful neglect of recognised precautions. "2. Much evidence has however been given to show the great increase in the rate of wages, and the earnings of the working miners; but whilst it is true that in some cases the earnings have enormously increased, and have been improvidently spent, your Committee conclude that in general the condition of the workmen has been much improved, and that the rise in the rate of wages has not, under the exceptional circumstances, been unreasonable, nor been unattended with considerable benefit to the workers; indeed in some cases the workmen have preferred improving the conditions under which they work to increasing the amount of their wages in money. "3. It is clearly shown that the real order of events has been the rise in the price of iron, the rise in the price of coal, and the rise in the rate of wages. The increased payment per ton for labour employed in getting the coal cannot therefore be considered as the primary cause of the large increase in the price of coal; a rise in wages followed upon rather than preceded a rise in the price of coal. To the extent to which increased rates of wages have induced workmen to labour for a shorter number of hours than heretofore, resulting in a reduced output per man, a higher payment for labour has contributed indirectly in an important degree to maintain the high price of coal, but having regard to the great danger to which coal miners are exposed, and the character of their labour, the average rate of wages in collieries has not been more than sufficient to attract the requisite labour to the mine. The workmen, like all others connected with coal mining, should only regard their present earnings as a temporary profit, which may, at no distant day, approach towards former rates." With respect to the Franchise Association, during the year there was a strong agitation in favour of an extension of the Franchise to the householders in the county, as such had been done by the Act of 1868 to those in the borough. The spirit of reform found ready response in the minds of the Durham miners, and a very active Association was formed. Although incidental to the labour organisation, and with a voluntary contribution, it was managed by the leading men in that Association. The names found prominently in one are found in the other. A Council meeting of the Miners' Association was held in November of this year, at which it was proposed that Mr Crawford should be nominated for one of the county divisions, and the matter was remitted to the Franchise Association. There were but two of these divisions at that time--the North and South, each having two members. There was a General Election in prospect, and it was deemed advisable to run Mr Crawford as a Liberal candidate. To anticipate a little, he was duly put forward on Wednesday, the 28th of January 1874. His candidature was publicly announced, but on Friday, the 30th, at a meeting of the ex-Committee, he withdrew. His aim in so doing was to avoid a division of the Liberal forces. There were two Tories in the field and three Liberals, and it was highly necessary that this should be avoided. This decision was reported to a Council held on the 31st. There was a general consensus of opinion that he had acted wisely, although the delegates regretted the necessity. Some of them had brought money--as much as £30 in one instance--towards the election expenses. A resolution was adopted which had for its object the formation of an election fund with the view to strengthen the hands of the Franchise Association, and it was agreed that whenever there was a vacancy in the county, where there was a chance of success, he should be at once brought forward. 1874 The first Reduction--Co-operative Colliery--The Strike of 1874--The Wheatley Hill Revolt and Evictions--Second Reduction--First Arbitration We finished 1873 with a demand for an advance and a difference as to the submission for a reference to arbitration. During the interval the trade had declined to such an extent that the employers sent a claim for a reduction, and thus the young Society was beginning to find itself entering its first dark cloud of depression. Up to that moment the booming times arising out of the Franco-Prussian War had been with it, but now the relapse which generally follows a fever in trade had set in, and the demand for coals had fallen off seriously; and whereas a month or two previously they had expected another advance, it was felt by Mr Crawford and his colleagues that it would not be possible to stave off a reduction. Before coming to the consideration of the first reduction let us, for the sake of chronological order, note one or two matters of some importance. The first of these is the demand for men being trained before being left to themselves in a mine. At the Council meeting held on Saturday, 21st March, the following resolution was carried:-- "We have again to protest against the introduction of strangers into our mines--men to whom mining with all its dangers is thoroughly unknown, whereby the limbs and lives of other men are constantly endangered. We therefore emphatically ask the owners to put such men under the care of some practical miner for a period of not less than six months, who will be responsible for any danger arising from such person's ignorance of mines." Another point worthy of note was the resolve to join in the movement to form a co-operative mining company. At the Council meeting on 4th April it was resolved: "That we take £5000 out of the General Fund, and invest it in the Co-operative Mining Co., as we believe productive co-operation to be the only solution to the many difficulties that exist between Capital and Labour." At the same Council a copy of the owners' request for a reduction was read. It conveyed the decision of their full meeting: "That the state of the Durham Coal Trade imperatively calls for a reduction of twenty per cent. in all colliery wages, both above and below ground, to take effect from the 18th of next month." A meeting was held between the two Associations on the 16th of April, when the employers stated the reasons for their demand. They held "(1) that there was no connection between profit and wages, and the workmen had, therefore, no legitimate right to interfere in such a matter; (2) that trade was vastly more dull, and prices materially less, than was supposed; (3) that in various parts of our own country and also in Germany, reductions had taken place, in the latter 25 per cent., and having to compete in the same markets with firms and districts so brought down, they had no choice but to enforce the reduction." This was brought before a Council meeting on April 25th, but the delegates refused to discuss it then, and referred the question to a special meeting to be held on the 29th. Steps were taken to prepare for a stop should a reduction take place, and men were arranged to visit various districts. Those going to Ireland and Scotland had £30 each. The owners had in the meantime given notice at certain collieries, and the workmen were told to remain at their own collieries. On the 27th the Executive Committee issued the following circular:-- April 27th, 1874. Fellow Workmen,--According to arrangement, Messrs Patterson, Wilkinson and Crawford, saw Messrs Burt and Nixon yesterday, and from information received it appears that the 10 per cent., or a reduction from 50 to 40, has to affect ALL, both above and below ground. We cannot but call your attention to our present position. The adjoining county, much more compact than ours, and many years older in organisation,--two elements of strength and power,--have just accepted a reduction of wages. Miners, immediately south of us,--West Yorkshire,--have expressed their willingness to accept a reduction of 12½ per cent. on wages all round. This, however, the owners refused to accept. They seek a reduction of 25 per cent., and the matter is, therefore, going to arbitration. With these facts before us, is it possible that we can, at the present time, by any means, which we might adopt, altogether stave off a reduction, more or less, without referring it to arbitration, in some way or other? We will not attempt to point out all the terrible effects which must arise from anything like a general strike. Many of you experimentally know the direful effect and heartrending destitution which has arisen from partial strikes amongst ourselves. Suppose a general stop now ensues, what are the probabilities of success? Can we make our efforts successful? Suppose we should strike against a receding market, and a surplus number of men, and lose, what would be the consequences? These are questions worthy your earnest consideration, because on them depend your WEAL or WOE for years to come. We have to-day very fully thought over the matter, and considering everything, we think it wise, if not absolutely necessary, to make some advances, with a view to a settlement of this important question. We, therefore, strongly advise that an offer of 10 per cent. reduction be made to the owners; and should they refuse this, let the whole matter go to arbitration. If arbitration be offered and accepted, we would suggest the appointment of two men on both sides, and let these four men find a basis or starting-point for arbitration. Should they fail to agree as to what such basis ought to be, let the matter go to an umpire, appointed by the four arbitrators. Let no one regard this as in the slightest degree dictatorial. We have too much respect for your collective judgment to attempt anything of the kind. But we think it our duty to point out that, if not careful, we may drift amongst shoals and quicksands, which may endanger the very existence of our Association. And if this should come to pass, we need not name--not our probable, but certain condition, for years to come. On the 29th of April the special Council was held, which approved of the Committee's circular by offering a reduction of ten per cent. This decision was conveyed by telegram to Mr Bunning, the employers' secretary. No sooner was it known in the county than a general protest was made, not only by the miners, but by the mechanics and enginemen. They objected to being included in the reduction. These bodies held meetings in Durham on the race-course on May 2nd, and passed resolutions not to accept any reduction. The spirit of revolt was rampant in the county amongst the members of the Miners' Association. Meetings to protest against it were held throughout the county. Circulars were sent out by District Councils, in which the Executive Committee was held up to ridicule. To these the agents replied, boldly pointing out the danger of the course which was being adopted and the disaster which would assuredly follow if more moderate action were not taken. Some of the members of the Executive Committee were found amongst the protestors and the loudest in their condemnation of Mr Crawford, who came in for a large share of abuse. It was calculated that at one of those meetings in Houghton there were 10,000 people present. On May 5th the coal owners held a meeting. The resolutions dealt mainly with the action of the enginemen. From these the employers offered to accept five per cent. if acceded promptly, but no man should be allowed to work for less reduction than that offer. During the owners' meeting a telegram was read from Mr Crawford as follows:-- "For reasons previously given both to the Standing Committee and full meeting of owners, we shall begin on Monday to work five days per week or pits be laid idle on Saturday, so far as the working and drawing of coal is concerned." To that telegram the owners sent the following reply:-- "The Provisional Committee give notice to the Durham Miners' Association that unless the Owners' Association receive before the end of the week a satisfactory assurance that collieries will continue to work the same number of days per fortnight, as heretofore, they will advise the Coal Owners' Association to insist upon the full twenty per cent.--first demanded; such demand only having been withdrawn on the condition that no change whatever was to be made in the usual mode of working." On the 7th of May a Council meeting was held, when the ten per cent. was under consideration. By a majority of 15 the delegates decided in favour of the ten per cent., 112 voting for it and 97 against. This brought the dispute to an end so far as the wages were concerned. The strike, if it could be called such, was of the most desultory kind, there being a division as to the acceptance of the ten per cent. reduction. It is generally known as the "Week's Strike"; but even the Executive were in ignorance of the time off, and sent out a slip asking the lodges to tell them "what number of days they were off, when they stopped, and when they resumed work and the reasons why they were off." The returns show that there were none off more than a week. None of them were entitled to strike pay seeing that a colliery had to be off a fortnight before they could claim. The Executive by their Minute of June 5th, 1874, said the strike commenced on May 8th and ended on the 14th. The strike being settled generally, all the collieries commenced work except Wheatley Hill, Thornley, and Ludworth. These were in a peculiar position. For some time they had been ten-day collieries, and at Wheatley Hill the hours of stonemen, shifters, and wastemen had been six every day. When the strike ended the Executive Committee sent word out to the county that work should be resumed under the same conditions as obtained before the strike. The workmen at the three collieries claimed they should work the ten days. That position the following Minute of the Executive Committee bears out:-- "We have again had the case of Thornley, Ludworth and Wheatley Hill brought before us, and beg to give the following statement: As will be understood by all lodges, before the stop these places were working ten days under protest. After the settlement of the working days matter at our Council, the question arose between the manager and men whether these were ten or eleven day collieries, the men holding to the former, while the manager held to the latter. On Friday, May 15th, Mr Bunning telegraphed, stating that the owners still held these to be eleven-day places. We replied that they had been working ten days under protest, and that in some way or other they ought to recommence on the same conditions." The three collieries, on the strength of the notice to resume work, corroborated by the above Minute, refused to start except as ten-day collieries. The owners offered arbitration, but conditioned it by asking for the men to work eleven days, and suspended the Joint Committee until the case was settled. The letter from Mr Bunning contained the words: "The action of the Thornley etc. men renders the resumption of the Joint Committee impossible," and asked whether the Executive were supporting them or not. The men were willing to go to arbitration, but asked to be allowed to start at the ten days. The Executive ordered them to work on the employers' terms, summoned a representative from each colliery to the Committee, and sent out large deputations to attend meetings. Still the men stood firm. On Monday, June 1st, the evicting of the men from the houses commenced. A very large contingent of "Candymen" were imported, and a force of seventy or eighty policemen, in charge of Superintendent Scott, to maintain order. There never was an occasion where better humour prevailed throughout and where there was so little need of police. It would afford a break in this dry matter-of-fact history if some of the incidents were related: how a Jew who had come to gather his fortnightly instalments wrung his hands, and, Shylock-like, cried about his "monish"; how some of the women were to carry out in arm-chairs, and one of them stuck hat pins in the Candymen, to the hilarity of all but themselves; how once in a while a "Candyman," sick of the work, broke through the crowd, and ran off, chased by the police and the cheers of the crowd; and how the people dwelt in tents for three weeks, having continuous sunshine by day and jollity by night, making a continual round of "picnicking." We must, however, leave the pleasurable for the historical. The lodge made an attempt at Council to get strike pay on an appeal against the Committee. The merits of the case were with them, but their case was prejudiced by the temper of the delegate, Mr J. Wood. During the discussion of the question some contention rose as to Wood (who could write shorthand) taking notes. Mr Wilkinson (the treasurer) expressed himself in doubt as to Wood's honesty, and the latter struck at the treasurer on the platform--the consequence being the Council decided against, and the men were left to their own resources. An attempt was made to settle the strike by the Rev. W. Mayor of Thornley. He called upon some of the leading men, and asked them to meet Mr Cooper, the manager, who with Mr Bunning agreed to allow the pit to resume work on the old conditions with regard to the number of days, and that the dispute should be left to the two Associations. The arrangement was come to on the Monday, and on the Tuesday the horses and ponies were sent down, and about 100 men commenced. It then transpired that Mr Cooper objected to three of the leading men, and the men alleged that there had been some reduction in prices. The result was the stoppage again. The dispute was as to the submission for the arbitration. The difference lay in this: the owners wanted the men to start as an eleven-hour colliery, and then arbitrate. The workmen were willing to start as at ten hours, and arbitrate. In the end that was accepted. The arbitrators decided that the men were right in considering their collieries ten-day collieries and refusing to resume work except as such; but they concluded that the collieries should work eleven days, "although at the same time we strongly censure the conduct of Mr Cooper, the manager, throughout the entire struggle." They further awarded that the whole expense of the arbitration should be borne by the owners, thus proving the men to be right in their contention as to starting. [Illustration: WILLIAM CRAWFORD, M.P.] We now come to the second claim for a reduction in wages. On July 17th Mr Crawford read to the Committee a resolution he had received from the employers making a claim for a reduction: "That the Durham Coal Miners' Association, through Mr Crawford, be informed that the associated Coal Owners consider that it is necessary to reduce wages substantially and promptly. That the amount of such reduction, as well as the date of the commencement, will be considered by the owners on the 7th day of August next, and that in the meantime the Association will be ready to give their best consideration to anything the representatives of the workmen may desire to lay before it." To this request the Executive Committee could not accede, and on 7th August the employers sent another claim for a reduction of twenty per cent. They said "that the best policy to pursue in the exigencies of the trade, and to restore the activity of the coal and iron trades, was for the men to submit to a twenty per cent. reduction." In the event of the workmen not agreeing to such a reduction the owners would be prepared to leave the whole case to the arbitration of any gentleman mutually appointed, each party being left free to produce such evidence as they may think fit and satisfactory, arrangement being made for prompt decision, and for securing the operation of the arbitrator's award from the 29th of this month. Mr Crawford was instructed by the Executive Committee to inform the employers that, while they did not offer any opinion on the reduction, they would call the attention of the owners to the last portion of their resolution, wherein the date of the reduction was fixed, and said: "In seeking advances we never yet fixed a date, even when coal was going up in an unparalleled manner and certainly very much more rapidly than ever it has come down. Both in March last and now you wish to fix the date in what seems to us rather an arbitrary manner. Had we in seeking advances pursued this course, you would have been more than justified in doing the same thing, but having pursued a course diametrically opposite, we fail to see the grounds of your justification for the course you are at present pursuing." A Council meeting was held on August 22nd, when the first question discussed was the owners' application for the twenty per cent. reduction. The following resolution was carried:-- (1) We cannot see where in the Cleveland, or the Coasting, or other markets the prices of coal and coke are down sufficiently low to warrant a further reduction of wages. (2) The stacking of coal and coke may be made to have--but ought not to have--any very material effect on the workmen's wages, seeing that, if too much is being produced, we have no objection to be put on short time, or any other fair process whereby a reduction of wages can be averted. We fail to see why the employers ought to seek arbitration. We are now in the same position which they were in during the last two and a half years. They were at that time so fully certain that trade would not give any further advance that arbitration was pointedly refused. We are now so sure that the present, as compared with past prices of coal and coke, does not warrant any further reduction, that we think arbitration is only an unnecessary waste of time and money, causing no end of annoyance without any good resulting therefrom. This resolution was sent, accompanied by a demand for fifteen per cent. advance, to the employers, who held a meeting on 28th August, under the presidency of Mr Stobart, for the purpose of considering it and what action they should take. After considerable discussion a resolution was passed to enforce the twenty per cent. reduction and to give the men fourteen days' notice, to expire on the 19th of September, seeing that their claim and arbitration had been refused. The notices were issued in keeping with that resolve, but not to all men alike. The form of notice was as follows:-- On behalf of----Colliery I do hereby give you notice to determine your existing hiring on the nineteenth day of September eighteen hundred and seventy-four, and that the wages and prices heretofore paid at this colliery will from that date be reduced to the rate of twenty per cent. and that if your service be continued, it must be on these terms. In these circumstances the Executive Committee issued a circular and called a special Council. The lodges were asked to send their delegates prepared to discuss and decide upon three questions: "1. Ought bankmen, horsekeepers, furnacemen, etc., to give in their notices? "2. Ought collieries of men (hewers included) who have not received any notice to give in their notices? "3. The matter of arbitration." We will quote a portion or two of the circular. It is very serious and impressive: "It must be clear to all that we are passing through the most important crisis which has marked the history of the present organisation on the need or otherwise of a further reduction; we here offer no opinion, that being a matter which will take the collective wisdom of the county to determine. We wish, however, to point out what seems to us to be one of two ultimatums to the present unpleasant condition of matters in the county. If a stolid and unreasoning resistance be persevered in, a strike is inevitable. We feel certain that nothing can or will prevent a stop. How long such struggle might continue it is impossible to say. But whether it might be for a longer or a shorter period an immense amount of suffering would be entailed. We want you therefore to very carefully consider the whole matter. View the entire position with an unbiased mind, not from the standpoint of mere abstract justice, but from that of probabilities or even possibilities. We are offered arbitration. If we refuse, the press and public will most assuredly say that our position is untenable. If we persistently refuse to submit the entire matter to arbitration, we must prepare to cope with the following difficulties in conducting a struggle. "(1) The strongest combination of employers the North of England ever saw. "(2) Stacks of coal and coke laid up in every direction of the county. "(3) Coal and coke brought from other districts to supply what we may be short of supplying from our own heaps. "(4) The press and public opinion would be against us." The dispute was brought to an amicable settlement by the whole question being referred to open arbitration. By that decision the Association passed out of the era of negotiations into that of arbitration re underground wages. As that was the first step in the path of conciliation it may be useful to give in detail the proceedings. The inquirer after further information may very usefully consult the printed proceedings of the case. There were for arbitrators Mr G. Leeman and Mr D. Dale acting for the owners, and Mr L. Jones and Mr T. Burt for the workmen. The case was conducted by Mr W. Armstrong and Mr L. Wood (now Sir Lindsay Wood) on behalf of the employers. Mr W. Crawford and Mr J. Forman were for the employed. There were with these arbitrators and conductors other gentlemen, whose names we can find no record of either in the press, the owners' books, or in ours. The first meeting was held on Tuesday, 13th October, in the Queen's Head Hotel (now the Liberal Club), Newcastle. After a long sitting the case was adjourned until the 15th, when Mr Forman on behalf of the workmen, and because there had not been sufficient time to prepare a reply to the employers' case, asked for an adjournment. Mr Crawford said they had "sat twenty-eight consecutive hours, and never moved the whole of the time." It was therefore decided to adjourn until the 16th. During the discussion Mr Crawford made the request that the owners should produce their books in order that both costs of production and the selling prices of coal might be obtained. The fourth day's proceedings was held on the 19th. The arbitrators met on the 26th in London. Failing to agree, they agreed to refer the question to the Right Hon. Russell Gurney, M.P., whom they met on the 30th in the Abbey Hotel, Malvern. On November 3rd he gave his award. Without giving the whole of the award it will be explained by a quotation from a circular sent out by Mr Crawford: "The reduction is as follows:--At present time our advances amount to 43 per cent. over 1871 prices. This by Mr Gurney's award is reduced to 30. That is a reduction of 9 per cent. on the gross wages and will take effect from Monday, November 2nd." At that time the attention of the county was turned to the sanitary condition of the mining villages. The Committee took a return in which they asked eleven questions: "What is the size of your best houses? What size are the rooms, and how many to a house? Size of single houses? Is there attached to your houses or on the colliery any private accommodation? Are there any channels or underground sewers to take away the dirty water and other refuse made in the houses? Are the houses damp and incompatible with health, or dry and healthy? Are there many of the members who have houses of their own? What number of double and single houses have you? Have you a good or bad supply of water and whence supplied? What is your school accommodation, national or colliery? Have you a Mechanics' Institute? Is it colliery or private property? Are there any gardens to the houses?" On Saturday, November 7th, the owners made a claim for a reduction from all the men at bank. This was before the Executive Committee. They by resolution expressed their surprise, and their opinion that they had not been treated fairly, as the employers ought to have dealt with the classes now to be affected in the arbitration just concluded. They considered that "such a mode of procedure cannot but have an injurious effect on that good and desirable understanding which has so long existed between the two Associations." The owners gave the surface men notice to terminate their engagement on 12th December. A special Council meeting was called. The questions to be decided were--first, should the Miners' Committee act for the cokemen, seeing those men were forming an association of their own, and over two-thirds of that class had joined it? Of the other classes three questions were asked: "Ought these men to follow Russell Gurney's award? Ought the reduction to be resisted or ought arbitration to be sought?" The Council decided on Saturday, December 5th, that the Cokemen's Association meet the employers themselves, but "that the members of the Joint Committee should meet them on the banksmen, screeners, labourers, etc." The arrangement come to by the Joint Committee was: "The banking-out men having been generally classed with the underground men, should in all cases be dealt with strictly according to the terms of Mr Gurney's award, that is, remain 30 per cent. in excess of March 1871 and it was recommended that the case of men earning less than 3s. per diem be left to the consideration of individual owners." There are two matters not dealt with in the general statement of this year. These are the appointment of Mr Forman as permanent president on 2nd May and the appointment of the first clerk. The first was Mr A. Hall Shotton; but his stay was short, and he was succeeded by Mr W. Golightly, who was in the office for over thirty-one years. [Illustration: W. GOLIGHTLY] 1875 The third Reduction--Co-operative Colliery--The demand for better Houses--The fourth Reduction Early in the year the Association was called upon to face another reduction in wages. The Executive Committee had sent some requests with respect to hewers putting in the foreshifts and working hard places. The owners sent a reply on January 15th refusing the requests, and at the same time saying, such things being asked of them in depressed times were offensive, and would not have to be repeated. In the same letter Mr Crawford was told that the employers had that day "unanimously decided to ask for a reduction in the wages of all men employed about coal mines and that the Standing (Joint) Committee be instructed to discuss the matter of such reductions and the date when it should commence." To this the Executive Committee replied that they would pass over the question of reduction as it was premature to interfere with it, but they complained of the tone of the letter sent to them, which was very unbecoming, to say the least. They had a perfect right to send the requests. No doubt they were annoying. "But however annoying a request properly made may be, it ought, in keeping with the common courtesies of life, to be denied without imperiousness. It was annoying to them as workmen to receive an application for a reduction." The response to that reached Mr Crawford on the 30th. It informed him that they (the owners) felt it needful to claim such reduction as will leave the wages of both underground and surface men ten per cent. in excess of 1871, to take effect from the pay ending 13th March. Mr Bunning added: "As it is our usual custom not to carry out a resolution of this nature without first having a consultation with you, I am requested to ask you to make such arrangements with your clients as may enable you to meet our Committee at an early date to decide." A special Council meeting was called for the 6th of February to consider whether a deputation should meet the employers; if so, how many and whom they should be. The Council decided that as a deputation the members of the Joint Committee should meet the employers, and Mr Crawford was deputed to go to South Wales to inquire into the condition of things amongst the miners there. At an adjourned Council held on February 10th it was again considered, and the following resolution carried:-- In looking at the last reduction, and the undue advantage the coal owners have taken on us in making a call on the bankmen so soon after the arbitration case, that we in future entertain no more reductions on one separate class of workmen, without knowing their intentions as to the rest of the workmen in our Association. The meeting with the employers took place on 16th February, when six reasons were given by them why the reduction was needed: Many collieries were working at ruinous losses; a terribly increased cost of production; at many collieries the men were restricting their work; a greatly increased number of men were needed; the increased cost owing to the great decrease in the working hours; and the fact that Mr Gurney's award was delayed two months. The employers again issued notices, but not to all men or all collieries. The Committee immediately called a Council, and drew the attention of the lodges to two resolutions which were passed on April 21st and December 5th, 1874. That in future when there are notices given for a reduction of wages throughout the county, and where a colliery or collieries of men do not get their notices, they be requested to give them in. Where men who are members of our Association and who have not received notice should these refuse to give in their notices, their names be struck from our books and never again re-entered. In addition to this the Committee issued a circular in which they reviewed the condition of trade, and pointed out that in many districts life and death struggles were taking place. These men were being supported by voluntary contributions from other mining districts and the public. If Durham came out large support would be cut off, and the state here rendered more dangerous. In Northumberland and Cleveland arbitrations were proceeding. There was only two weeks' money in the funds, therefore the best policy was to accept arbitration. Facing these circumstances they advised the acceptance of arbitration. The employers would be compelled to show sufficient reasons for a reduction. If this were not done no umpire would reduce the wages. This advice was accepted at the Council on 8th March, and it was resolved to refer the whole matter to arbitration on the prices and wages ruling at hearing of the last case, that Mr L. Jones and W. Crawford be arbitrators, and the preparing and conducting of the case be left to the Executive Committee. On March 10th they met the employers, and made arrangements for the proceedings and the withdrawal of the notices, and they informed the members that in every case where the workmen had given notices they must at once be withdrawn. The first meeting on the arbitration case was held on April 15th in the Queen's Head Hotel, Newcastle. The Right Hon. W. E. Forster, M.P., was the umpire. The arbitrators for the employers were Mr W. Armstrong and Mr D. Dale; for the workmen Mr L. Jones and Mr W. Crawford. The case was a dual one, a combination of the Miners' and Cokemen's Associations. The latter agreed to accept the statement made by the employers in the miners' case and then put in a separate reply. The following was the order of the procedure:--The employers stated their case. Then the miners replied on the first day. Second day, the owners' reply to the miners, the miners' rejoinder; the cokemen's reply to the employers, then their reply to the cokemen. The third day's sitting was taken up by the cokemen's rejoinder. The same arbitrators acted in both cases, but Mr Jackson Wilson presented the cokemen's case. The umpire gave his award on the 23rd of April--the reduction being five per cent. from the underground wages and four per cent. from those of the surface men. At the Council meeting held on May 4th a resolution was carried urging upon the Miners' National Association to use their influence to have established an important Board of Arbitration, such Board to say: "First, what amount of interest ought to be claimed for capital invested in coal-mining operations; secondly, whether or not the books showing the profit and loss accounts of the employers ought to be laid before the Arbitrators in deciding a matter in dispute as to the rise or fall of the wages of their workmen; and thirdly, what portion of the profits ought to go to the capitalist and what portion to the labourer." The programme for a Council meeting held on 21st August 1875 contained a resolution dealing with the providing of a better class of houses. "That we appeal to the owners to have better houses right throughout the county for the members of the Durham Miners' Association, and not to make such difference between brakesmen and members of the Association. We believe that one man has the same right to a good house as another." In the balance sheet for the first quarter of the year is found an item relating to the Coop Colliery--3100 shares in the Coop Mining Company, £15,500. For some time, and especially during 1874, the idea of a co-operative mine had been agitating the two northern counties. Meetings were held in various parts, addressed chiefly by gentlemen from Northumberland. The idea fell upon good ground in Durham, for from time to time it was found on the Council programme, and, so far as the Association is concerned, bore fruit in the shares mentioned. The fruit was not merely collective, but on every hand those who could took out shares, even to the extent of all their savings. The Committee of management were: Dr J. H. Rutherford, Chairman. Mr T. Burt, M.P. Mr J. Nixon. Mr R. Young. Mr J. Brown. Mr R. Cramon. Mr W. Crawford. Mr J. Forman. Mr W. H. Patterson. Mr J. Byson. Mr G. Fryer. E. Lowther, Secretary. --all good men, and, if it could have been established, would have been. They were all tried co-operators and ardent believers in productive co-operation. But the enterprise was doomed from the first. The name of the colliery was Monkwood, near Chesterfield, Derbyshire. On the 25th of September 1875 the Committee submitted a balance sheet for the year ending 30th June. The auditors were Benson, Eland & Co. They informed the members that after depreciation as per rule the net loss up to date was £10,863, 15s. 8d. The Committee in presenting the balance sheet said it had arisen from circumstances over which they had no control. The output of the colliery had never reached to their anticipations. The cost of production, and the unsatisfactory state in which the Society found the colliery, had occasioned the loss. The vendor had not truthfully represented the output. They had filed a Bill in Chancery against him for the recision of the contract and the return of the purchase money. The loss to Durham was £15,500. On 6th November the ex-Committee was called upon to face the fourth reduction. They received a letter on that date from the employers conveying to them a demand for twenty per cent. reduction from all underground earnings, including banksmen, and twelve and a half per cent. off all above-ground labour, to take effect from the 27th. The Committee replied protesting against the imperative way in which the demand was made, and resolved to ask the county whether a deputation should attend Newcastle to hear the reasons assigned for the reduction. The county agreed to send a deputation and offer open arbitration, the deputation being the Joint Committee, and that a Council meeting be held on the 27th to hear the report. The Committee met the owners on Monday, the 22nd, and the offer of open arbitration was accepted, the Court to consist of four arbitrators and an umpire. 1876 Death of Burdon Sanderson--Appointment of Mr Meynell--The third Arbitration--The General Treasurer and Executive--The new Hall--Deputies' Association JOINT COMMITTEE CHAIRMAN In January 1876 the Joint Committee chairman, Mr R. B. Sanderson, was in a serious railway collision on the Great Northern Railway at Abbots Ripton. He was not killed outright, but was so seriously injured that he died shortly afterwards. He was the first chairman, and sat all through the meetings up to his death. The Joint Committee at their meeting on January 28th passed a resolution paying high respect to his character and to his ability and impartiality in his decisions. From that time until 11th September the chairman was selected from the meeting _pro tem_. On that date Mr Meynell was appointed, and from that time until his death in 1900 he occupied that position to his credit and with fairness to everyone concerned. It would be incorrect to say that no fault was ever found with him; but it is well known that at his death all who had been at the Joint Committee regretted it, and he has been sorely missed, because he had years of experience--experience which is worth a great deal in that position. The proceedings in the arbitration did not proceed further in 1875, but rested over until January 1876. The arbitrators were the same as in the previous case, and the umpire chosen by them was C. H. Hopwood, M.P. The advocates for the owners were Mr H. T. Morton, Mr Lindsay Wood, and Mr T. Wood Bunning, the Secretary of the Owners' Association, and for the workmen Mr J. Forman and Mr W. H. Patterson. The names of the Committee who assisted were: N. Wilkinson. J. Holliday. M. Thompson. W. Prentice. G. Parker. J. Cummings. C. Kidd. C. Cooper. J. Crowther. F. Smith. G. Jackson. J. Day. G. Newton. The first meeting was held on Tuesday, 18th January 1876, in the Queen's Head Hotel, Newcastle. There were two days' sittings. At the close of the sittings in Newcastle the arbitrators and umpire held a meeting in London on 16th February, when the umpire gave his award that there should be a reduction of seven per cent. underground and four per cent. on the surface. Out of this case and the meeting in London there arose a serious disturbance. The treasurer (Mr Wilkinson) refused to pay the Committee for going to London. He alleged that they went without authority. They went on the vote of seven out of seventeen members of the Committee, the rest being either absent or lying neutral. Their going, he said, was a waste of public money. He finally showed there had been an extravagant expenditure and charges for unnecessary meetings. Along with his explanation he sent out a detailed statement in which it is shown that for one fortnight they had received sums varying from £7, 1s. 9d. to £11, 15s. 7d., or an average of £8, 14s. 11d. per man. For another fortnight the average worked out at £12, 12s. each. To this the Committee made a long reply, but all unavailing, for at the Council meeting held on March 4th, 1876, the following resolution was carried:-- "That the members of Executive Committee who went to London be expelled, and that they have no payment for going." By another resolution the number of the Committee was reduced to nine. The result was to leave only three Committee men to transact the business until a new Committee was elected. A word of explanation may be necessary. At the election of Committee in December 1875 three new men were elected. These were C. Simpson, W. Gordon, and J. Wilson. As the arbitration was proceeding when the election of 1875 took place the Executive Committee asked the members whether they should be allowed to continue in office until it was finished. This was granted, and as a consequence the newly elected members did not take their places until the decision was given. The Durham Miners' Triumvirate ruled until May 4th, when the full Committee was elected. As a further result of the dispute between the treasurer and Committee certain rules were suggested by the Executive Committee and approved by Council on 29th April. (1) That in future there be no night sittings of the Committee. (2) For a long time, a custom has existed of the Committee, asking questions on their reassembling after dinner hours. These questions were put on paper during the forenoon and handed in to be read after dinner. It will be seen, that this practice can be abused, and made to lengthen out Committee meetings to any extent. That this practice be entirely abolished unless it be a mere asking a question from the Secretary. The question and answer to be printed on the Minutes; but no discussion whatever to be held on the matter. (3) That the General Secretary alone have the power both to call and disperse Committee meetings. (4) That the Committee have no power to either shorten their hours or alter modes of payment. In a letter bearing date May 19th the employers made another demand for a considerable reduction of wages both above and below ground, and fixing Saturday, the 27th, as the date for a meeting upon the matter. On that date nothing definite was done, and an adjournment took place until 13th June. A special Council was called for June 17th, when lodges were asked to instruct their representatives what should be done in the matter. In the meantime the Committee issued a circular, giving an account of the meeting with the employers, and informing the members that the owners' demand was for fifteen per cent. off underground labour and ten per cent. off surface labour, or they were willing to refer the whole question to arbitration in order to avoid a stoppage of work. They (the Committee) then urged the acceptance of arbitration at once. To refuse it would be to run counter to the efforts of working men in the past who "had fought some of their most severe struggles in trying to enforce arbitration as a means of settling their trade disputes." Many hundreds of thousands of pounds had to be spent before the employers would even recognise the right of the workmen to the merest inquiry in advances or reductions of wages. The employers claimed the right to be the sole judges in matters of that kind. "When the employers arrogated to themselves the right to judge both for them and us, we were not slow in applying the words tyranny, despotism, and even villainy to their actions. Don't let us then be guilty of an imprudence, both by a repudiation of our own principles and going into a battle when everything is against us." The Committee supported that bold and candid statement by drawing attention to the success which had attended the arbitration in the past. "If ever a body of men ought to be satisfied with a means of adjusting differences we ought with arbitration. It has in every instance so far immensely reduced the application of the owners. There is no other means by which we could have fared better. On every occasion the owners complained about the insufficient amount awarded them." The alternative to arbitration was a strike. That course would be madness. There was a complete stagnation in trade, nowhere more felt than in Durham. Pits were working half time, and there were hundreds of men who could not find an hour's work. To strike would be to jeopardise "an organisation which in the very short space of time has done more for its members than any other trades' organisation that ever existed." They urged other reasons in as forcible a manner, and concluded by saying, if arbitration were refused and a struggle entered upon, there could be but one end, "that of utter and terrible defeat for the miners of this county." Towards the end of May preparations were being made for opening the new Hall, and a return was taken as to the mode of procedure. The place of meetings had been on a movable plan. At first the Committee meetings were held in 58 North Road, Durham. Then both Councils and Committees were held in the Market Hall. As the organisation increased the Councils alternated between the Shakespeare Hall and the Town Hall, and the Committees in the Western Hotel, Western Hill, Durham. The opening of the Hall took place on Saturday, June 3rd, the occasion being the consideration of a ten per cent. reduction at a special Council meeting. The cost of the buildings was £6000, and the architect, Mr T. Oliver, Newcastle--the council-room fifty-two feet by thirty-four; the tower thirty feet above the body of the Hall. The clock cost £130. The arrangements as to the lighting of the clock are: the city authorities pay for the gas, while the miners keep the clock in repair. For some time the City Council refused to bear the charge for lighting, and at first only agreed for six months as a trial. There was no opening ceremony beyond a few words from the president, Mr Forman. The delegates took their places as per number of seat. Mr Forman then said he was glad to welcome them to their new Hall. "The noble building had been built with the money of the working miners of the county of Durham. It was a great example of their forethought, their economy, industry, enterprise and unity, and he hoped that it would be one more link that would bind them together in the cause of mutual help and mutual endeavour, and be another great supporting prop to the noble edifice they had reared in their Association. He was sorry that the first business at the opening was to be the unpleasant one of discussing a ten per cent. reduction." The first Council meeting was held in the new Hall on 17th June, and the first resolution was "that we refuse to send the reduction question to arbitration." The spirit of war was in the air, at least among the men who attended the lodge meeting to consider the subject at first. During the next week, however, a ballot of the members was taken, the result of which was declared at a special Council meeting--the voting being for arbitration, 20,190; against, 16,435; majority for, 3,755. There were resolutions passed to remit the question to open arbitration: That the Committee get up the case, but "if any person has to accompany the arbitrators out of the county, only the two men who conduct the case do so." At the same meeting Mr N. Thompson and T. Mitcheson (two of the London Committee) were removed from the trusteeship, and their places filled by John Wilson, Wheatley Hill, and W. Gordon, Ravensworth. The arbitration commenced on 29th August in the Queen's Head Hotel, Newcastle, the umpire being G. J. Shaw-Lefevre, M.P. The arbitrators for the employers were Mr W. Armstrong and H. T. Morton, Mr L. Jones and Mr W. Crawford acting again for the workmen. The advocates on the owners' side were Mr Lindsay Wood and Mr J. B. Simpson and Mr T. W. Bunning; for the workmen were Mr J. Forman and Mr N. Wilkinson. There were two sittings. There is no need to review the arguments or facts in these cases, as that would extend our work too much, but there is one interesting point advanced by the employers in their rejoinder to the workmen's case. It refers to the cost of production at that time over 1871. The increase was thirty-seven or thirty-five per cent. higher than 1871--the items being, wages 14.68 per cent., and the effect of the Mines Bill 22.67 per cent. Assuming that the cost arising from the operation of the mines was divided between employers and workmen--eleven per cent. to each--there was still 26.35 per cent. to the disadvantage of the employer. On the credit side coal was only 5½ or 8.8 per cent. higher than in 1871, and therefore their conclusion was that the claim for fifteen and ten per cent. reduction was amply justified. At the conclusion of the two days' sitting it was agreed that the arbitrators should meet on the 16th of September, and if they failed to agree the umpire would decide. That meeting took place, and the umpire was asked to decide, which he did on September 25th, and awarded a reduction of six per cent. in the wages underground and four per cent. in the wages paid to surface men. No sooner was the arbitration finished than the Association found itself face to face with a difficulty of a different but yet perplexing nature. The employers conceived the idea of separating the deputies from the miners. Their reasons for taking this step are stated in a subsequent letter. The mode of procedure they adopted was to exempt the deputies from the six per cent. reduction, providing a majority of the deputies on any colliery would leave the Miners' Association. The employers said their action was in response to a request by some of the deputies. The action drew from the Executive Committee a strong remonstrance. They pleaded with the deputies and protested against the action of the owners. The circular they issued was a lengthy one. Our object will be served if we quote a few portions. Addressing the deputies, they said: "It appears in response to some application made by some of you the Owners' Committee have agreed that where a majority of deputies on any colliery are not members of ours, they will recommend that such deputies be freed from the recent reduction. Call this offer by what name you will it is neither more nor less than a special kind of bribery held out to you and we regret to hear, that some of you have been imprudent enough to accept it. Why make this difference between those who belong and those who do not belong to our Association? It is not because they respect the one party more than the other, or that the party who have left us are any better workmen or in any way more useful to the owners than those deputies who still belong to our Association. The most unknown amongst you as to your past history, or the most casual observer of present doings, ought to know that the motive which has induced the Owners' Committee to make this offer is not respect for you as a class, is not because they think your responsibilities are increased more than heretofore, neither is it because they think you underpaid, but it is because they want to induce you to sever your connection with an Association which has hitherto been able to gain many advantages for members and for none more than for your class. They offer you an inch now in order that they may take from you a foot hereafter. Most of you can remember the time (only five years ago) when your wages varied from 3s. 4d. to 3s. 8d. per day of eight hours' working, while with the recent reduction of six per cent. your wages are now 4s. 8d. for 7½ hours' working, or an advance in time and money of 39.58 per cent." The circular then draws attention to a portion of a letter from the deputies who had left the miners to those of another colliery, and to the resolution of the Owners' Association. The portion of the deputies' letter said: "If any member of our [the Deputies'] Association leaves and starts to hew, and has to go back to the Hewers' Association, the two pounds' entrance fee will be paid out of the Deputies' Association." The resolution of the Owners read: That this Association thinks that deputies, like overmen, should be the agents of the masters, and that under these circumstances it is imperative that they should not be restricted by any Trades Union resolutions. In relation to these the Committee point out that they (the deputies) could not honestly be members even of the Deputies' Association, for by the stipulation of the employers they were not to be restricted by any Trade Union regulations. "It will thus be seen that if you do this, you sell your birthright, your independence, your manhood, your all, not even for a necessitous 'mess of pottage' but for an insignificant present advantage, in order that you may bring upon yourselves a future permanent and great evil." Some of the deputies were desirous of serving two masters: they wanted to remain in the Miners' and at the same time enter the Deputies' Association for the sake of the six per cent. At the Council held on Saturday, 30th September, a resolution was carried declaring "that the Deputies be not allowed to remain in our Association and also become members of what is called the Deputies' Association." At the same time a sharp correspondence took place between the Owners' Association and the Miners', in which Mr Bunning sent a letter, bearing date 3rd November, which contained a protest and an extenuation. _November 3rd, 1876._ RESOLUTION OF COAL OWNERS The members of this Association regret that the Representatives of the Miners' Association after five years' amicable correspondence, should have thought it necessary to communicate to them so uncourteous and offensive a document as that bearing date 24th October 1876, and relating to the resolution passed respecting the deputies, on October 11th, 1876. And, as this resolution was arrived at after mature deliberation, and from the conviction that both the safety of the mine, and discipline of the pits, are seriously endangered, by having the deputies subject to the restrictions imposed by the Miners' Union, no good can possibly arise from any discussion of the subject at a meeting of the two Associations. [Illustration: JOHN FORMAN] The reply sent by the Executive repudiated all intention to be uncourteous or offensive in language, but at the same time they repeated the charge of bribery, for, said they, "viewed from the most favourable standpoint, your action in the matter can only be characterised as that of holding out a manifestly unfair inducement to the deputies." They asked what the employers would have thought, if, having the power, the Miners' Association had held out inducements to charge men? They reminded the owners that they asked for a reduction off all wages, and the award of six per cent. applied to all underground labour. Considering these facts they could not but look upon the action as a covert attack on the Association. The Executive acting on instruction from Council took a return, which resulted as follows:-- Total number of Deputies--2557. Total number in our Association--936. Total number in Deputies' Association--1621. Total number paid old wage--1449. Total number paid reduced wage--1044. 1877 Deputies--Sliding Scale--Relief Fund--Emigration The dispute about the deputies opened the year. A very lengthy correspondence took place on the subject between the Employers' and Miners' Associations. On January 23rd the whole of it was sent to the lodges. They were informed that the Committee had done all they could to avert a conflict on the question. In keeping with a resolution of Council, the owners had been offered arbitration, which they had refused. The resolution referred to contained the alternative of giving the whole of the notices providing arbitration was refused. Now, to carry out the instructions contained in that resolution the Committee forwarded the ballot tickets for the purpose of taking the vote in accordance with the rule. They concluded by saying: "Whatever the result may be arising out of this case the entire onus of blame must rest with the owners themselves." A resolution was placed on the programme for Council on February 3rd by the ex-Committee asking "that the deputies who are still with us be paid the 6 per cent. out of the General Fund of the Association," but it lost. In addition, the subject was laid before the Central Board of the Miners' National Union. They expressed regret and surprise at the action of the employers in paying one portion of the deputies more than the others, and were of the opinion "that there can only be one object in view in this policy, the disruption of the Miners' Union. The Board earnestly appeal to the mine owners to withdraw from the position they have taken up. Should they fail to do this the Board will feel called upon to ask the members of the National Union to yield all the support to the Durham Miners' Association they can under the circumstances." Nothing further was done in the matter during 1877 except an occasional Council resolution. We shall, however, meet the same question in a few years. THE FIRST SLIDING SCALE Early in the year the Association was entering seriously into a new phase of our industrial relation with the employers and taking another step in the path of amicability by the arrangement of the sliding scale. For some time there had been an inclination in that direction. By the Minutes of the Executive Committee members were informed that negotiations were proceeding with a view to establishing a scale, and at the Council meeting held on December 9th, 1876, the following resolution was on the programme:--"Seeing that coals are up, we ask for 25 per cent. advance." The decision was that the question rest over until the sliding scale question is settled. On February 16th a letter was received from the employers containing the following resolution:-- "This Association having anxiously considered the further serious depression in the Durham coal trade and the necessity for endeavouring to avert in some prompt and thorough manner the complete collapse which has set in to the ruin of many owners, and the casting adrift of large bodies of men, feels compelled to ask the Miners' Association to concur in a further reduction in wages and readjustment of hours." The Executive Committee met the owners on Thursday, February 22nd, when they were informed that the depressed trade and lower prices demanded a reduction of ten per cent. from underground and six per cent. from the bank workmen, "coupled with an increase in the working hours which would, in a great measure, compensate the men for the reduction in their wages." The Committee could neither see the necessity for a reduction nor could they see the compensation in the lengthening of hours. They, however, arranged another meeting for Friday, 9th March, when they would further discuss the sliding scale, and, failing that, the reduction. In the statement explaining these proceedings the Committee placed before the members two scales--one proposed by them and the other by the owners. It will be interesting and instructive to give these scales. _December 22nd, 1876._ SLIDING SCALE PROPOSED BY THE DURHAM COAL OWNERS Price Wage s. d. Per cent. s. d. 5 2 0 4 8.0 5 10 5 4 10.8 6 6 10 5 1.6 7 2 15 5 4.4 7 10 20 5 7.2 8 6 25 5 10.0 9 2 30 6 0.8 9 10 35 6 3.6 10 6 40 6 6.4 11 2 45 6 9.2 11 10 50 7 0.0 12 6 55 7 2.8 13 2 60 7 5.6 _January 2nd, 1877._ SLIDING SCALE AS PROPOSED BY THE DURHAM MINERS' ASSOCIATION Price Wage s. d. Per cent. s. d. 5 6 0 5 0 6 2 5 5 3 6 10 10 5 6 7 6 15 5 9 8 2 20 6 0 8 10 25 6 3 9 6 30 6 6 10 2 35 6 9 10 10 40 7 0 11 6 45 7 3 12 2 50 7 6 12 10 55 7 9 13 6 60 8 0 In the explanation sent out it was shown that each scale would carry a minimum wage. Theirs would be five shillings, while the employers' would be 4s. 8d. The wages in the scale were for coal hewers only. The reduction the employers were asking for would bring the wages down twopence per man below the lowest wages offered in the owners' scale. They asked the members to leave the question entirely in their hands, as in their opinion a better settlement would be got than by any other way. A special Council was called for the 8th of March, and two subjects were sent out for discussion--(1) Should a sliding scale be adopted; if so, under what condition? (2) Should the owners be offered arbitration? The result was that the arranging of the scale was placed in the hands of the Committee, and on 14th March the first sliding scale was signed for two years. THE FIRST SCALE The following scale shall regulate the wages of hewers and labour below ground:-- SCALE Price at and above but below Wage 5 4 7½ per cent. reduction 5 4 5 8 5 " " 5 8 6 4 Present Rate 6 4 7 0 5 per cent. advance 7 0 7 8 10 " " 7 8 8 4 15 " " 8 4 9 0 20 " " 9 0 9 8 25 " " 9 8 10 4 30 " " 10 4 11 0 35 " " 11 0 11 8 40 " " 11 8 12 4 45 " " 12 4 13 0 50 " " 13 0 13 8 55 " " 13 8 60 " " And so on. It will be observed that the grades were eightpence, and for that amount the change in wages was four per cent. Next, there was to be a minimum wage of 4s. 8½d. per day. This is worthy of special notice in the light of subsequent events, especially during the time the minimum existed, which was until 1879, and especially in view of the desire of many people to have a minimum established again. Another point was the amount of reduction, which would depend upon an ascertainment by accountants. Messrs Monkhouse, Goddard & Miller acted for the owners, and Messrs Benson, Eland & Co. for the workmen. The ascertainment was made known on the 31st of March, the average net price realised being certified at 5s. 3.97d. The Committee accompanied the ascertainment with a short circular, and informed the members "that a reduction of 7½ per cent. on underground men and boys and 'banksmen' wages and 6 per cent. on 'bankmen's' wages will take place on the pays commencing April 2nd and April 9th." THE FIRST RELIEF FUND As a consequence of the depressed state of trade very large numbers of men were thrown out of work, and the rules of the Association made no provision for them. Opinion had been ripening for some months, and the Committee realising that the time was opportune, and acting on a Council resolution, suggested the formation of a Relief Fund. In furtherance of the object they sent out the following:-- SUGGESTIONS FOR RELIEF FUND Fellow Workmen,--At last Council meeting, you put into the hands of the Committee, the work of suggesting some plan to relieve the numbers of men now idle at various collieries in the county. After mature consideration, they suggest the following as a means of forming a Relief Fund:-- 1. To take from the General Fund the sum of five thousand pounds to form the nucleus of such Relief Fund. 2. That this Fund be afterwards kept up by the payment of a levy, or extra contribution, of 2d. per member per fortnight. These two are the basis of their suggestions, details can be discussed and arranged afterwards. But to make these suggestions--and especially the second one--a success, the Committee believe that the county will require to have brought before them our exact position. The best, if not the only, means of doing this is to hold a series of public meetings at the various lodges and districts in the county, grouping lodges together where such can be done. What they now ask is, can they have your consent to assist the agents in attending such a series of public meetings? It is the only means of rendering successful the getting of necessary means and would not cost more than an ordinary Council meeting. In support of their proposals they adopted two modes of advocacy--first, to issue a circular, and second, to hold a series of meetings at all the lodges. This latter step they considered most essential, as they would thus be enabled to state the matter more clearly by speech and answer to the members. This view they placed before the lodges, and received sanction with very little objection; and, acting upon it, they arranged themselves into deputations of two each, and for about three weeks either addressed lodge meetings or groups of collieries where convenient, and as a consequence the Relief Fund was formed on the lines suggested. While it existed it proved itself a very useful institution for that period, which was the darkest through which the Association had to pass. The amount paid, although small, was useful to the public as well as the members--to the latter by easing off the pinch of poverty, and to the former by the help to the rates, which would assuredly have been much more heavily weighted if the fund had not existed. It only existed a year, however, for the Committee placed a statement before the county on November 2nd which showed that, while there had only been £4144 contributed to the Relief Fund, the expenditure had been £9695, and that, adding the £5000 grant from the General Fund, the expenditure had exceeded by £551 the whole amount paid into it. EMIGRATION AGENCY During 1876 and up to July 1877 the agents had acted as emigration agents, and had been very useful in their advice to people who were inclined to emigrate by giving them advice upon points and matters of importance to them. All they did was done free of charge, and only with the view to help those who were members of the Association; but as in every movement there are men of the "viler sort," whose envy prompts them to attribute ill motives to those they envy, so in this case there were some who, instead of giving the agents credit for good motives, were not slow to charge them with selfishness and exploiting the volume of emigration for their own benefit. The agents bore this until the Council meeting held on July 21st, when Mr Crawford and his colleagues resolved to give it up. In doing so they gave their reasons in the following circular:-- EMIGRATION AGENCY _To the Members._ Gentlemen,--As announced at Council Meeting on Saturday last, we intend to give up the agency. It was taken with two objects--(1) To have ourselves well posted up in emigration news, so that we might be able to give the best advice possible; (2) to aid our members by allowing them the commission money, which is a very important item indeed. It was not taken with the view of making one penny of profit, but solely to assist our members by advice and also an abatement of their fares. But as some poltroon fellows, who are directly interested in getting emigrants in order that they may get the commission money, are causing some stir, and as, further, some of our lodges are listening to their statements, we think it necessary to give it up. You will be the only losers by it, but remember that it is amongst our own members that the real grumblers are found. 1878 The Hours Arbitration--Position of the Association--Federation Board The first item of interest in 1878 was initiated on 15th March by a letter received from the employers _re_ the lengthening of the coal-drawing hours. It was addressed to Mr Crawford as follows:-- Dear Sir,--I am desired to inform you that the present state of the coal trade in Durham seems to render it imperative to extend the hours of work and increase the facilities for drawing coal. And that the members of this Association would be glad to discuss the matter with you and your Committee with a view to arriving at some decision on the subject. Could you fix Thursday next, the 21st, at two o'clock to meet our Committee here? An answer at your earliest convenience will oblige. The Executive met the employers as requested, and found that the change was to increase from ten hours to eleven all the collieries working ten hours, that drawing time being the outcome of an arrangement. The owners were reminded that it was inconsistent with the sliding scale, and the demand should be withdrawn. They replied by quoting a portion of the scale: "Both parties shall remain at liberty to raise any question not inconsistent with the maintenance of the sliding scale." "Should any dispute arise as to the carrying out of these arrangements the question in dispute shall be submitted to the chairman of the Joint Committee, who, if he cannot act, shall appoint some other umpire to act in his place. The award in either case to be final." These were discussed at great length; finally three proposals suggested by the Executive Committee, subject to the approval of their members, were agreed to: 1st. Is it consistent with the sliding scale to even discuss a lengthening of the hours? 2nd. If it is consistent with the sliding scale to discuss the matter, is it necessary to lengthen such hours? 3rd. If the hours are lengthened, should there follow any increase in wages, and if so, how much? The Committee were not sure whether the full body of owners would agree to them, as those present at the meeting objected to No. 2 being a question of reference. They informed the lodges that Mr Meynell had fixed 9th April for the hearing of the case. They were convinced that the employers could make the demand under the arrangements, and therefore all that was necessary was to say how many persons should attend and who they should be. The question was eventually placed in the hands of the members of Joint Committee to make the best settlement they could. On 15th April Mr Meynell gave the following award:-- COAL DRAWING (_Award_) Whereas the Durham Coal Owners' Association, being of opinion, that it is absolutely necessary that the working hours of all men and boys above 16 years of age should be increased, if they thought fit to place it before me, and to leave me to decide the question. And whereas it was also agreed that the following questions should be left to me for my decision:-- 1st. Is it consistent with the sliding scale to discuss a lengthening of the hours? 2nd. If it is consistent with the sliding scale to discuss the matter, is it necessary to lengthen such hours? 3rd. If the hours are lengthened, should there follow any increase in wages, and, if so, how much? Now, having heard and carefully considered the arguments on each side, I award, decide, and determine that it is not inconsistent with the sliding scale to discuss the question of lengthening the working hours; 2nd. that it is necessary to lengthen such hours; 3rd. that there should be an increase in the wages where the hours are lengthened. I award and decide that the working hours of all men and boys above 16 years of age shall, or may be increased in accordance with my award, that the minimum wage to be paid to the hewers shall be, when the pit works 10½ hours, 4s. 10½d.; and when the pit works 11 hours, 5s. 0½d.; and that the wages of the datal men shall be increased in strict arithmetical proportion to the wages they are earning at the time of such increase in the hours. I determine that the increased hours shall or may commence on and after the first pays after the date of this my award. As witness my hand, this 15th day of April 1878. E. J. MEYNELL. There immediately arose some dispute as to the application of the award, and he was called upon to define it, which he did in a decision given at Joint Committee on May 10th. _May 10th, 1878._ "I further award and decide that where the working hours shall be increased in accordance with my award, that the minimum wages to be paid to the miners shall be where the pit works 10 hours and a half, 4s. 10½d. and where the pit works 11 hours, 5s. 0½d. is intended to mean--that where the hewers are increased one quarter hour per shift, the county average wage shall, in that case, be considered as 4s. 10½d. instead of 4s. 8½d. as hithertofore; and where their hours are increased half-an-hour per shift, the county average wage shall be 5s. 0½d. instead of the present average of 4s. 8½d. It is also intended that the working hours of any or all classes of workmen may be increased on the payment to them of proportionate increased rates as set out in the award; and that the maximum working hours for drawing coals be 11 hours per day in day-shift pits, and double shifts proportionately." The employers then asked that there should be an allowance for the time taken by boys under age descending and ascending. With the ten hours the boys under sixteen came out after coal drawing was done, but under the eleven hours some were taken in at six A.M. and "rode" at four P.M. Some were taken at seven A.M. and came out at five P.M., when the coal drawing finished. There was, therefore, a loss of time at either seven or at four, and this should be allowed for. The matter was arranged on the following principle:--Whatever time was taken either at seven to send the under-age boys down, or at four to bring them up, should be added to the eleven hours. If it took ten minutes, then the coal drawing would be from six A.M. to five-ten P.M., but in no case was the time allowed to be more than a quarter of an hour. POSITION OF THE ASSOCIATION As the year progressed the trade became more depressed. Pits were being laid in or batches of men were being discharged. The price of coals was rushing down; the ascertainment for the four months ending November showed the average was 4s. 7.65d. per ton, a reduction of 8.32d. per ton since the scale was established without any reduction in wages. The evil of this was seen in the numbers of men being discharged and in the sad falling away in the membership. The extent of this may be gathered by a reference to the Executive Committee Minutes for May 13th. Without mentioning names here, suffice it to say that at one large colliery a deputation was sent from the Executive with power to "appoint someone to act as checkweighman and secretary and to guarantee his wages for six months," and that if the men at that colliery wished "the President attend as either steward or treasurer." The state of the county was growing so desperate that the Committee issued two circulars, the object being to place it clearly before the members. In the first they dealt with the Relief Fund. They commenced by saying: "We are passing through a crisis in the coal trade, and during its continuance every step we take requires careful watching. We may even find it necessary to retrace our steps, by undoing what we have hithertofore done. We are well aware, that to many men this kind of conduct seems to portray a want of stability and necessary perseverance. Perseverance in a good and successful cause is highly commendable, but to persevere in a course of conduct, where perseverance means ultimate ruin is neither wise nor commendable. A renowned writer has said that "while fools persevere in their ways, wise men change their opinions and course of conduct." A body of men who either cannot or will not adapt themselves to existing exigencies must not expect success to attend their efforts." Passing from these calm, wise words of warning they bring before the members the position of the Relief Fund. A year prior they (the Committee) had asked them to subscribe to assist those thrown out of employment by the bad condition of trade. To this there had been a response of twopence per fortnight. That had not been adequate to meet the demand, and the twopence had been increased to fivepence. Still the income did not keep pace with the outlay. For the six weeks previous there had been a loss of £2145. There was not only this monetary loss, but there was the more serious one, its effect on the membership. Thousands of members are refusing to pay the fivepence per fortnight, and great numbers of men have left the Association, so that we are not only losing the fivepence but their ordinary labour contributions. This being our position, we would strongly advise you to at once abolish the payment of the Relief Fund levy. While this was their opinion they would continue the benefits for three months. At the Council held on 15th June it was decided "that the benefits of the Relief Fund be continued for 12 weeks longer, but the contributions cease forthwith and the money required to meet the demands thereof be taken from the General Fund." This was done in order that the men in receipt of relief should not suddenly have their small resources cut off, but should have a little time to look round. The second circular dealt with the General Fund in its relation to the demands upon it. As a preface to their suggested alteration they said: The history of Trades Unions during the last 30 years would form a very curious chapter in the annals of our country. The vicissitudes which have happened to organised bodies of workmen have been manifold, and varied; but the disastrous consequences which have so often overtaken them have generally been the result of a want of policy, prudence, and forethought, on the part of those who have composed such Associations. It is just as much the study of those who have the more direct management of Associations like ours to look facts fully in the face before it is too late, as it is that of the head of a household to weigh his position and measure his stores both present and prospective, before he rushes into irretrievable ruin. Believing this to be our duty we now place before you our position both present and prospective. They then point out that the expenditure was just double the income. During the previous nine months there had been £20,000 drawn from the deposit account. In the face of these facts there needed to be retrenchment. They then show that in 1869 the contribution was fixed at 6d. per fortnight, while the strike and breakage allowance was 10s. per week (and a colliery must be off two weeks before receiving anything), and the sacrificed allowance was 13s. per week, with 1s. per week for each child. These benefits continued until 1872, when work was plentiful and wages good. Then the strike and breakage allowance was raised to 15s. (and only to be off a week before being entitled), and the sacrificed allowance was made 20s., with 2s. 6d. for each child, per week. They therefore suggested a reversion to the original payment (except in the case of the week) and the reduction of the death legacy for children from £3 to £2, and they wound up by saying: "It is not now a matter of choice, but one of positive compulsion. An Association wanting money is like a ship wanting a rudder in a boisterous sea. We would soon find ourselves driven on to the rocks of discontent, disaffection, and disunion, and in all probability shattered to pieces in the struggle. To pursue longer the course we are now pursuing must shortly leave us in that pitiable and helpless condition." A special Council meeting was held on 11th October which gave sanction to the whole of the Committee's recommendation. FORMATION OF THE FEDERATION BOARD As soon as the other sections of labour had formed themselves into separate organisations in 1873-4, there sprang up a desire for a federation of forces, and from time to time there appeared resolutions on the Council programme all aiming at that end. In this year it took a more definite shape. On the Committee Minutes for January 28th there is a resolution as follows:-- That a deputation of three agents attend a meeting of cokemen, mechanics and enginemen as to the amalgamation of all those Associations. In October a meeting was held at which a set of rules was drawn up and sent out to the county with an explanation. The members were informed that the suggestions were not unalterable, but in their crude form were submitted subject to their approval or amendment. And they were informed that: "The Federation was formed to protect their joint interests. There might have been divisions but these must be forgotten. The workmen were unconnected, whilst acting against a thoroughly organised body of owners. There had been no cohesion, nor the remotest understanding, while at the same time they were dealing with the same combined body of capitalists. It must be clear to everyone that while in our present divided condition and negotiating with owners who act as one body we must be placed at a very serious disadvantage." The county approved of the idea, and on November 13th the rules were issued to the county. At the Annual Meeting held on 6th December the first members of the Board were elected. Their names were J. Forman, W. Crawford, W. H. Patterson, N. Wilkinson, J. Wilson, and W. Johnson. Slightly anticipating the events happening in 1879, and for the purpose of keeping ourselves in as close sequence as possible, it may be stated here that the first meeting of the Board was held on January 28th, 1879, when Mr Crawford was appointed secretary, and Mr J. Dover (mechanic) treasurer. With respect to the chairman, it was decided to appoint an independent one for six months. He should only have a casting vote, and be paid 21s. per day and expenses. At the meeting held on February 7th Mr John Coward of Durham was elected to that position, and occupied it for some months, and during the strike of 1879, assisted by his counsel. By being unaffected in wage by that stoppage he was able to bring a cool and dispassionate feeling to bear upon the questions in dispute. It is due to him to say he took no remuneration for his services. 1879 Demand for Reduction--Strike of 1879--Dual Arbitration--Renewal of Sliding Scale The Board was just formed when it was called upon to face one of the most serious crises in our history. At the Council meeting held on December 7th, 1878, it was decided that the average wages in the county should be taken, and that the formation of another scale should be remitted to the Committee, with power to renew it. The Committee were not satisfied with that indefinite resolution, and asked for more explicit instructions. There were certain alterations required, and therefore they asked for "full and uncontrolled power." They knew that in adopting that course they would risk a large amount of unpleasantness, but they were willing to risk it if they were assured of the confidence of the majority of the members. Further, they asked that the retiring members of the Committee should be allowed to remain in office until the scale was arranged and the crisis over. These requests as to power and suggestion as to the Committee were both accepted. The formation of the Federation Board, however, somewhat altered, and at first complicated, the situation, for the result was a complex and dual authority. The Board was not then, as now, the sole conductor of the wages disputes, but the various Committees acted collaterally, the Miners' Committee taking the leading part in the negotiations. The demands made by the employers were handed to the Miners' Committee on February 4th. The conditions were as under: (1) That a reduction of 20 per cent. on present underground wages is a condition precedent to the re-establishment of a sliding scale. (2) That a reduction of 12½ per cent. should be made in surface labour, but so that the wages of able-bodied men be not brought below 2s. 6d. per day. (3) In the event of a scale being established, it shall have no limit upward or downward, and shall be subject to termination on 12 months' notice. The Committee could not grant the request, but at once made an offer of seven and a half per cent., to take effect on Monday, the 10th, or they would submit the entire matter to arbitration. These offers were refused by the owners, and as a consequence the meeting was adjourned until the 20th. The Committee called a Council for the 15th of February. On the 7th the Federation Board met, and passed the following resolution:-- This Board feels that the position of the county in reference to wages is anomalous. The owners having as a body demanded a reduction of wages, and as such reduction includes all classes of labour in connection with collieries, we recommend that each Association call a Council meeting to discuss the advisability of adjusting a sliding scale for the regulation of wages, consistent with all our interests. That the Secretary write and ask that at the meeting on the 20th inst. all the four Associations be represented. The Miners' Council decided against the seven and a half per cent., but by the following resolution offered arbitration:-- "That having heard the report of the Committee on their interview with the owners on the reduction now asked by the latter, this meeting is of opinion that the best means of settling the difficulty is, to refer it to open arbitration as heretofore." The owners refused to meet the Federation Board as a whole, and as a consequence the Miners' Committee met them on the 20th, in keeping with the Board Minute, on February 18th. At that meeting the owners modified their demand. OWNERS' MODIFIED OFFER _February 22nd, 1879._ "1. That a reduction of 10 per cent. in underground, and 7½ per cent. in surface labour, be brought into operation in the first pay beginning March next. 2. That the additional 10 per cent. in underground, and 5 per cent. in surface labour, claimed by the owners in their Minute of January 11th, be referred to arbitration in the following manner, viz.:-- Representatives of the two Associations to meet within the first week of March, and if they can agree on a sole arbitrator, the matter to be forthwith referred to him; and if they cannot so agree, each side to appoint an arbitrator, which two arbitrators shall forthwith appoint an umpire, and if they fail to do so by March 15th, such umpire shall, on the application of either arbitrator, be appointed by Mr Meynell, County Court Judge of Durham. In the event of there being two arbitrators and an umpire, they shall sit together to hear the case; and the award shall take effect in the first pay in April. 3. The expediency of re-establishing a sliding scale, to be left for consideration after the award has been given." This was submitted to the Federation Board, who met the modification by the following:-- FEDERATION BOARD'S OFFER _March 6th, 1879._ 1st. To offer the owners the 10 per cent. for underground workmen, and 7½ per cent. for bank workmen as a settlement of the whole question. 2nd. To offer them 7½ per cent. from underground, and 6 per cent. from above-bank workmen, and to refer any further claim they might make to arbitration. The Miners' Committee supported the Board, and did this in a circular which contained some very plain and urgent statements. "At best, the lookout is but a gloomy one, and we must try to bridge over the difficulty as best we can, and if possible, without the pits being stopped. We have no wish to descant on the generally depressed condition of trade, or the evil effects producible by a large surplus number of men. At the present time, both these things are operating amongst us, and the owners know this, and seem determined to use them in this crisis. Looking at the general condition of things, we would very strongly advise you to adopt one of the suggestions contained in this circular. They are the best we can get at the present time, and a refusal of one of the methods suggested cannot result in better terms for the great body of our members. You must remember that these are times when prudent men do the best, and get the most they can without running all the risks which always attend a stoppage of the pits when trade is paralysed and men both suffering and disorganised." Immediately these offers were made known there arose a fierce agitation in the county, and on every hand mass meetings were held protesting against the terms. As is the case in matters of this kind, orators vehement if not polished sprang up from every quarter, whose stock-in-trade consisted of foul epithets which they hurled at the Committee and Federation Board. So desperate was the situation that certain of the Committee were in fear, and came into public view as little as possible. A personal incident may be excused here. A mass meeting was held on the sands in Durham. The writer, as chairman of the Wheatley Hill Lodge, marched to it. The first words heard were: "There's one of the----; let us put him in the river." The crowd surged and rocked. What the consequence might have been it is hard to tell, but just when the feeling ran highest and he was most in danger a man was knocked back over on to a drum which stood end up, and it went off with a loud report, and the cry was: "They are firing guns." In a moment a panic seized the people, and, as is recorded of the battle of Stanhope over the moor hen, "those who ran fastest got soonest out of town." There was a low wall (low on one side, high on the other) over which hundreds fell head foremost, and a good, kind lady who had come from Wheatley Hill to take care of her husband (the man whose presence was the cause of all the hubbub) was carried away by the crowd, and was so rushed along by the panic-stricken stream of humanity that she was with twenty others landed in a stable, the door of which stood invitingly open like a city of refuge. And so the result was the meeting was disturbed, and the culprit, one of the malodorous Committee, was left unhurt, Providence in the shape of a drum being the means of saving him. Apart from the ludicrous incident of the bursting drum the feeling manifested towards the Committee there was only on a par with that found everywhere throughout the county. If one of those at the head of affairs appeared in the street and passed a group of men insult was rampant--slander, being cowardly, feels safe in a crowd. Still the Committee were not to be driven from their task. They regretted the action of the employers in refusing open arbitration, and who, knowing the condition of the Union, were determined to force their full demand; and they were sorry for the opposition of their members, but they knew they were moved by sheer desperation, and played upon by designing men who cared more for popularity, even if it were fleeting, than the welfare of the Union, and who would not hesitate to bring ruin if perchance small gain would come to them from it. The Committee prepared for the struggle which they saw was inevitable if the employers did not move from the position they had taken up. Knowing this they set themselves to ascertain the true state of affairs in the county. They took the actual average of the hewers and reductions which at each colliery had been suffered at Joint Committee, or had been forced upon them since March 1877, with the hewing prices. It was found that while there was a nominal minimum wage of 4s. 8½d. where the drawing hours were ten, 4s. 10½d. where the hours were ten and a half, and 5s. 0½d. where the eleven hours prevailed, the actual average of the hewers throughout the entire county was only 4s. 6¾d. It was therefore about 5d. per day or seven per cent. below the theoretical minimum. This is worth considering when we are desirous of establishing it again. It may work in the summer of trade, but not in the winter of depression. This state of things was brought about as the result of local reductions. There were well-known instances where whole collieries of men petitioned the Executive Committee to be allowed to work at twenty per cent. below the minimum wage. In the final arbitration of 1879, before Lord Derby, the employers admitted the actual average was only 4s. 6¾d. This they had taken just prior to the strike. They likewise stated in their case that many and considerable reductions were privately agreed to, and particularly where the owners possessed little capital or worked inferior or costly seams. The average taken by the Committee harmonised with the 4s. 6¾d. _Quotation from Owners' Case_ 34. At 43 separate pits arrangements for abatements of wages were made in the working of 65 different seams, varying from 2½ per cent. to 20 per cent. and upwards, and this state of things continued up to the close of the period to which the sliding scale applied, when negotiations for a general reduction of wages were entered into by the two Associations which eventually ended in the strike. 35. These local arrangements, as we have stated, were private, and between the individual worker owner and his workmen, and without the official knowledge of the Owners' Association. It is believed that, if not in every case, certainly very many of the private agreements had the approval of the Miners' Executive, for some of these negotiations were conducted personally by their staff, who had the strong motive in thus keeping their constituents employed at the best wages they could obtain for them, of saving the Union funds from supporting every man, who, under the rules of the Association, was entitled to support when thrown out of employment. The Committee in their reply before Lord Derby acknowledged that these reductions took place, but to strengthen their case they charged the whole blame on the employers. They said: Sometimes this was done by threatening to stop the pits and sometimes by the more reprehensible practice of dismissing portions of men, in proof of which we can testify that men were personally canvassed, and if not found pliable were threatened and coerced. That reductions took place, and, as the owners state, in some cases they amounted to 20 per cent., is correct, thus making the wages of numerous bodies of hewers (in place of reaching the owners asserted 4s. 8d. or 5s. per day) fall far below even 4s. per day and proving what we have all along stated, that the average wages of the best paid class of men in the county, viz.--the hewers, are at least 10 per cent. and even more below the rate named by the owners. This proves the inability of our men to suffer any further reduction. In their rejoinder the employers returned to the subject. They asserted that for two years the great bulk of the owners had kept faith with the workmen, at a loss to themselves when the selling price fell below the scale. In the cases where arrangements had been made they had been assisted and concurred in by the Miners' Executive. "We assert and challenge contradiction that the Executive were parties, if not to every abatement of wage in 1878-79, most certainly they were parties to many, and hence the folly of accusing the owners of conniving at the reductions when the Executive were straining every nerve to assist them, with the object, as we again assert, of saving their Union funds." In addition to the general poverty of the workmen through low wages and slack work the Committee had to face a serious disorganisation. At some very large collieries the numbers had decreased very much. This fact was as well known to the owners as the Committee, for it was brought out very prominently at the meeting with the employers, when the Committee made the offer of ten and seven and a half per cent. as a full settlement. One of the employers, urging the acceptance of their claim, said: "There are a large number of men outside the Union, and these are not with you. The logic of events will decide the issue." The reply of one of the Executive was: "You mean the logic of circumstances, the logic of the cupboard. You have a good ally in our poverty." Then there was a sadly depleted fund, which in itself was sufficient to fill them with pessimism, for every man deserving of being at the head of Trade Unions is bound to feel when faced by these circumstances--not in a cowardly manner, but a feeling evolved out of the dark background of poverty and hunger, not of men, but of the children. There was only £22,688 in property and bank. From this was to be deducted £4861 as money invested in the Industrial Bank and Houghton and Shotton Workmen's Hall, which was not available for strike purposes; therefore the war chest was very small, especially to enter upon a struggle such as lay before them. In the face of these adverse circumstances--owners persistent in their demands, wages very low, partial disorganisation, small resources, and an angry people--the Committee stood firm. Their attitude was unflinching, and their advice fearless and clear, as witness the following quotation from a circular:-- The time has now come when there must be unmistakably plain speaking. It is now clear, beyond a doubt, that if you persist in your adherence to open arbitration alone, the owners will allow the sliding scale to run out without further interference or negotiation and at the end of that time they will take all that they can get, either along the whole line or piecemeal, whichever course may best suit their purpose, by enabling them to punish you by lowering wages and reintroducing pernicious practices. To attempt to fight at the present time without offering the terms which we shall further on advise you to offer, would be suicidal. Look around you, and what do you find? On every hand you can count idle men by hundreds and thousands. Many of these men have been idle for weeks and months. All their means have long since been spent, and they are waiting for work, begging for work, and cannot find it. We have spent in two years over strikes amongst our own members, at large and small collieries, nearly one hundred thousand pounds and there is not a single strike, either of large or small dimensions, where we have not signally failed. The offer mentioned in the above was a ten per cent. off underground men and seven and a half per cent. off surface men as a final settlement, or seven and a half per cent. off underground wages and six per cent. off surface wages, and any further claim referred to open arbitration. The circular was submitted to a Council, and refused, but Mr Crawford was instructed to offer open arbitration on the whole question. This was done by telegram: To T. W. Bunning, Coal Trade Hall, Newcastle. Open arbitration having for many years been resorted to by your Association and ours in the settlement of wages questions, our members again wish to have recourse to it in the settlement of your present demand for a further reduction of wages. On the same day a reply was received: W. Crawford, 16 North Road, Durham. The following resolution was passed by a full meeting of the Employers' Association before the receipt of your telegram and has since been unanimously confirmed--At a meeting of this body held to-day arrangements were made for giving notice to expire on April 5th to all men whose wages have been hitherto regulated by the Durham Miners' sliding scale, that from that date underground wages will be reduced fifteen and surface wages ten per cent. It will be seen the offer of the owners confines it to the miners, as they alone were in the scale. This modification of demand and threat of notice was sent out in a circular on the 17th of March. They reviewed the whole situation both at home and in other counties. At home, within the previous six days, four collieries had received notice for depression of trade. In South Wales heavy reductions had taken place. In Scotland nearly the whole of the notices had been served for further reductions, while wages were as low as 2s. 6d. per day. In other parts of the country a similar state of things existed. In stating these matters there was no attempt to terrify. It was a simple statement of facts. It would require the pen of a master to place before them a true picture of "all the comparative and positive destitution to be found in the houses of thousands of men at the present time. With this dreadfully adverse condition of things is it possible to go into a struggle with a body of men, strong in their own cause, determined to fight, and who have every possible advantage on their side? To do so can only end in results the most damaging to our organisation and ruinous to ourselves and families. True valour is not shown in reckless and heedless action, but by waiting until a foe can be met on at least equal terms." It was no use offering arbitration, for the owners had persistently refused that. They urged the whole matter should be left in the hands of somebody chosen by themselves to make the best settlement they could. The voting at the Council was taken on the two questions: the Committee's suggestion or arbitration. The result was 118 for the former and 155 for the latter--being a majority of 37 for open arbitration on the whole question. It will be obvious that the tendency of the owners' offer only being made to the miners would be to disintegrate. It would not be right to say such was the intention, yet that was assuredly the bias. The justification lies in this, the miners were the only parties to the scale at its formation. None of the other sections were parties to it, and therefore the negotiations only applied to them. The terms of the requests were very embracive: they are "underground wages" and "surface wages." This is certain, that no division took place. The action, right or wrong, was as solid as could be expected. The voting on the questions, Committee suggestion or arbitration, did not give a satisfactory decision, and a second ballot was taken on the questions: "Strike" or "Owners' terms," with a result that the workmen refused the terms. The strike was entered upon, the notices terminating on 5th April. Some of the managers threatened to withhold the wages until the houses were vacant, and it was feared that this might provoke disturbance. Notice was sent out by the Committee, in which the action of such managers was condemned as "not only an illegal, but also an inhuman act." "But whatever course they may adopt, either in this or any other matter, be very careful not to be guilty of any breach of the law. Let nothing induce you to pursue a course which at all times is to be deplored, but which just now would be aggravated into the most heinous of crimes." As a result the conduct during the strike was most commendable, the only persons suffering being the Committee and Federation Board. There were certain collieries to whom notice was not given, and the Committee felt it necessary to ask whether these should continue working or give in their notices. The returns of the voting were 224 for stopping the whole of the collieries and only 7 for working on. They were, therefore, ordered to give in their notices, and instructions were sent out as to the mode of procedure. That vote was taken on April 22nd, but on the 30th at a special Council meeting it was qualified by the following resolution:-- "This meeting deems it highly necessary that all those firms ought to be allowed to work their pits who will agree to arbitration as a settlement of their difficulties, or who will agree to a continuation of present prices without being affected by any county change." An offer was made to the enginemen, which their representative brought before the Federation Board. At the meeting on April 21st they were advised "to only take such a reduction as the sliding scale would have warranted them in asking, had it been operative downwards as well as upwards. Should this be refused by the owners, this board would further recommend the enginemen, mechanics and cokemen who are yet employed to give in their notices and thus legally terminate their agreement." The Board met again on the 28th of April, when the enginemen reported a change in their position, and the following resolution was passed:-- This meeting has heard with satisfaction that the owners on Saturday last offered the enginemen open arbitration in the settlement of their present wages difficulty. But it cannot but express its surprise at the conduct of the owners in so determinedly refusing to adopt the same principle in the settlement of the wages difficulty now existing between the miners and them. If the adoption of arbitration in the enginemen's case would have been a right and equitable way of settling, it surely must be right also in the case of the miners. So the strike proceeded. The Committee were formed into a Strike Committee, with full power to manage it. They were called upon to defend themselves in the press. Every effort was made to get help from other districts. On the 4th of May a communication was received from the owners. COPY OF A RESOLUTION UNANIMOUSLY PASSED AT A MEETING OF THE DURHAM COAL OWNERS' ASSOCIATION, May 3rd, 1879 The Durham Coal Owners' Association recognising (1) That the public, as well as private interests, so seriously prejudiced by the strike, render it a duty to adopt a course most likely to bring about a settlement; (2) That the proposition for each side appointing a Committee with the full powers seems to have met with general approval; (3) That such Committee would undoubtedly provide the means by which difficult negotiations can be most successfully conducted; Resolves: That a Committee of 14 members of this Association be and are hereby appointed to meet a similar Committee, if such should be appointed by the Miners' Association, with full power to settle the matter at issue. That the foregoing Resolution be communicated to the Miners' Association, and they be invited to adopt a similar course. The Committee in response to that Resolution met the Owners' Committee on Saturday, the 10th of May, but failed to come to any agreement, and the meeting was adjourned until the 14th. The county was informed of the failure, and told to remain as they were until they heard from the Committee again. Mr Forman and Mr Crawford met Mr L. Wood and Mr D. Dale on the 14th. No settlement was come to as to amount of reduction, but it was arranged there should be a _pro tem_. arbitration, with Mr Bradshaw, County Court Judge, as umpire. The arrangement was that there should be an arbitration to say how the collieries should commence, and a second case after work was resumed to decide what further reduction should be granted. The preliminary case was heard on May 15th, and Judge Bradshaw, after passing in review the various stages of the dispute, decided "that there should be an absolute reduction in wages of 8¾ per cent. on underground and of 6¾ per cent. on surface labour, to take effect from that date, and the question whether any further reduction should be made be left to a future arbitration." AWARD In the matter of disputes relating to wages between the coal owners, members of the Durham Coal Owners' Association, and their workmen, members of the Durham Miners' Association: Whereas the owners claimed a considerable reduction of wages, to take effect from the fifth day of April last, and the miners refusing to accept such reductions the collieries in the county of Durham have for some time been, and still are idle. And whereas, with a view of settling the matter in difference between them, the Owners' Association appointed a Committee of 14 persons, and the Miners' Committee appointed a Committee of like number, with full power to determine the question at issue. And whereas, after long negotiations, the Owners' Committee deputed to Messrs Lindsay Wood and David Dale, and the Miners' Committee deputed to Messrs William Crawford and John Forman, their respective powers. And whereas, the said Lindsay Wood, David Dale, William Crawford, and John Forman having applied to me, the undersigned, for my advice and decision in the premises, and have laid before me the following statements, which are admitted by the parties on both sides, namely:-- 1. That on February 20th last, the owners offered to accept an absolute reduction in wages of 10 per cent. on underground, and 7½ per cent. on surface labour, and to leave to arbitration the question whether any, and what further reduction should be made. 2. That on April 2nd last, the Miners' Association offered to concede an absolute reduction in wages of 7½ per cent. on underground, and 6 per cent. on surface labour, and to leave to arbitration the question, whether any, and what further reduction should be made. 3. That on the 10th inst., the Owners' Committee offered to accept an absolute reduction in wages of 8¾ per cent. on underground and 6¾ per cent. on surface labour, and to leave to arbitration the question, whether any, and what further reduction should be made. 4. That on the 10th inst., the Miners' Committee offered to concede an absolute reduction in wages of 6¼ per cent. on underground, and 5 per cent. on surface labour, and to leave to arbitration whether any, and what further reduction should be made. Now, I, the undersigned, having duly weighed and considered the foregoing statement, and what has been alleged before me by the respective parties, _Do Decide and Award_, that there be an absolute reduction in wages of 8¾ per cent. on underground, and of 6¾ per cent. on surface labour, to take effect from the date of these presents; and the question, whether any, and what further reduction should be made, be left to future arbitration. In witness whereof, I have hereunto set my hand, in duplicate, this fifteenth day of May, one thousand eight hundred and seventy-nine. THOS. BRADSHAW. Then there arose a dispute as to whether it were competent for the men to show cause before the future arbitrator why there should be a rebatement of the eight and three quarters and six and three quarters per cent. It was again referred to the umpire. He decided that the contention of the workmen's representatives could not be sustained. The employers accepted his decision as an instalment of their claim, and to get the pits to work, but they in no way waived or relinquished their right to refer to arbitration, whether or not they were entitled to any, and if any, what further reduction over and above the absolute reduction by his award. That definition the Committee accepted. Immediately the spirit of revolt ran through the county, and for a few days some lodges objected to resume work. Whenever the Executive appeared they were greeted with cries of "Judge Bradshaw" and "Eight and three quarters." Gradually the resumption of work became universal, and on the 22nd of July the arbitration was opened, with Lord Derby as umpire, in 12 Great George Street, London. Mr W. Armstrong and Mr D. Dale were arbitrators for the employers, with Mr L. Jones and Mr W. Crawford for the workmen. Advocates for the owners were H. T. Morton, L. Wood, and W. T. Bunning; for the employees J. Forman, N. Wilkinson, and W. H. Patterson. The names of the Executive Committee were: W. Johnson. G. Newton. J. Scott. J. Bell. W. R. Fairley. W. Robinson. W. Longstaff. G. Parker. W. Gordon. J. Wilson. There were two days' sittings, and on the 28th of July Lord Derby gave his award. He said it was agreed that the award should apply to all underground and surface men, except enginemen, firemen, joiners, smiths, masons, labourers, and cokemen. He awarded a reduction of one and a quarter per cent. in the present rate of wages paid to underground and surface men affected by his award. Thus ended a stoppage of work--it is a misnomer to call it a strike--which should never have taken place. The men from the first were ready to appeal to reason, and the final decision proved the Executive Committee right in their offer. There is a closer spirit abroad now. The county has been in an atmosphere of amicability. May that better state take full possession and the day of strikes be gone for ever. [Illustration: W. H. PATTERSON] The strike ended, the Committee set themselves to work to repair the broken places and put the Association on to a solid foundation again. They found themselves financially insolvent and shattered numerically. They were unable to meet the benefits provided by rule, and there was a great cry of distress from those who were out of work owing to depression of trade. A return was taken as to a levy to meet the latter class, but it was very unsatisfactory, not one half of the votes being cast, and the suggestions included levies varying from 2d. up to 1s. They therefore decided to call a special Council, warning the members that these people could not be paid from the General Fund. They had been compelled to pay those who were on the funds short allowance. The position was so desperate that "either the contributions must be increased or the benefits reduced," and at the Council the two questions were--first, the general question of contributions and outlay; second, the men idle from depression: how to raise money for their support and how much should they be paid? The Council acting on the advice of the Committee decided that the benefits for strike, lockout, and breakage should be 6s. and 3s. per week for members and half members respectively, and that these payments should only be paid for six months, when they should cease without appeal, the sacrificed allowance being reduced to 10s. per week without a reduction in time. Their next difficulty was the unconstitutional district meetings which were held. At these the wildest statements were made, and as a consequence the minds of the members (as will always be the case when these meetings are in vogue) became unsettled, and disunion followed. Amid the natural difficulties of the situation the Committee were called upon to defend themselves. A circular was sent out which, after renewing the argument of the promoters of the meetings, said: "If you determine to let those men go on, doing their endeavours to undermine your Association, then be prepared to accept with that choice all the evil consequences which must arise therefrom. These are the men who would "_rather rule in_ hell than serve in heaven!" They have yet to learn the most important of all attainments--viz. how to rule themselves, before presuming to guide the thousands of people in this county. If complaints are to be made, let them be made regularly and right. If reformations are needed, let them be sought in keeping with the constitution." History is apt to repeat itself in this mode of procedure as in others. Nothing but evil can result. We are not in Russia; we are a democracy, and have a free tribunal. There were other four questions calling for arrangement: the fixing of the county average; the arranging for official recognition and the operation of the Federation Board; the rearrangement of the sliding scale; and the resumption of the Joint Committee. A dispute as to the average for hewers arose in reference to the figures from which the eight and three quarters per cent. and one and a quarter per cent. should be taken. The employers contended they should be deducted from the actual wage of the county for the three pays prior to the strike, which was found to be 4s. 6¾d. The Committee contended they should be deducted from the nominal minimum wage of 5s. 0½d. for the eleven-hour pits and 4s. 8½d. for the ten-hour pits. These were the wages from which the reductions were sought. If they were averaged as per the number of pits at each it worked out at 4s. 11d. It was therefore obvious that there would be a great difference in the result. If the two reductions were taken from the 4s. 11d. the average would be 4s. 5.16d.; if from the 4s. 6¾d. it would be 4s. 1.33d., or 3.83d. of a difference. It was finally agreed that the average for hewers should be 4s. 5d. for the eleven and 4s. 2d. for the ten hour pits. The official recognition of the Federation Board was at first objected to by the employers. At a meeting of the Board held on the 23rd of September the details of the sliding scale were discussed. They were in doubt as to whether the owners would discuss it with them, or the miners alone. Eventually a joint meeting was held, and the second sliding scale was arranged on October 11th. The date of its commencement was fixed for December. SLIDING SCALE, 1879 There shall be made the following percentage additions When the Net to, or deductions Average Selling from, the now prevailing Price of Coal tonnage rates and wages Reaches But does not reach Additions Deductions s. d. s. d. 4 2 4 6 None None 4 6 4 10 2½ per cent. " 4 10 5 2 5 " " 5 2 5 6 7½ " " 5 6 5 10 10 " " 5 10 6 2 15 " " 6 2 6 6 17½ " " 6 6 6 10 20 " " And so on upwards, 2½ per cent. for each 4d.; the 5 per cent. variation for the 4d. range in price between 5s. 10d. and 6s. 2d. being limited to that special range. s. d. s. d. Deductions. 3 10 4 2 2½ per cent. 3 6 3 10 " And so on downwards. * * * * * The difference between this and the previous one consists in the lessened grades. The 8d. grade was reduced to 4d. for two and a half per cent. change in underground wages and two per cent. in surface wages. Another variation was the giving up of the minimum wage. All parties were agreed on this point, as all had felt the evil arising from the operation of it during the two years of its existence. Long may it be before such another condition arises here, for the days were dark indeed; as witness the first ascertainment, which showed the average selling price of coal to be 4s. 3.3d. per ton. The accountants were, as now (1906), E. Spark, and Monkhouse, Goddard & Co. The Joint Committee was suspended at the commencement of the strike on April 5th, and did not resume its sittings until December 12th. During the time intervening the rules were revised. A special Committee (which might be called an interregnum Committee) met, and transacted business of the same nature as that within the purview of the Joint Committee. Before leaving the strike and the consequences it may be of interest to quote from Mr Crawford's first monthly circular his estimate of it. The strike which took place in the months of April and May last will ever remain an epoch in the history of the Association. A more complete success never took place. At its beginning, strong doubts were expressed and great fears entertained as to what would be the ultimate consequences of such a step. I was amongst those who doubted, but did not despair, and the end more than justified the expectations of the most sanguine. If we take the entire history of trade disputes, it will be found that not one ever commanded so much public sympathy. We had justice and right on our sides, and we took the only wise course--viz. to let the public know it. We deplore strikes as much as anyone can do, but there are times when they become necessary and such a climax had we arrived at in April 1879. Numbers of men who were outside our Association then came forward and joined with us and fought the battle side by side. There never was a more complete stoppage of work or one which to the workmen, at least, ended more satisfactorily. We may fittingly close the year by a reference to the strong tide of emigration that was running. A miners' conference to consider a scheme to assist prospective emigrants and draw up a code of rules was called in Manchester in November. Such a scheme was formulated and the rules suggested, but nothing ever came of it. In connection with this large volume of emigration from the mining districts Mr Crawford took a trip to America in one of the Inman liners, and wrote an account of it in a pamphlet entitled "In the Steerage." A report was circulated in the press describing what purported to be the foul condition of the accommodation provided for the third-class passengers. With a desire to ascertain the truth or otherwise of these statements Mr Crawford went to New York in one of the Inman boats, and completely exposed the untruthfulness of it, and did a great deal towards easing the minds of many of the miners who were preparing for leaving the country. 1880 Violations of Scale--Restriction of Labour--Working Hours Arbitration--Deputies' Wage Arbitration--Employers' Liability By the end of 1879 the consequence of the strike, as seen in disarranged collective machinery, had been reconstructed. One beneficial effect of the stoppage was the great number of men who joined the Union. When the notices terminated there were collieries where the numbers were few; but these men, as if moved by the instinct of self-preservation, ceased work, and to a very large extent became members, remaining until this day. It was the greatest piece of missionary effort ever seen. Instead of disunion and isolated action there were manifest loyal adhesion and solidity. There were sure to be exceptions to this as to all rules, and early in the year the Federation Board was called upon to meet a class of trouble which was entirely illegal, and which arises occasionally now. Without specifying places (but dealing generally) it will suffice to say that in a few instances notices were given for advances beyond what the sliding scale gave. The employers requested the Board to meet them. This they did, and two resolutions, one dealing with the cokemen and the other with the miners at one colliery, were unanimously carried. The workmen were told that they had violated the rules of the Federation Board and sliding scale agreement. They were told (by a circular sent out by the Federation Board) that they were parties to the arrangement, and yet had given in their notices for an advance in direct contravention of its provisions. Having been parties to the scale they ought not to violate it with impunity. If this individual or lodge action were allowed it would end in disruption, and therefore it must be checked. The wisdom of that advice is obvious, and not only in that day, but for the present time. If agreements are made for men they should be adhered to. To violate them is lawlessness, which in the end is hurtful beyond the immediate act. If conditions are forced upon people it is right to repudiate, but for the last thirty-four years in this county there has been freedom and equality. RESTRICTION OF LABOUR At the Council meeting held on January 17th it was decided that there should be a restriction, and that no coal hewer should make more than 4s. 5d. or 4s. 2d. per shift, but this was never carried out in any general manner. On March 13th the Council again dealt with it, and declared all lodges unfinancial where it was not put in force. In furtherance of that resolution the Seaham Lodge put a notice on the pit heap to inform the members "that the restriction had commenced, and that a list be drawn up stating the number of tubs each man had to fill in his respective district or flat, no man to make more than the county average in any one day." To that notice the Owners' Association took objection. A letter was sent to Mr Crawford asking him whether the workmen had determined to enforce restriction, and if so, were they then acting on it. These questions Mr Crawford did not answer, but brought them before the Committee. As a result a circular was issued reviewing the whole case. They pointed out that when the Council carried it very few of the lodges put it in force, and the few who did soon left off, and that at the Council to enforce it the voting was 145 for, 126 against. They reminded the majority that "surely a minority so strong ought to have led to a reconsideration of a matter not only so vitally important, but which has at all times been found so very difficult to carry out in practice." Lodges were sending in resolutions refusing to carry out the Council resolution. That resolution said those lodges should be expelled. The position would be that whole collieries of men would be cut off from the Association because they were determined to abide by the scale agreement. In view of these facts, they resolved to call a special Council. They pointed out that one or two lodges had sent in motions of censure because advice had been given, and they met the censures by saying: One or two lodges have sent motions seeking to pass a vote of censure on us for issuing the last circular. It would seem that these lodges would like to see us sit and do nothing, even though we were certain that an impending evil was threatening our very existence. We cannot regard this as our province. What we did was for the preservation of the Association. The moment we see that our efforts have not ended more satisfactorily we have called a special Council meeting to further consider the matter. Take our advice, and inasmuch as we have only done our duty, spare your censures. We have quite enough to do at present without wasting our energies in useless and pernicious quarrelling amongst ourselves. The result of the special meeting proved the Committee right. A tabulated vote was taken--the voting being against restriction 130, for 117; majority against, 13. Thus ended the only county attempt to carry out a uniformity in piecework. It ended as all such will end. Human nature is too strong for such arrangements. WORKING HOURS ARBITRATION This case arose out of the hewers' hours at some of the collieries. Amongst them were Gurney Pit, Leasingthorne, Letch, and Wingate. These were eleven-hour pits, but during the depression of 1877-79 the hewers had been induced or coerced to go in at three A.M. instead of four A.M. The Executive Committee in their negotiations contended that this was a violation of Mr Meynell's award, and therefore ought not to exist. On the employers' side it was held that the award named only dealt with the coal drawing. After attempts to settle it was finally agreed to refer it to arbitration, with Lord Rowton as umpire. The arbitrators on the owners' side were Mr R. F. Mathews and Mr W. T. Hall, and for the workmen Mr L. Jones and Mr W. Crawford. There were two days' sitting in the Westminster Palace Hotel, London. On the 20th of August the umpire decided that the hours complained of should remain as they were. THE DEPUTIES' ARBITRATION This question of the deputies being paid a higher wage if they were not in the Miners' Association came up in a renewed application for uniformity of wage. This was sent to the owners amongst a number of other requests. The reply was that they were strongly of the opinion that the deputies should not be members of the Miners' Association. The Executive could not accept that reply. They had never asked about the Associations, but a just wage, and they considered the reply was an insult. They recommended to their members that it should be sent to the Federation Board. This was done, and on the 19th of March the Board offered to submit the matter to arbitration. The offer was refused by the following resolution:-- MINERS' REQUEST AND REPLY FORWARDED TO MR CRAWFORD _June 17th, 1880._ _Deputies._--That deputies who are not members of the Deputies' Association be paid the same wages as those who are. Considering the position in which the deputies stand to the hewers and other workmen, any change in the present arrangement is undesirable. On the receipt of this the Board notified the county, and resolved to call a joint meeting of the four Associations. Their advice was that the whole of the notices be given in, and work to cease until the claim was conceded or arbitration granted. The meeting was held on August 26th. Negotiations proceeded, and in November the employers agreed to accept arbitration. The case was not heard until February 1881. The umpire on that occasion was Mr I. Hinde Palmer, M.P.; the advocates were Mr L. Wood, Mr W. Armstrong, Mr L. Jones, and Mr W. Crawford. The hearing lasted two days, and was held in the Westminster Hotel, London. The umpire decided upon two points: (1) That it is competent under the sliding scale agreement of October 1879 for the deputies who are members of the Miners' Association to require that their wages be advanced. (2) That the advance shall be such a sum as will make the amount of their wages respectively the same as the wages paid to those deputies who are not members of the Miners' Association. THE EMPLOYERS' LIABILITY ACT It is not intended to review the introduction and passing of Acts of Parliament, but mention may be made of the Employers' Liability of 1880, not with a view to explain its provisions, but to indicate steps which were taken towards contraction out of it. In Lancashire contracting out was made one of the conditions of hiring, and a strike took place in an attempt to resist it. With us in the north (for the two counties worked together) the same end was sought, but by different means. The aim of the employers here was to avoid litigation if possible, and, with that end in view, would have increased their contributions to the Permanent Relief Fund. The officials of that fund were desirous of bringing an arrangement about, believing it would strengthen their position. There were a few men outside the ranks of those officials who advised the miners to enter into a contract. At a meeting of the Permanent Fund Committee it was just on the point of being carried when a suggestion was made to the effect "that it was not a matter pertaining to the fund, but belonged to the Workmen's Associations, and that a joint meeting should be held." Such did take place, with the result that the proposal was defeated. The leaders of the Associations were very strong against it. Among the strongest was Mr Crawford, whose monthly circular for December contained some very clear and explicit reasons in opposition to the idea. There were threats from some employers as to smart money and subscriptions to the Permanent Relief Fund, but still the workmen refused to give way. 1881-82 Deputies' Wage again--Third Sliding Scale--Death of Mr Macdonald--Change in the Treasurership In February this question was again in evidence. By reference to the award as given above it will be seen that the umpire decided clearly in the workmen's favour, but there arose a complication in the mode of application adopted by the owners. The mode of calculation was skilful and peculiar. The dispute arose in 1876 when, as an inducement for the deputies to form an organisation of their own, they were to be exempt from the six per cent. reduction; therefore, said the employers, we will give those deputies who are in the Miners' Union the six per cent. given in 1876, and then deduct all the reductions since, by this process bringing them to 4s. 1½d. per day. They seemed to forget that the deputies' arbitration was for the difference between the actual wages at that time--the difference being 6d. or 8d. per day. The anomaly was that two men might be doing the same work with equal responsibilities (in some cases the lower paid the best workman) and yet one have a much higher wage than the other. Mr Bunning (on behalf of the owners) sent a copy of the instructions to the managers to Mr Crawford, asking him if they met with his approval. The answer was sharp. Instead of agreeing with them he considered them a clear violation of Mr Palmer's award. It was not based upon Shaw Lefevre's award, but upon the existing difference in the wages. And he informed the owners, that they would demand the higher wages. The negotiations continued until May, when the umpire by joint letter was asked to meet Mr L. Wood and Mr Crawford. He informed them he would write each of them an explanation, and save the journey. This he did, and said the award was clear and intelligible, and that he meant those who were in the Miners' Association to be paid the highest wages. On the strength of that interpretation the owners paid the wage, with everything kept off since the award. THIRD SLIDING SCALE As the two years for which the sliding scale was definitely fixed drew near completion it was obvious that there was a strong feeling against it. The circumstances were against it. Introduced at the conclusion of a very disastrous strike the whole of its operation was in the worst times--trade bad, wages low. There was no wonder that the men had little love for it. Recognising the opposition the Committee placed a motion on the Council programme suggesting that notice be given to terminate it at the end of the two years. This was adopted, and notice given at the proper time. In the meantime the miners generally were turning their attention to the question. A sliding scale conference was held on April 20th, 1881, in the Midland Hotel, Birmingham. The conference affirmed "that the principle of sliding scales is an equitable mode of settling wages questions, if rightly worked out in detail: That the best mode of taking out the selling price will generally be to take the price of coal sold, but that no coals should be taken which were sold on contract; only those sold at the current market price." In the matter of leaving firms out each district was left to its own option. It was considered desirous that the accountants should have more freedom in regard to the matters they were permitted to divulge. A second conference on the same question was called for October 19th in Birmingham, with a programme on very similar lines. A Council meeting was held, and two delegates selected to represent Durham. Certain instructions were given them: sliding scales were the best arrangements for regulating wages; the open markets were preferable to the existing mode of ascertainment, with others of a kindred nature. On January 18th the Federation Board had under discussion a proposal from the employers. It was not accepted, but they were told the Board was ready to meet them at any time. At a special Council held on 25th February 1882 the situation was complicated by the miners deciding to ask for an advance of twenty per cent. if the owners refused the sliding scale drawn up by the Federation Board, and that body was instructed to meet the employers. The meeting took place on March 13th on the two questions, when the owners gave the Board the following:-- OWNERS' OFFER _March 13th, 1882._ The Durham Coal Owners' Association is unable to accept either of the propositions suggested in the Federation Board Minutes of February 25th, that is to say,-- 1. The Association cannot regard "the sliding scale drawn up by the Federation Board as just and equitable," and consequently cannot adopt it. 2. The Association cannot grant "an immediate advance of 20 per cent. in the wages of all men and boys," nor admit "that trade warrants such an application," or any advance at all. Having regard to the difference of view between the Owners' Association and the Federation Board, the Association can only suggest that the question whether wages shall be varied, and if so, to what extent, and in what direction, shall be left to open arbitration. The Miners' Council then decided to take a ballot on the twenty per cent. If the question were not carried by a two-thirds majority, to arbitrate on the advance. When this was sent to the owners they replied that the advance could not be granted, but they were quite ready to leave it to open arbitration. The Federation Board as a whole considered itself in an anomalous position if any section were allowed to act as the miners were doing. If this were allowed to proceed, then on wage questions there was an end to all usefulness. Either the power must be taken away altogether, or they must unreservedly trust them. As the position was, they were in a crippled condition. "This renders our work on general questions nil, and the Federation instead of being a tower of strength is a source of weakness, inasmuch as it exposes to the owners our want of agreement and diversity of thought and action." They had, therefore, come to the conclusion to take a vote, with the view to have the matter settled. The response of the county was in favour of the Board by a large majority. Immediately they decided to ask for a scale with a minimum wage, and that the variations should be two and one and a half per cent. A meeting between the Board and the owners was held on April 17th, when the workmen asked for an advance of seven and a half per cent. To this the employers objected, but said they would pay a wage as if the coals had reached 4s. 8d., which was equal to an advance of three and three quarters per cent., and would be an advantage of two and a half per cent., during the continuance of the scale. The Board strongly urged the acceptance of the offer, which in their opinion was preferable to arbitration. The workmen accepted their advice, and the following scale was signed on April 29th:-- THIRD SLIDING SCALE There shall be made the following percentage of additions to, or deductions from, the standard tonnage When the Net rates and datal wages, Average Selling being those prevailing at Price of Coal November 1879 Reaches But does not reach Additions Deductions s. d. s. d. 3 10 4 0 None None 4 0 4 2 1¼ " 4 2 4 4 2½ " 4 4 4 6 3¾ " 4 6 4 8 5 " 4 8 4 10 6¼ " 4 10 5 0 7½ " 5 0 5 2 8¾ " 5 2 5 4 10 " 5 4 5 6 11¼ " 5 6 5 8 12½ " 5 8 5 10 13¾ " 5 10 6 0 16¼ " 6 0 6 2 18¾ " 6 2 6 4 20 " 6 4 6 6 21¼ " 6 6 6 8 22½ " And so on upwards, 1¼ per cent. for each 2d., the 2½ per cent. variations for the two ranges of 2d. each in price between 5s. 10d. and 6s. 2d. being limited to those special ranges. 3 8 3 10 -- 1¼ 3 6 3 8 -- 2½ And so on downwards. It had to continue in force until 30th June 1883, to be terminated by six months' notice given any time after that date. It will be of interest if we insert the scales proposed by the owners and Board before the agreement. OWNERS' SCALE There shall be made the following percentage of additions to, or deductions from, the standard When the Net tonnage rates and datal average Selling wages, being those prevailing Price of Coal at November 1879 Reaches But does not reach Additions Deductions s. d. s. d. 4 2 4 4 None None 4 4 4 6 1¼ " 4 6 4 8 2½ " 4 8 4 10 3¾ " 4 10 5 0 5 " 5 0 5 2 6¼ " 5 2 5 4 7½ " 5 4 5 6 8¾ " 5 6 5 8 10 " 5 8 5 10 11¼ " 5 10 6 0 13¾ " 6 0 6 2 16¼ " 6 2 6 4 17½ " 6 4 6 6 18¾ " 6 6 6 8 20 " And so on upwards, 1¼ per cent. for each 2d., the 2½ per cent. variations for the two ranges of 2d. each in price between 5s. 10d. and 6s. 2d. being limited to those special ranges. 4 0 4 2 -- 1¼ 3 10 4 0 -- 2½ 3 8 3 10 -- 3¾ 3 6 3 8 -- 5 And so on downwards. WORKMEN'S SCALE There shall be made the following additions to the When the Net standard tonnage rates and Average Selling datal wages, being those at Price of Coal November 1879 Reaches But does not reach Additions s. d. s. d. (5s. minimum wage) 4 8 4 10 2½ 4 10 5 0 5 5 0 5 2 7½ 5 2 5 4 10 5 4 5 6 12½ 5 6 5 8 15 5 8 6 0 17½ 6 0 6 2 20 6 2 6 4 22½ 6 4 6 6 25 6 6 6 8 27½ 6 8 6 10 30 6 10 7 0 And so on upwards, 2½ per cent. for every 2d. It will be obvious that the difference between the two is very wide. The workmen sought to renew the minimum wage, although but two years had intervened since the dark experience of 1877-79, and when it was impossible for the condition to have been forgotten. DEATH OF MR MACDONALD On October 31st, 1881, Mr Macdonald, M.P., died at Wellhall, near Hamilton, Scotland. He was the ablest leader the miners of Scotland had, and one of the first Labour representatives in the House, being elected with our good friend Mr Burt in 1874. He was often called the "Miners' Friend." Although not a Durham man he was so intimately and closely connected with our early history and progress up to his death that there would be a great hiatus if no mention were made of him. The Executive Committee was represented at his funeral, and the first Council meeting after his death passed a resolution expressing deep sorrow at his death, and regarding it as an irreparable loss and national calamity to the mining population of England, Scotland, and Wales. His self-sacrificing efforts for a number of years on their behalf cannot be fully known, but his memory will ever be held dear by a grateful people. A movement was immediately started to commemorate his work, the result of which was the statue which is in front of the Hall in Durham. As Mr Crawford said, "It is the last tribute of respect we can pay to one who through good and evil report kept steadily in view the one object of his life--viz. to reduce the misery, and alleviate the sorrows of the mining population, while following their hazardous occupation." It will be interesting to place on record an outline of his life. He was born in the year 1821, and began work at eight years of age. When he was born the condition of the mining population was dreadful. There was no law to protect the miner, and there was little regard for health or life. The hours were fearfully long. Women worked in the mines under the most debasing conditions. In the midst of this he set himself the uphill task of self-education--uphill now, but how much more so then! In early life he left the mines, and became a teacher. The knowledge he acquired he determined to devote to bettering the condition of the miners. Between 1850 and 1855 he was assiduous in procuring amended Miners' Acts, and those of 1855 and 1860 were mainly due to his efforts. From that time until his death he was earnestly working in efforts to ameliorate the conditions of the life he knew so well, and at his death was busily engaged in further amending the Mines Act. He was a sample of men who have been endowed with splendid powers, and who might have made a fortune if they had followed commercial pursuits as eagerly as they followed after reform and better temporal conditions for others, but who, when there was nothing to gain, counted it their highest good if they could in any way assist their class on to a higher platform and into brighter conditions of life. They chose rather to suffer with the people in their affliction, and help those who needed it, than to make for themselves monetary positions. When he died a truly great man left the ranks of reformers, and to the honour of Englishmen be it said, they honoured him in death as they appreciated him in life, as witness the splendid statue which was unveiled on 17th November 1883 by his colleague in Union and Labour representation in Parliament, Mr T. Burt. In the beginning of 1882 a matter arose which, were it not for the fact that it would leave an incompleteness in our record, might have been passed over unnoticed. Some doubts were felt as to the state of the accounts, and it was resolved to have a thorough inquiry into and examination of the books. Mr John Staton, the accountant, was employed for the purpose. His report was to the effect that the treasurer was indebted to the Association to the amount of £282, 11s. 1d. This examination covered the period commencing with December 1876. He not only described the amount, but he suggested a system of book-keeping. The result of the affair was the suspension of the treasurer (Mr Forman acting _pro tem._), and his removal on the 6th of May, and the appointment of Mr J. Wilson. The whole circumstance was unfortunate. There were many (the writer among them) who doubted if there had been any defrauding, and who were convinced he had only been careless. He was an earnest worker in the Association. [Illustration: ALDERMAN JOHN WILSON, J.P., M.P.] 1883-84 Five Days per Week Movement--Fourth Sliding Scale--Second Relief Fund--Wheatley Hill "Putt Pay" The question of restriction of the output was again brought under discussion at the beginning of the year. It was not peculiar to nor spontaneous in Durham, but was of extraneous suggestion. It was the result of a miners' conference in Leeds, and was set forth under two phases: the reduction in the hours per day and the days per week to five--all the pits being off on the Saturday. The members were told plainly by Mr Crawford what the real issue was and what was the condition of the mining districts. While in other districts the hours had to be reduced, in Durham they would remain, but the days per week would apply to all alike. He, however, pointed out that there was only one-sixth of the miners of the county represented. A special Council was called, and the matter placed before it, when it was decided "that pits ought to work not more than five days per week and draw coal not more than ten hours per day--each and every pit being idle every Saturday, irrespective of how many of the preceding days of the week have been worked." A Second National Conference was held on the question. A report was issued by the representatives, Messrs Crawford and Wilson, which showed the fallacy of attempting any national movement. The conference was called to hear how far the decision had been carried out. The report showed that there were only 81,000 paying members in the districts represented, the total number employed being about 379,000; that there were only 9500 persons who had adopted the Leeds Resolution of Restriction, and some districts positively refused to carry it out. In the face of these facts the conference reaffirmed the restriction resolution, and resolved that the ballot should be taken in each district, and that there should be an adjournment to hear the result. In the meantime a meeting was held between the Executive Committee in Durham and the owners. The Committee stated their reasons for requesting the meeting, and hoped the owners would assist them to carry the conference decisions into effect. The reply was that the question was so important to both employers and employed that it would require serious consideration. Could the workmen point out any probable good which would result? How far it had been carried out? Unless it were generally adopted it would mean ruin to those districts attempting it. They were willing to take part in a national conference for the purpose of discussing the subject. The matter was again brought before a conference in Birmingham on April 10th. There were twenty-seven delegates present from districts where 229,000 men were employed. The only item of business was the appointment of a Committee to meet the Mine Owners' National Association, each district to appoint its own representative on the Committee. Mr Crawford was afterwards appointed to act for Durham. The request for a meeting was sent to Mr Maskell W. Peace, the owners' secretary. It was refused, as they considered it outside their province. Beyond the disorganisation in the other districts it was found in Durham to be incompatible with the sliding scale, and as a consequence the attempt at a national regulation of labour proved abortive. That which oft looks easy when at a distance is often found impracticable when we are brought face to face with it. If a national restriction be ever carried out it will need solid unions, and all men of one mind, or it will fail at the start. THE FOURTH SLIDING SCALE As the period approached when the definite year of the scale would end there were growing signs that the requisite six months' notice would be given. At a meeting of the Federation Board held on May 23rd it was decided to give such notice to terminate the scale at the end of the year, and the Board prepared to meet the emergency, and if possible renew the scale or modify it. A resolution was come to at their meeting in October, expressive of their opinion that "a sliding scale is the best mode of adjusting the wages questions." They further resolved that each section should meet the owners for the purpose of discussing any alteration peculiar to themselves. Acting on that arrangement the Executive Committee sent out a circular urging the maintenance of the principle. In addition they called a special Council, and asked for suggested amendments. In response there were seventy-seven suggestions returned, embracing every kind of alteration or grievance, to be considered before the scale was re-established. These were sent to the employers, who replied by sending a counter list containing (if not as many) a very large number of questions. The Federation Board asked why they were making so many claims. These reasons were supplied, each section being taken _seriatim_. The various Committees and the Federation Board were doing their best to get the settlement placed in the hands of some body of men, so that the scale might be rearranged. This advice was not accepted, for at a special Council the power to settle was retained by the county so far as the miners were concerned. The reasons assigned by the owners in support of their claims were unacceptable to the Board. They felt justified, they said, in refusing, but were willing to meet to discuss the respective alterations. The meeting took place, but it was found that the representatives of the miners could not proceed, as their Council had refused to accept the scale until all the notices of men who were discharged for depression of trade were withdrawn and all the pits recommenced. "The owners said that such a thing was an impossibility, seeing that a want of trade was the only cause of pits being stopped and men dismissed. If the pits could be worked they would work them, but this they could not do in consequence of the terrible depression of trade. It was nonsense to say that the pits were stopped by an arrangement among the owners. That was a monstrous absurdity." These remarks were sent out to the miners with a most earnest appeal not to delay the matter any longer, because it could only result in danger. A form accompanied the circular upon which the lodges were asked to vote whether they would place the question of a sliding scale in the hands of the Federation Board. This appeal was successful, and the Board was instructed to proceed with it by a majority of 104. At the earliest possible moment a meeting was arranged, and the scale agreed to on the lines of the previous one, to commence on 1st August 1884, and to continue for two years certain, subject to two calendar months' notice. But such notice was to be given on a date to permit of a termination on the 31st of July. This fourth sliding scale was similar to the third one, which appears on page 177, so we need not reproduce it. SECOND RELIEF FUND The formation of the Second Relief Fund was forced upon the county by the fact that there were so many men out of work, and their poverty was a peril to those who were in employment. Men's necessities are a strong force, oft compelling them to do things they would otherwise shrink from. It was thought, therefore, it would be sound economy to ease off the poverty, if luxury could not be afforded, and thus save men from overcrowding the labour market, or at least from accepting conditions which, if once established, would prove a general injury. Then there was a feeling of sympathy for the distress seen on all hands, and a desire to alleviate, if not obliterate it; for the miners of Durham may have little, but they never hesitate to share it. They are not the men "who, seeing their brother in distress, shut up their bowels of compassion against him." The sight of distress, or a knowledge that someone is in danger, never appeals in vain. The Council meeting held on May 3rd, 1884, dealt with the question of providing for the relief of those men who were discharged through depression of trade. It decided that a special Council should be called on the 7th for the purpose of discussing the best means, and in the meantime suggestions might be sent in--"motions of all kinds, including levies, to be admissible." Without describing these in detail, suffice it to say that there were eighty-eight in number, covering all phases of the subject, both as to means of raising money and amount of benefit. The Council decided for a levy of 3d. per full and 1½d. per half member per fortnight. That £2000 should be advanced from the General Fund, to be redeemed by the levy, and "that the amount of money the levy will bring be equally divided by the Executive Committee amongst the men idle or who may be idle." It was soon found that the income from the levy would not give anything near 10s., and often it was found to run as low as 5s., per week. WHEATLEY HILL "PUTT PAY" As this, although belonging to an individual colliery, is yet of a peculiar character, it will be well to note it here. On the pay Friday falling on April 4th it was found that the company had become bankrupt, and the wages of the workmen were not forthcoming. This being the second occasion at these collieries, and only half the amount for the previous occasion having been paid, there was great consternation, and the presence of an agent was urgently requested. The treasurer immediately went out, and found the people ready for a riot. This, of course, was to be expected. Mr Ramsay, the agent of the colliery, desirous to meet in part the wants of the people, sold a branch engine, but when the N.E.R. engine came to take it away men, women, and children commenced and pulled the rails up, thus keeping both engines as it were in "pound." It was arranged that there should be a mass meeting the next day (Saturday), and the treasurer was to attend to persuade the men to allow the sale to proceed, and accept the money as an instalment of their wages. The meeting was held in a field. The day was fine, there was a large crowd, and the treasurer was in his most eloquent mood, when a very laughable incident occurred. There was a pigeon-flying match from Newcastle to Thornley. It was about the time when the birds were expected. Some of the men were watching the heavens more closely than they were listening to the speaker or at the time thinking about their wages. Just when the orator was in the midst of one of his best sentences a voice was heard (which was the descent from the sublime to the ridiculous): "Haud thee hand till th' 'Slate Cock' comes in." In a moment speaker and occasion were lost, and the gathering generally watched the bird, hero of the hour, as, like an arrow shot from some great bow, he came right on to his "ducket." Then in deliberate manner the same voice was heard exclaiming: "There, he's landed; thoo can gan on wi' thee speech." But rhetoric and reason were both ineffective after the "Slate Cock" had landed. The Executive Committee, however, were quick in their action, and put in men as bailiffs at each colliery to prevent anything being taken away. After a year had been taken up by the process of law, and £1000 spent in money, the entire wages, slightly over £4724, with the colliery pay sheets, were handed over to the treasurer. That sum included the wages of Union and non-Union men alike, and was paid to all with this difference, that the members got their money free of cost, but the non-members were charged 7s. each towards the cost incurred in procuring the money. This sum was all paid out as per the pay sheets. The last man to turn up was five years after. 1885 Industrial Remuneration Conference--Extension of the Franchise--Labour Representation--Lloyd Jones In January 1884 a peculiar but very useful conference was held in London. It was, and is, known as the "Industrial Remuneration Conference." In the preface to the proceedings, which were published, we are told why the conference was called. "In the spring of 1884, a gentleman of Edinburgh determined to devote a considerable sum of money to the purpose of keeping before the public mind this vital question, viz.: What are the best means, consistent with justice and equity, for bringing about equal division of the daily products of industry between Capital and Labour, so that it may become possible for all to enjoy a fair share of material comfort and intellectual culture, and possible for all to lead a dignified life, and less difficult for all to lead a good life?" For the purpose indicated he gave £1000, vested in seven trustees, Mr T. Burt being one of them. To the trustees there was a Committee added, and Mr Crawford was, by the consent of the Miners' Council, amongst the number. That Committee considered that the best means of carrying out the trust was by organising a conference and inviting all sorts and conditions of opinion. There were two main branches of inquiry: "Is the present system or manner whereby the products of industry are distributed between the various persons and classes of the community satisfactory; or if not, are there any means by which that system could be improved?" These general propositions were divided into many branches. The purpose of this historical outline is served by mentioning the connecting link being Mr Crawford's appointment on the Committee. The chairman of the conference was Sir C. Dilke. While these important industrial matters were taking place the political affairs had not been neglected. The Franchise Association had kept up a close and instructive agitation not only at home, but outside the county, pressing the demand for an assimilation of county to borough. They urged that it was a glaring anomaly for a man to be eligible to vote in a borough, and because he passed over an arbitrary line (yet in all respects the same man in trade and duties of citizenship) he was not permitted to do so. At the Trades Union Congress held in Nottingham in 1883 the following resolution was proposed by the representatives from Durham:-- That, without accepting an equalisation of the county with the borough franchise as a final solution of the great question of Parliamentary Reform, this congress is of opinion that the Government should lose no time in introducing their promised measure, and calls upon the organised trades of the country to assist by every means in their power in promoting the popular movement in support of this long-expected reform, and authorises the Parliamentary Committee to join with the Durham Franchise Association and other Associations of all kinds in the proposed deputation to the Prime Minister. The result of this resolution was the reception by Mr Gladstone of a very large deputation, representative of all the Trades Unions in the country, on January 3rd, 1884. Three speakers--J. Arch, A. Wilkie, and J. Wilson--were selected, and they received the assurance that the Government would introduce the Bill. It was introduced, and occupied nearly the whole of the session; was carried through the Commons, but was defeated by the Lords, or as Mr Gladstone said, they put "an effectual stoppage on the Bill; or in other words, they did practically reject it." The Liberals, however, were determined that the matter should be settled, and for that purpose summoned an autumn session. By the tact and eloquence of the Prime Minister the great measure was carried in spite of the most bitter opposition, in which constitutional means were stretched to their utmost limit, and the deepest depths of vulgarity were ransacked for the foulest epithets to use against the working classes, some of whom appear to have very short memories, as they forget this and other great acts done for them by the Liberals. The passing of the Act did not take the miners of Durham or their colleagues over the Tyne by surprise, but found them expectant, and ready to use their newly acquired power. The twelve years of the teaching of the Franchise Association bore fruit at once. During the summer of 1884 numerous district meetings were held. The Miners' Executive and the Committee of the Franchise worked together. The two great questions were the political right withheld and the action of the irresponsible House of Lords in thwarting the will of the nation as expressed by the duly elected representatives of the people. The 4th of October was the appointed day to hold district meetings simultaneously all over the county. The people were urged to make them a success. The Committee was appointed to take charge, and the owners were notified that all the collieries would be off on that day. The whole county was in a political fever. John Morley had uttered his memorable words, which have passed into one of our epigrams: "End them or mend them." The political creed of the progressives was "Down with the Lords" and "Faith in Gladstone." One sentence may be quoted from Mr Crawford's circular of that time: Mr Gladstone and the Government deserve the highest praise for their action in this matter, and with the support of the people they will yet carry the Bill against the organised and determined opposition of a class of men who have amassed immense wealth by, in past times, taking that which belonged to the people. The practical effect of the Act in Durham was seen on January 24th, 1885, when the Federation Board called a special Council to consider the following programme:-- PROGRAMME, 1885 (1) Shall there be Labour Representatives? (2) If so, how many? (3) If it be decided to have Labour Representatives, who shall he or they be? (4) The ways and means of supporting such person or persons from the Associations. (5) What should the salary of such man or men be? (6) Should we nominate men other than Labour Representatives? That is, men who hold similar views to ourselves, but who will pay their own costs, both in contesting and otherwise. (7) If this be done, who should they be? (8) The selection of divisions. The resolutions come to were--(1) there should be Labour representatives; (2) there should be _bona fide_ Labour candidates selected from the workmen, but run in connection with the Liberals; (3) the candidates should be J. Wilson, W. Crawford, and L. Trotter; (4) the ways and means should be left in the hands of the Federation Board, and that the salaries should be £500 per year. On the same day the Board met, and decided to select the Bishop Auckland, Mid-Durham, and Houghton-le-Spring divisions--Mr Trotter for Bishop Auckland; Mid-Durham, W. Crawford; Houghton-le-Spring, J. Wilson. They further decided to inform the North and South Durham Liberal Associations what had been done, and asked them if they would co-operate with the Board. A meeting between the representatives of the Liberal Associations, the Federation Board, and the Franchise Association was held in the County Hotel, Durham, when the following resolutions were agreed to:-- RESOLUTIONS, 1885 That it is highly desirable for all sections of the new electorate to arrange for the object of securing the return of Liberal Members at the next election, and that this meeting is prepared to give support to the persons nominated by the Miners' Federation Board, providing their candidature is endorsed by the Liberals in each division. That this meeting requests the constituencies to form Liberal organisations, and that small committees from the South and North Durham Liberal Associations, the Federation Board, and the Miners' Franchise Association be appointed to aid such organisations. _January 24th, 1885._ So far as the Mid-Durham and the Houghton divisions were concerned, all went on smoothly. The candidates were accepted with complete unanimity, but in the Auckland division the feeling in some quarters was in strong opposition. The Board were asked to withdraw Mr Trotter, which they refused to do. There were other two gentlemen in nomination, and he was asked to put himself in competition with them, and if rejected retire. He refused, and they, the Board, approved of his refusal, and arranged a meeting of the lodges in the division for the purpose of explaining the situation. At this point there arose a complication of a different order. At their meeting on October 22nd, 1885, the Board decided "that each candidate must be responsible for the returning officer's fees in their respective divisions." Shortly after this was made known Mr Trotter withdrew, the reason assigned being the refusal of the Board to pay the returning officer's fees, although all the candidates were treated alike. As a consequence the division was vacant, and open to any candidate. This only need be added, that at the General Election in November Mr Crawford and Mr Wilson were both returned by great majorities--the latter being defeated in 1886, but succeeding Mr Crawford in 1890 as the Member for Mid-Durham. This may be a fitting place to try to remove a false impression, which has lingered in some minds unto this day, as to what they are pleased to call "the shameful treatment" of Mr Lloyd Jones, while in the Chester-le-Street division, by the Federation Board. There never was a grosser misstatement. The Board did nothing but what was fair and honourable throughout the whole proceedings, although they were made the object of a somewhat bitter attack by _The Newcastle Chronicle_, which attack was entirely founded upon a too slight knowledge of the facts. As mentioned above, an arrangement was made whereby the workmen were to have their divisions undisputed, and with the rest there was no claim for interferences set up. Mr J. (now Lord) Joicey was selected by the Liberals for the Chester-le-Street division, the Federation Board having no part or lot in the transaction. Mr Jones, who was an intimate friend of Mr J. Cowen, was brought out, it is well known, as Mr Cowen's nominee, and as such, contested the division. The Board, as such, did nothing in it in any way. If they had, their action would have been dishonourable in the light of the agreement. This, however, they did do: as soon as Mr Trotter withdrew from Bishop Auckland, they sent a deputation to interview Mr Jones and to make him an offer of that division. The writer was one of the deputation, and with the others did all possible to persuade him, but he refused. It was felt he was not free, or he would have accepted. This can be said without fear of contradiction: the Board as a whole regretted the refusal, for Mr Jones was a great orator, respected very much by the miners in Durham, as witness their continual choice of him for their arbitration cases, and he could have had a safe seat. 1887-89 In Dark Days--The Eight Hours--The Sliding Scale--Advance of Ten per Cent.--Second Advance of Ten per Cent.--Death of the Scale--The County Council The year 1886 passed over uneventfully, and in a routine manner, except in the matter of trade, which continued very much depressed, and wages very low. At the beginning of 1887 the average selling price at the pit mouth was 4s. 5.56d. The Relief Fund (even with the principle of division of income) was in debt to the General Fund £3548, 4s. 11d. as per the balance sheet for quarter ending December 1886. The condition of trade was so bad generally that a Royal Commission was appointed to inquire into it, the present county court judge of Durham being one of the members. He differed from the majority report, and signed a minority report. This objection was in relation to the fragmentary character of the evidence. In the coal and iron industries the witnesses were entirely from the employers. Without stating the whole of his able report, dealing as it did with every phase of our industrial life, a portion may be mentioned. Four causes of depression and low wages upon which he laid emphasis, were the land question and the royalties, way leaves and dead rents. Those who hold the land, claim these from the employers and employed who risk their capital and their lives to get the mineral which he, as landlord, does nothing to assist. In the midst of the dark times the Executive Committee was compelled to face two evils: a small banking account, and a heavy expenditure. The banking account for the quarter ending December 1886 was £16,000, exclusive of the deposit and shares in the Industrial Bank, which amounted to £1841, but which were nominal and, so far as use was concerned, simply on paper. In addition, there was a sum nearing £900 invested in buildings. In a short circular the Committee placed the whole financial position before the members. For the year 1886 the income was £44,506, with an expenditure of £54,126. "You will thus see that we cannot exist long at the rate of £9620 on the wrong side of the ledger. Soon all our funds will be gone, and nothing left for the members who have paid so long." They were compelled by rule to keep £10,000 in the funds, and were therefore driven to consider two propositions: either to increase the subscription by 3d. a fortnight or reduce the benefits. For that purpose they proposed to call a special Council to consider the questions. The reductions suggested would reduce the expenditure by £1600 per quarter. At the Council meeting an all-round reduction of 2s. per week for sickness, breakage, strikes, and sacrificed allowance was made, and £1 off the death legacies, to take place from the rising of the Council, which was held on 9th April. Happily, however, the trade began to turn and the position of the Association to amend, for on August 27th a slip was sent out informing the members "that the funds have so far recouped as to enable the Society to pay all benefits according to rule from Monday the 29th." THE EIGHT HOURS--A RESTRICTION On October 11th, 1887, and three following days a miners' conference was held in Edinburgh. The main purpose of the conference was the limitation of the output. There were a large number and variety of propositions discussed: five days per week, a week or fortnight's holiday, and the eight hours per day. Part of the resolution on the last question was in words that have become familiar to Durham in these later years: "That no miner be allowed to work more than eight hours in the twenty-four." The first resolution on the question did not appeal to the State, but on the fourth day it was brought forward containing an appeal to the legislature, and carried. The position of Durham was the same then as now (1906), and the opposition of to-day is based upon the thought of that day. Before the conference was held the Executive Committee gave their opinion upon the various questions on the programme of business. On the eight hours they said: EIGHT HOURS' RESOLUTION _Eight Hours._--This is to be sought for by Act of Parliament. To seek to fix the hours of men by Act of Parliament is, in the year 1887, a monstrous and illogical proceeding. If you fix the working hours by Act of Parliament, why not fix the rate of wages also? In the old feudal times wages were so fixed by Act of Parliament. Under such laws, men were serfs and slaves, and became as much the property of their employers as the horses that filled his stables. To demand eight hours, and even less, is in the hands of all men if they will only utilise their own organised power. But if such an Act were passed, it would result in our own county in one of two ways, (1) the turning off of 10,000 or 15,000 hands; or (2) the adoption of two shifts of hewers, and two shifts of offhanded men and lads, and thus increase the hewers' hours by one hour, and, in many cases, one and a half hours per day. Again, if you seek by Act of Parliament an Eight Hours' Bill, it logically follows that you regard eight hours as the number of hours men should work. In such a case, you endanger your own position, and would strongly tend to bring upon you an eight hours' system. But why is this sought? It is sought because men are indifferent, apathetic, and consequently disorganised. If this law passed to-morrow, it would be an inducement to indifference and disorganisation, and as such materially injure you. In September 1887 the Trades Union Congress decided to take a ballot of all the unions on the general eight hours. The questions submitted were: Should an eight hours' day be sought; if so, by what means, by Trades Union effort or by law? Again the Executive Committee advised the members to vote against it, which they did. "If this became law to-morrow," they said, "you could not make it operative. To do so you must turn off some thousands of coal hewers, or have two shifts of offhanded men and boys, and draw coals sixteen hours per day instead of as now drawing them ten and eleven hours. If this be sought it follows by clear implication that the men voting for it regard eight hours as a normal and fair time to work per day." The Congress of 1888 decided in favour of eight hours by law. The question came again before a miners' conference held in Birmingham on 8th October 1889. There were three items discussed: "The International Miners' Congress, an advance in wages, and the eight hours." The delegates from Durham, Mr J. Johnson and Mr J. Wilson, drew up a report of the proceedings, which was sent out to the members. They were sent to the conference with definite instructions from the Council: "That we don't take any part in the agitation for an eight hours' day for underground workmen." The representatives in the report say: Beyond that we could not (nor desired to) go. When the conference came to discuss the question we laid our position before the meeting, and told them we could not take any part in the agitation. We make no remarks about the sarcastic reflections which were made by some of the delegates on our position. They were no doubt natural reflections, although their repetition was galling, and evoked from us replies which were not of the calmest order. We stood firm to our instructions, and abstained from either voting or speaking, except in self-defence. The conference resolved that on the 1st of January all men and boys represented there should commence working eight hours from bank to bank. Northumberland and the Forest of Dean voted against, with Durham neutral. Then followed a resolution pledging all the districts to give in notices to terminate with the year. This placed the conference in a dilemma. They were ready to pass resolutions, but few were prepared to say their members would give their notices in for it. Then it was decided to take a ballot and hold another conference in November. At our Council meeting on November 9th it was decided not to be represented. THE SLIDING SCALE The programme for the Council to be held on February 2nd, 1889, contained a resolution asking for a ballot to be taken for or against the sliding scale. In their notes on the questions to be discussed the Committee strongly urged the maintenance of the scale. It steadied trade, made work and wages more regular than any other means. Where sliding scales existed the districts were in better condition. They (the Committee) were as much interested as the members. The gain or loss was alike. Having fully considered the question they were convinced that it was the most just and equitable way of fixing and settling wages. The resolution to ballot was carried. About the same time the mechanics decided to give notice to have the scale amended. The Federation Board not only found themselves called upon to consider the scale, but they had to deal with a demand for an advance in wages. A meeting was held on June 17th. The employers placed before the Board three propositions: arbitration, two and a half per cent. to commence on July 1st, and two and a half on September 1st. These advances would raise the wages to ten per cent. above the standard, or they were willing to arrange for a new scale. The Board were reminded that the scale would run until July 31st, and therefore their application was in violation of that agreement. These offers were recommended to the members, with a request that they, the Board, should be vested with full power to negotiate a settlement, which should be submitted to the county. The offer and request were refused, and another meeting took place on July 9th. The employers then modified their offer, and were willing to give five per cent. advance for the months of August, September, and October, and a further five per cent. for November, December, and January, or they would refer it to open arbitration. Again the question was submitted to the members. The Board said: "There were three courses to pursue: accept the owners' offer, go to arbitration, or ballot the county." Of the three they strongly preferred the offer, as to take the ballot was a repudiation of arbitration as a means of settlement. Arbitration was a lingering and uncertain course. It would last three months, and they would thus lose for that time a clear five per cent., or something like from four to five thousand pounds per week in wages. "Remembering all the difficulties which now surround us, and looking at all the facts, we would very strongly advise you, as men alike interested with yourselves, to accept the offer the owners now make." The reply of the county was to demand twenty per cent. advance. The Federation Board was driven to take the ballot. The result of the ballot was for pressing the demand, and the Miners' Executive made preparation for giving in the notices on August 1st. The employers made another offer: instead of giving two fives they offered a full and immediate ten per cent. DURHAM COAL OWNERS' ASSOCIATION The Owners' Wages Committee is unable to recommend its Association to give an advance of 15 per cent. The actual invoice price of coals and coke has not yet materially advanced. Recent contracts at high prices can only have a gradual and deferred influence. The owners have already given a special advance of 10 per cent., which has been in operation less than four months. Any advance which they now give must, like that previous advance, be in anticipation of the higher prices which will alone allow of higher wages being paid. They are willing to stretch a point in this respect in the expectation that wages will be thereby settled for a period which will allow of equivalent prices being actually realised, but they are not prepared to do more than recommend a general advance of 10 per cent. on the basis rates, to take effect in the first pay commencing after the date of acceptance of this offer. REGINALD GUTHRIE, _Secretary_. Newcastle-on-Tyne, _November 23rd, 1889._ The Federation Board urged the acceptance of that offer. "Everyone (unless it be the unobservant and inexperienced) must be fully alive to all the dangers to our social, and it may be our permanent condition, which always follows a strike, such as we should have in this county. It does not mean a few hands, but the entire county, comprising 500,000 folks laid commercially prostrate; and who can conceive the social and moral disaster arising from such a state of things." They felt confident that it would be for the good of the whole county, for they would reap an immediate and certain gain of from £8000 to £10,000 per week. The ballot was taken. The miners' vote was in favour of a strike, but the whole vote of the Federation was in favour of accepting the ten per cent. Within three months of the acceptance the Miners' Council on September 14th decided that the Committee should demand a further advance of fifteen per cent., to commence on November 1st; if refused, the county to be balloted at once. That request was forwarded to the employers from the Federation Board. They were informed that, after very carefully considering the improved condition of trade and the increased prices at which coal and coke were sold in the open market, the Board considered that they had a just claim for an advance of fifteen per cent. The reply of the employers was contained in the following resolution:-- The Owners' Association, taking an account of the fact that the ascertained price of coal for the quarter just ended is only 5s. 2.93d. (or 4.44d. above the price of the previous quarter), is not prepared to give an advance approaching that which is asked, but is willing to appoint a Committee to confer with the Federation Board, having full authority to negotiate for a settlement of wages, to begin at such a date, and extend over such period, as may afford a reasonable opportunity of actually realising those higher prices which would alone allow higher wages to be paid. The question arose whether the miners should seek the advances themselves or through the medium of the Federation Board, as that was the only regular and effective means. It was at the same time pointed out to the workmen that their claim for the fifteen per cent. was in violation of the understanding that three months must elapse from the date of a previous change before a new application could be considered. The voting on the body to negotiate resulted in favour of the Board, but there was a further question to decide. What was to be the line of procedure? Had the Board to make the best settlement, or should they press for the full fifteen per cent., and, if refused, the members be balloted? The miners' special Council voted by a large majority for the full demand or strike, the voting being 297 for strike and 45 for placing the power in the hands of the Board. It was found that the other three sections had remitted the question absolutely to the Federation by large majorities, and the Miners' Executive naturally felt the advance was being delayed for weeks, whereas the Board might have settled it, and the workmen have got an early increase in wages. It was, therefore, felt imperative that the miners should be asked to reconsider their position, seeing that in the other sections there was unanimity. The Committee resolved to again submit it to a Council meeting, but there was no change, the instruction of the previous one being repeated, the majority being slightly decreased. That Council was held on November 14th. The Federation Board met the same night, and on the 15th Mr Crawford handed Mr R. Guthrie (who had been appointed secretary as successor to Mr Bunning, deceased) a request for a meeting. That was fixed for the 23rd of November. When the Board met the owners they were asked what power they had, and the reply was simply to ask for the fifteen per cent. Mr L. Wood, the owners' chairman, then said: "We only agreed to meet the Federation Board on condition that they had power to settle the entire matter. Have you that power?" The Board had to give the humiliating answer: "No." An adjournment for three hours took place, when an offer of ten per cent. was handed to the Board. They then resolved to take a ballot of the whole of the sections, the decision being to accept the offer. There are two remarks necessary anent the industrial matters of 1889--first, the termination of the sliding scale, which happened on the 31st of July; several attempts were made to revive it again. The latest in the year was a new scale submitted by the Enginemen's Association. It was drawn up by Mr T. Hindmarsh, the treasurer of that Association (who was a very useful man), but it was never proceeded with. The scales had been in existence twelve years. The misfortune was that the trial of the system took place in a series of years which covered the most unbroken period of depression within the experience of the Association. The ascertainment showed that prices never reached (except at the last stage) higher than 5s. per ton, being most of the time below 4s. 8d. We are so much inclined to judge from appearances and not righteous judgment that the blame for bad trade was thrown entirely upon the scale, as if its existence or non-existence could influence the coal markets and their prices. To the superficial observer the collateral conditions of the scale would appeal with force; but men who look at the fitness of things, and who do not measure that fitness by a small period or single phase of our industrial life, are fully aware that all kind of trade seasons are required to supply a proper test--these recognise that the scale, with proper adjustments, is bound to be an equitable means of adjusting wages. There was this coincidence which strengthened the position of the objector: the scale ended just when a boom in trade set in, and many men believed that it had been the incubus which had in an evil manner weighted the trade and kept wages down. "See," they said, "how the conditions have altered since its removal, and shall we not be foolish if we give it another lease of life?" The second remark applied to the delay in securing the advance through not trusting those at the head to negotiate a settlement, and this in spite of urgent appeals. This remark applies not merely to the distrust of that day, but to all such occasions. The foolishness is not merely for a day, but for all time. It is a great check upon men's ardour to find themselves doubted, and it is a grand incitant and inspiration to feel they have the confidence of their people behind them. If a leader is not such as can be relied upon to do his best he is not fit to be in the position. Generals win battles most assuredly when the men trust them. There is always danger when with suspicion those in the ranks are watching the head. THE COUNTY COUNCILS' ACT For a considerable time prior to 1888 there had been a great desire amongst the people for a more active part in local affairs. This was running currently with the national and parliamentary idea. The opposition which reared itself against the national was found striving to prevent an extension of home affairs. It was in relation to this that the Marquis of Salisbury, "that master of jeer and gibe," said what the people wanted was a circus, as they were more eager for that class of amusement than seriously taking part in the management of parish or county business. However, as in the parliamentary suffrage, so in the transferring of the local affairs from the parish magnates and the petty sessions to the people; the spirit of reform, the friends of freedom, and the trustees of the people were too strong. Those who were in power--the masters in the art of "grasping the skirts of happy chance"--those skilful plagiarisers of other people's ideas, calling them their original property, those who have always waited to be forced to do right, introduced and carried the "Local Government Act." As the men of Durham were eager and expectant in 1885 with reference to the extension of the suffrage--not merely eager to receive, but to use--so in relation to the county affairs, they were earnestly desiring to receive the long withheld right and to put it into operation. In this matter they were and are unique. The system of political teaching carried on by their Franchise Association had not been in vain. While in other parts of the country men had been at fever heat until they were incorporated into the electorate, and then lapsed into indifference or misuse, in Durham the same keen zest was manifest after the passing of the Act as before. Between the Royal assent being given and the time of operation a serious preparation took place. A very large number of meetings were held, and in a business manner the election was prepared for, with the result that about one-fourth of the new-formed Council were working men, and fully seventy per cent. of the parish and district councillors were from their ranks. In this respect the county occupied a proud and peculiar position, for in no other county was any such use made of the Act. Instead of that, the lethargy seen in other counties was such as to justify the Salisburian jeer as to the circus. It may be said without fear of contradiction that no selfish or ill use was made of the power thus gained. No county anywhere more needed reform in matters pertaining to the home life of the people, for in matters of convenience and sanitation the condition of many parts was deplorable. There was a general idea that these working men when they were placed in this responsible and new position, with the public purse to draw upon, would act the part of prodigals, and run into all kinds of waste. Those who said that, based their reasoning on a very false position. They said (and no doubt believed) that the miners did not contribute to the rates, and therefore would rush into useless expenditure. Some of the miners asked where the rates came from if not from them. The fear has been falsified. There was great need in the home surroundings for rushing, but with all that, gradual reforms were the order of the day, and no one suffered. 1890 Another Advance sought--Death of Mr Crawford--The Ten Hours' Drawing and Hewers' Hours--The second Advance--International Miners' Conference This year opened with another claim for an advance. In the Federation Minutes for January 8th is the following:-- That the secretary write to the secretary of the Coal Owners' Association asking a meeting requesting an advance of 15 per cent. on all classes. That motion was the outcome of a resolution passed at the Miners' Council on the 4th. Not merely was the amount of advance named, but the 1st of February was to be the date of its commencement, with the alternative that the ballot be taken if it were refused. The Board met the owners on the 21st of January, when they were given the following resolution:-- The Durham Coal Owners' Association is unable to make any further advance in wages unless, or until, a much higher invoice price of coal is realised than has yet been attained. The owners' accountants have ascertained the selling price for the last three months (ending December 31st, 1889) and they certify the net average invoice price to be 5s. 9.88d. This, according to the recent sliding scale agreement, would make wages 13¾ per cent. above the standard of 1879. Wages are, as a matter of fact, now 25 per cent. in advance of that standard brought up to this point, by the special advance of 10 per cent. given only 5 or 6 weeks ago, in anticipation, as the owners then declared, of higher prices yet to be got. The owners invite the Federation Board to verify these figures, and to join in a further ascertainment for the first three months of this year, with a view to thus determining whether any advance in wages is justified, either now or in April next. The owners regard it as all-important that the men employed in the collieries in the county of Durham should be afforded, and should avail themselves of, an opportunity of correcting the serious misapprehension under which they labour from regarding the prices quoted in the newspapers for what is but a small proportion of the output as representing the entire volume of trade. LINDSAY WOOD, _Chairman_. Coal Trade Office, Newcastle, _January 21st, 1890._ The Federation Board resolved to submit the question to a ballot, as it was found that the miners were not in favour of either joining the owners in an ascertainment, or allowing their representatives to meet the employers. The result of the miners' ballot was most perplexing. At that time there were only 48,500 full members, and of these only 25,807 voted for a strike, those against the strike and neutrals amounting to 22,708. Taking the Federation as a whole, the situation was unsatisfactory. For a strike there were 29,048, and against 26,696. There were more than 15,000 unrecorded votes. Under these circumstances they considered their best policy was to call sectional councils, to be held on February 13th. The voting at the Miners' Council was a very large majority for giving in the notices on the 24th. The Federation Board met on the same day, when it was found that the enginemen refused to give in their notices; but the Board decided that the other three sections should tender theirs, and the owners should be informed of the same. Great regret was shown at the refusal of the enginemen. Mr Crawford, acting on the instruction of the Board, at once notified the employers, and received from them a long reply. They were surprised to find no reference made, either in the letter or in the submission to the members, as to the joint ascertainment of the selling price of coal. They reaffirmed their statement that the average price did not warrant the advance. If a strike were entered upon, the responsibility would rest with the side which refused to avail themselves of the full opportunities offered for ascertaining the condition and prospects of the trade. They were prepared to consider whether by arbitration, or by any other course, a strike might be averted, and they invited the Board to meet them again on February 22nd. At that meeting the owners offered an advance of five per cent., making the underground men thirty, and the surface men twenty-seven, per cent. above the standard of 1879. Another ballot was taken--(1) upon this offer; (2) open arbitration; (3) strike. The result of the ballot was to accept the offer of five per cent. On the 9th of May another demand was made for fifteen per cent. advance. This meeting was in response to a letter sent by Mr Crawford from the Executive Committee notifying the employers of the demand. This they could not accede to. Their reasons were the serious reaction which had set in in the coal trade. Whether it would continue, or there would be a recovery, was uncertain. The most they could offer was to leave wages where they were, and reconsider them in a month. For some time there had been a growing desire for shorter hours, and it was felt by some of the leaders of the Union that instead of pressing for wages it would be better to devote all their attention to the shortening of the hours, and even going so far as giving up the advance. In keeping with that idea the question was introduced to the owners; but the Executive felt that these two subjects were too much for successful consideration at the same time, and they therefore asked the lodges to send delegates to a special Council on May 31st to say whether--(1) they had to press for the entire programme--viz. fifteen per cent., with ten hours' drawing and seven hours from bank to bank; (2) should the cases be separated; (3) which one should be preferred. Finally, it was agreed that the claim for an advance should be withdrawn and the whole attention of the county placed upon the shortening of the hours. A more beneficial decision has never been come to in the whole of our history. In this case time has meant money, and has proved the wisdom of applying the spirit of compromise and arrangement to these matters by men who know the technicalities of the trade. DEATH OF MR CRAWFORD We must stay our record of industrial changes to consider a serious blow which fell upon the Association in the death of Mr Crawford on July 1st 1890. It was a blow the force of which can only be realised by those who were intimately acquainted with him, and whose good fortune it was to be colleagues with him. Never yet had an Association a stronger or more capable leader. To see him at his best one had to be with him in a complex question and in a committee. He was not an eloquent orator, moving men's minds by speech, but he was a pilot skilful in guiding their affairs through the perilous times. No man was ever more attacked by men who were never able to reach his excellence in the sphere of life in which he was placed; but this was always certain, those who made the attack were sure to receive cent per cent. in return. His ability was only fully known by those who were in close contact with him. His temper was sudden, fierce for a short time, but soon burnt out. Ofttimes, therefore, he was apt to give offence. He had his failings. Is he to be for that condemned, for where is there a man without them? The Pecksniffs of life may pose as being pure, but _men_ know how far they fall short of that state. Pure spirits are a terror to common mortals, and beyond their reach, and especially to men whose lives, like Crawford's, are cast amid the complexities and complications of an earnest Trades Union leader. Let us place on record the opinion of his colleagues in the circular notifying the county of his death: "It is our sorrowful duty to announce to you that Mr Crawford died this morning at 6 A.M. On this occasion our words will be few, but they must not be taken as the measure of our feelings. We are in a position which enables us to form an estimate of his worth to us as secretary of our Association, and we are therefore the more fully conscious of the loss sustained. He has died doing his duty--as he was at Newcastle at Joint Committee on Monday the 30th of June, and took part both in discussions inside and settling cases outside. He went to that meeting in opposition to the persuasions of his colleagues, who saw the delicate state of his health, and how dangerous it was for him to go to the meeting." He died comparatively young, aged only fifty-eight. If any of the young men want to see his style let them turn to his circulars, which are scattered profusely through our documents. He had been feeble for some time before his death, but when in health he was ready and vigorous with his pen. He passed from us, but his work still lives, and will live so long as the Durham Miners' organisation remains; and if the workmen in folly should allow it to fall, then the work he did for them will be their greatest condemnation. The vacancies caused by his death were filled up by Mr Patterson becoming corresponding secretary, Mr Wilson being made financial secretary, and Mr Johnson being elected treasurer. The political vacancy was supplied by the nomination and election of Mr Wilson for Mid-Durham. [Illustration: JOHN JOHNSON, M.P.] THE SHORTENING OF HOURS At the Executive Committee meeting on July 3rd this matter was under discussion, and it was resolved to ask for a meeting with the owners "on the seven hours' and ten hours' drawing." The interview did not effect a settlement, and the Committee decided to ballot the county. It was submitted as "Strike," "No strike," and the result was, for strike 30,484, with 2728 against. This result was sent to the employers, with a request for an early meeting. It was held on August 14th. The original request was a reversion to the hours worked prior to Mr Meynell's award: "Foreshift men to go down at 4 A.M., back-shift to be loosed to commence to ride at 4 P.M., and no colliery to draw coals more than ten hours per day, for two shifts of hewers. The drawing hours in the night-shift collieries to be in proportion to the day shift." In that request there is no mention of the seven hours. This omission the Committee explained. If they had asked for seven hours they would have lengthened the hours of those men who were loosed by their marrows in the face. In their opinion the plain request of seven hours would have increased the hours in those cases on an average of at least half-an-hour per day, and would have compelled a system of overlapping in all such cases, because a signed agreement would supersede all customs. As a counter proposal the employers submitted the following:-- _August 19th, 1890._ SEVEN HOURS' AND TEN HOURS' COAL DRAWING The Owners' Committee offer as a settlement that hewers' shifts be on an average of foreshift, and back shift not more than seven hours, reckoned from the last cage descending to the first cage ascending, and from the last cage descending to the last cage ascending; the present coal-drawing arrangements remaining unchanged. The custom of shifts changing in the face to be maintained. Failing the acceptance of this offer, the Owners' Committee propose that the whole question of hours be referred to arbitration. You, on the other hand, have urged that there should be simply a return to the drawing hours, and arrangements consequent thereon, prevailing prior to Mr Meynell's award in April 1878. It will be the duty of the Owners' Committee to report this to a general meeting, but in order that that meeting may fully understand what such a proposal means, it is necessary to obtain information from each colliery as to its hours and arrangements prior to April 1878. The Owners' Committee will proceed to ascertain this, and it suggests that your deputation meet the Owners' Committee on Friday, the 29th inst., at 1.30, for a further discussion prior to the owners' general meeting which will be called for this day fortnight. Yours faithfully, REGINALD GUTHRIE, _Secretary_. The whole subject was placed before a special meeting, and sundry questions were asked. Should the question stand adjourned as the owners requested? Should the seven hours be withdrawn? Should the owners' offer be accepted? Should arbitration be offered? Should the notices go in; if so, when? The conclusions of the Council were to wait for another meeting with the employers, and to withdraw the seven hours as a separate question. At the meeting held on August 29th the employers placed before the Committee their proposals. Their chief objection lay in the serious loss of output which would follow a reduction of one hour in the coal-drawing time. In any case it would be impossible to bring the change into operation till the contract engagements could be adapted to new conditions; that the change should not take effect till the first pay in January; that if there were a reduction in hours there should be a proportionate reduction in wages; that the Committees of the two Associations should have full power to settle certain points: "Mode of reckoning the hours in ten and twenty hour pits; for coal drawing; for offhanded men and boys above and below ground; arrangements in cases of accidental stoppage; drawing hours on Saturdays; changing at the face; 'Led tubs'; travelling time in relation to distance; co-operation of miners in making the ten hours of coal drawing as full and effective as possible." The Council meeting before which these were placed decided to accept the owners' offer of ten hours, to operate on January 1st, 1891, and that the Executive Committee meet the owners, with full power to settle the conditions. The appointment of the Committee resulted in the "Ten Hours' Agreement," which need not be inserted here, but a difference arose as to the number of hours the double-shift pits should draw coals. Finding they could not agree, the Committees arranged to refer the matter to an umpire, and two on either side were appointed to place the case before him. The umpire chosen was Mr J. R. D. Lynn, coroner in Northumberland. He decided as follows on December 22nd, 1890:-- DURHAM COAL OWNERS' ASSOCIATION AND THE DURHAM MINERS' ASSOCIATION _re_ DRAWING HOURS OF DOUBLE-SHIFT PITS Whereas, by an agreement between the Durham Miners' Association and the Durham Coal Owners' Association, the question of whether the coal-drawing hours of double-shift pits should be 19 or 20 hours per day was left to my decision; Mr Hall and Mr Parrington on behalf of the Owners' Association; and Mr Forman and Mr Patterson on behalf of the Miners' Association. Now having taken upon myself the said reference, and heard what was alleged by Messrs Hall and Parrington and Messrs Forman and Patterson, on behalf of the said parties respectively, and having heard and considered all the evidence produced to me, and duly weighed and considered the terms of the request of the Miners' Association, contained in their resolution of August 14th, 1890--the terms of the offer of the owners--the terms of the agreement or qualified acceptance of the owners' offer by the Council of the Miners' Association--the agreed working hours of the datal men and boys--the time occupied by the different classes of men and boys descending and ascending the pits--the prevailing custom of the county and all the matters and things bearing upon the question referred to me--I am forced to the conclusion that the drawing hours of double-shift collieries can only be reduced in proportion to the agreed reduction of the drawing hours of the single-shift collieries, and not in proportion to the number of hewers' shifts; and now make and publish this, my award, in writing, as follows:-- I do Award and Determine that the coal-drawing hours of double-shift pits shall be twenty hours per day. J. R. D. LYNN. _Dec. 22nd, 1890._ The negotiations were complicated and a settlement hindered by the action of the Wearmouth Lodge. It arose out of the seven hours' resolution. When the Council carried the resolution that the hewers' day should be seven hours, that lodge, without waiting for any general action on the question, commenced to put it into operation. We need not mention the circumstances beyond saying that the colliery was on strike, causing great friction between them and the Committee, and delaying a settlement of the general question, although they were told repeatedly that they were violating rule, and retarding progress. Before the hours agreement was come to another advance was asked for. As usual, it emanated from the miners. The amount claimed was twenty per cent., and again the date was fixed for commencing, with the alternative of the ballot, and notices if refused. The resolution was brought before the Federation Board, accepted by them, and sent on to the owners, with a request for an early meeting. The discussion on the subject took place on October 27th, when the employers said: "As the application was based upon an alleged increase in the price of coal they must have time to verify the price by the accountants' ascertainment, and as soon as this was done they would meet the Board and give a definite answer." The Federation Board, feeling the anomaly of their position, and being loath to meet the owners with restricted powers, resolved to ask their constituents to give them full power to negotiate as to the amount of the advance. The result of this voting was a large majority in favour of placing the whole matter in their hands. As soon as possible (November 14th) a meeting with the employers was held. The first question asked of the Board was what was the extent of their powers, and they, the owners, were informed the workmen had placed the matter entirely in the hands of the Board to settle. This, the owners said, cleared the ground and prepared for a settlement, as they had resolved not to make any offer if such had not been the case. It was, however, ultimately resolved to give an advance of five per cent., making the percentage above the standard of 1879 thirty-five for the underground workmen, banksmen, mechanics, enginemen, and cokemen, and thirty-two per cent. for the surface workmen, the agreement to take effect with the pays commencing December 29th, 1890, and January 5th, 1891, according to the pays at the various collieries. By that arrangement the shortened hours and the increase in wages were simultaneous. Before leaving 1890 we will notice a very important step taken by the miners of Great Britain --the holding of the first International Miners' Conference at Jolimont in Belgium. As this was the first of the series it will be interesting if we give the origin. The first idea originated in 1889. In that year two Labour Congresses were held in Paris: the Marx or Socialist, and the Possibilist or Trades Unionist. To the latter the Northumberland miners sent Messrs Burt and Fenwick. Prior to the meeting of the Congress those gentlemen sent a joint letter inviting the miners' representatives attending either the Marx or Trades Union Congress to meet for the purpose of a friendly interchange of opinions on questions relating to the condition of the miners. Some eighteen delegates responded, and the meeting took place in a dingy coffee-house in a back street. The interpreter on that occasion was Miss Edith Simcox. The result was the miners of Great Britain were requested to take the initiative in the formation of an International. This request was conveyed to the Central Board of the National Miners' Union (Mr Crawford being at that time secretary). The matter was brought forward at a subsequent miners' conference at Birmingham. The outcome was the Congress held at Jolimont in Belgium in 1890. 1891-1892 Silksworth Strike--Claim for a Reduction--The General Strike--Aftermath of the Strike--The Eight Hours again The year opened with a strike at Silksworth. It is mentioned here because of its being connected with, and being the last of, the disputes about the deputies. In order that there may be a proper understanding it will be necessary to retrace our steps a little. At the Miners' Council held on August 16th, 1890, a resolution was carried giving the Silksworth Lodge power "to take the ballot with a view of giving in their notices to compel the deputies to join the Union." The ballot resulted in the notices being tendered. They expired on November 22nd, and on November 26th, at a Federation Board Meeting, it was reported that the dispute between the deputies and the lodge had been settled amongst themselves, and they were ready to return to work. This had been forwarded to the employers by Mr Patterson and Mr Forman, from whom they had received a reply acknowledging the receipt of the information. They having, however, been informed "that many of the deputies, non-members of the Miners' Association, have been compelled by coercion and violence to join that Association, are not prepared to take any further steps with regard to the strike until they have consulted a general meeting of the owners, and this they will take an early opportunity of doing." Mr Patterson and Mr Forman wrote denying all knowledge of any force, reminding the owners that in all previous cases, whether general or local, the withdrawal of notices had always been mutual, and that they had instructed the workmen to present themselves for work. This action produced a deadlock, and three meetings were held between the Federation Board and the owners--on November 29th in Durham, and on December 1st and 2nd in Newcastle. The owners said they were convinced that some of the deputies had been driven through fear to join the Miners' Association, and therefore they could not sanction the resumption of work at Silksworth until the Federation agreed to provide for the security and freedom of the deputies who refused to join the Miners' Association pending the consideration of the question "whether it is consistent with the duties and responsibilities of deputies to belong to the Miners' Association, and that the deputies at Silksworth should have the opportunity, under proper safeguards, of freely declaring whether they wished to remain in the Miners' Association." To these the workmen made reply that the action of the owners was against all former arrangements made between the two Associations. "In every case that has taken place the men either before or after giving the notices have had to agree to resume work" before the Urgency Committee was appointed, and yet the employers were asking, in the Silksworth case, to reverse that well-established practice, and were demanding that the pit should stand until a settlement was come to. That course of action the Board repudiated, and expressed their willingness to join any body or committee as soon as the pit started. The employers then modified the claim, and asked that a Joint Committee should be formed, and the deputies who had been compelled to join the miners should be allowed to appear before that Committee, and say whether they wanted to remain in such Association. With that understanding the pit should go to work as soon as got ready, and the Committee meet within the next three days, which would mean prior to work being resumed, except very partially. The Board was willing to agree to form the Committee. No settlement was come to, although strong endeavours were made. At last the employers decided to evict the men from the houses. The evictions commenced on February 19th, 1891, and in all there were 106 families turned out, many of whom found shelter with their friends and in the places of worship. To effect that purpose a very large contingent of police was drafted in from other parts of the country, with the usual accessories to these circumstances, the "candymen," to whom the occasion was a harvest, and just the kind of work their natures were akin to, and their minds eagerly desiring, and therefore ready to accept. There were most serious riots, and at one time a violent collision took place, between the crowd and the police. It was not the result of any action on the part of the Silksworth people, but was owing to the presence of strangers. It was customary for the police to escort the candymen out of the village to a large house a short distance off, which afterwards was given the name of "Candy Hall" because of the use it was put to. On a certain night when the escorting took place, the police and their charge were followed by a large concourse of people, some of whom threw stones and various kinds of missiles. In a few instances the officers were hurt. This they bore until they got outside the village, when suddenly wheeling they charged with their batons upon the crowd, many of whom were seriously injured. Before the whole of the people were evicted negotiations re-opened, and the proceedings stayed, which eventuated in the following agreement:-- It is agreed that the Owners' Committee advise the Silksworth deputies who joined the Durham Miners' Association after the notices were handed in to pay up at once their arrears of subscriptions to the present date, on the distinct understanding that they are to be at perfect liberty from this date to be members or non-members of the Miners' or any other Association pending the settlement of the general question of deputies between the two Associations. On the arrears being paid work to be resumed at Silksworth, Seaham, and Rainton, all men being reinstated in the positions occupied by them before work ceased. That ended the last of the privileges given to deputies. THE CLAIM FOR A REDUCTION In the beginning of July the Federation Board met the owners. The employers had made a claim for a reduction on April 25th which the Board met by asking for an advance. As this is the first of the series of events and negotiations which led up to the strike of 1892 it will enable us to better understand that occurrence if we record it in detail. At the meeting referred to, the employers said that as the Board had asserted that the state of trade did not warrant a reduction, but, on the contrary, an advance, they would officially ascertain present and prospective invoice prices, and would then ask the Board to meet and consider them. If that did not lead to an agreement they would ask that the question should be submitted to arbitration. The matter was delayed until November 27th, when another meeting took place. The following statement was handed to the Federation Board:-- OWNERS' STATEMENT The Durham Coal Owners' Association feel that the time has come when they must press for a substantial reduction of wages. They are paying 35 per cent. above the standard rates, whilst the ascertainment of selling prices for the quarter ending September 30th last brought out results corresponding with wages only 23¾ per cent. above the standard. The excess measured in this manner is therefore 11¼ per cent.; but prices are continuing to decline, and this should also be taken into account in considering what reduction ought to be made. The last advance of 5 per cent. arranged in November 1890, to take effect from January 1st, 1891, was given in the expectation that prices were likely to rise; instead of this proving to be the case they have declined to an extent equivalent to a 5 per cent. reduction in wages, thus placing the owners in a worse position to the extent of 10 per cent. as compared with this time last year. This is the smallest amount of reduction that the owners feel ought to at once be conceded, and they are willing either to accept this as an instalment of the relief that the state of trade imperatively calls for, or to submit to open arbitration the question of what change in wages ought to be made. LINDSAY WOOD, _Chairman_. Coal Trade Office, _November 27th, 1891._ The Board promised to place the statement before the members as soon as they had time to examine it, and at the same time they would send the employers a statement with regard to the application for an advance. Nothing more was heard of the subject until the 19th of December, when the owners wrote to the Federation Board as follows:-- I am desired to ask you when the Owners' Association may expect the reply to the proposal as to the reduction of wages made to your Federation Board at the meeting on November 27th. This was brought before the Board, when they suggested that the questions should lie in abeyance until the New Year, after which they would be prepared to arrange for an early meeting. On January 14th, 1892, the Board met the Owners' Wages Committee, when three propositions were handed to them--(1) An immediate reduction of ten per cent.; (2) to submit to open arbitration the question of what change in wages ought to be made; (3) to submit any proposal the Board might have to make to the Coal Owners' Association. Failing to receive an intimation from the Board at the earliest date that they accepted one of those propositions, then the Wage Committee must at once lay the position of affairs before their Association, and obtain instructions as to the steps to be taken to press for an immediate reduction. These questions were at once placed before the workmen by the Board. They, in the first instance, said they did not consider they had the power to make any settlement, and therefore were compelled to take that course. Then they reminded their constituents that when the markets were advancing (and on sufficient reason being shown) the employers gave advances by mutual arrangement, and therefore that mutuality should be reciprocated. They hoped the members would not be rash nor doubtful, for these were dangerous and destructive to their interests. "We must meet these situations like business men. The greatest safeguard is confidence in each other, and, as in the past, we have done all we could to merit that confidence from you, so in this most critical period, if you entrust us with the care of this matter, we shall do all we can to bring about the greatest benefit for our various Associations." There were three modes of settlement open to them: the first to grant the immediate reduction of ten per cent.--this they would not recommend; the second was arbitration; and the third to place the matter in the hands of the Board to negotiate the best settlement possible. They pointed to the last advance of five per cent., which was got so speedily by acting in the latter manner. Upon these three questions the ballot would be taken, the papers to be returned on or before February 3rd. The voting was: for accepting the ten per cent., 605; arbitration, 2050; Board to have power to settle, 7102; for refusing the whole, 41,887. The Board then put in operation Rule 14, which gives them power to call the Committees of the four sections if they deem it necessary. They arranged for such a meeting, and laid before it an amended offer made by the employers: an immediate reduction of seven and a half per cent., or five per cent. immediate, and five per cent. on the first of May. If neither of these was accepted then notices would be given on February 27th. With these offers the united Committees sent out a circular. In it they supplemented the one sent out by the Board in January, prior to the last voting being taken, and they warned the county not to be deceived, because it was quite clear that the owners were in earnest, and resolved not to be put off any longer. The question had waited six months. If they accepted one of the alternatives the dispute would be arranged. If they chose a strike, then they must prepare for taking the consequences. On the 27th of February, the day upon which the notices were given, they met and decided: "That all members of any of the four sections who have not received notice from the owners must put them in at once, except the collieries who are not associated with the Durham Coal Owners' Association, who must work on, providing their wages are not interfered with." These instructions were altered three days after, and the members were informed that "all workmen, whether employed at associated or non-associated collieries, and who have not received notices, must give them in at once." The voting on the amended proposals of the employers was largely in favour of a strike. For agreeing to the seven and a half per cent. 926 voted, for the two five per cents. 1153; for giving the Board full power 12,956, and for strike 40,468. It was then resolved to submit the two highest to another ballot. In the meantime the Board endeavoured to induce the owners to modify their demand still further. On the 10th of March, two days before the notices expired, numerous telegrams passed between the two parties. Those from the Board were urgent; those from the employers as if inspired by indifference, the last one reading: "Owners regret position, but have no suggestion to make." The Board then turned their attention to the prevention of the filling of the coals that were stacked, and they promised that, if any man or men refused to fill at the pits in the county during the strike, they would see them reinstated into their former work. In some places the colliery officials interfered with the enginemen. The Committee of that Association entered their protest, and brought the matter before the Board, who decided: That we endorse the action of the Enginemen's Association in the prompt means taken by them in reference to officials of collieries tampering with the enginemen, and should any action be taken against the enginemen they will have the protection of this Board. On March 11th the Miners' Executive decided to call a special Council meeting of their members on the 12th to consider the situation, and informed the Federation Board of their decision. After a long discussion the Council decided against any reduction, and on the 16th the votes of the whole Federation as per ballot showed: Strike Federation to Settle Miners 39,390 8,473 Enginemen 664 821 Mechanics 1,875 1,122 Cokemen 1,127 1,440 ------- ------ 43,056 11,856 In spite of all these efforts to prevent the strike and induce the members to settle there were some who charged the leaders with not giving the members full information and not daring to put the matter as clearly and as forcibly as they should. In defence they asked the lodge secretaries to look at the circulars and minutes which had been sent to them, and they would find these people were speaking either without full knowledge of the facts or maliciously stating that which they knew was untrue. The Board had placed before the members the various offers, and had in an unequivocal manner advised them that the most beneficial mode of procedure was to give the Board power to settle. "To this we still adhere, as the wisest, surest, and best course to be pursued, and we have no doubt that, were it adopted, a speedy settlement might be arrived at, and all the misery and hardships that are necessarily attached to a strike or lockout, whether it be long or short, would be obviated." The question of the sick members was somewhat perplexing, for the members of the sick department who were not receiving anything beyond the small amount of strike pay, found they could not keep their payments up, and the question was brought before the Council, when the following resolution was carried:-- This meeting deems it advisable to let the sick members who are now on strike cease paying their contributions for the present, and at the same time they be not allowed to come on to the Sick Fund. But those who are now on the Sick Fund have their sick pay continued until they recover from such illness, and at the same time they will have to continue paying their contributions, but death benefits to be paid to all. The banking account as per the balance sheet for December 1891 was £36,000. There was £15,834 in property in the various halls in the county, and there had been so much money spent in local strikes that it had been impossible to accumulate money to the extent they should have done. The members were informed that the amount available would only enable the Committee to pay 10s. to each full member and 5s. to each half member, for they were compelled by rule to reserve £10,000 for the Sick Fund. The strike being fairly started the Federation Board found themselves in a position analogous to that of 1879. The best they did receive (from a large number of people) was slander and vile names, and all because they, realising the dangers of the situation, dared to advise the county and take an unpalatable but manly stand. Meetings were held everywhere, and the speeches delivered were interlarded with epithets of the lowest order; and if the estimate of the agents was even only approximately true they were fit for no place outside a prison, for the most corrupt motives were attributed to them. They were betrayers of their trust, and were selling the interest of the men for their own gain. The main spreaders of those untruths were men from the outside: sailors who loved to sail on land better than sea, and coal porters from London, who thought they knew more about the miners' affairs than the men of the county did. In addition, there were those who believed in brotherhood, and thought the most effective means to establish it was by sowing discord broadcast among a people engaged in an industrial death struggle. The severity of the struggle may be gathered from the fact that 10s. per member and 5s. per half member was all that was available in the funds, and after being off nearly eight weeks the money gathered in from helping friends amounted to 5s. and 2s. 6d. respectively. It took £1000 to give each member of the Federation 4d. each. After being off work close upon eight weeks the Federation Board sought a meeting with the owners for the purpose of talking "over the situation with a view of putting before the members of the various Associations any suggestions that might arise." Three days after the parties met, when the whole question was fully discussed. The position taken up by the Board was that, according to Joint Committee rules, no question could be negotiated during a stoppage, and therefore the owners should open the pits, after which the men would consider their demands for a reduction. That offer was refused, and a reduction of 2s. in the £ was pressed. In connection with it they suggested the formation of a Wage Board as a means of preventing the recurrence of a suspension of work. They were then asked if they would refer the question to arbitration. Their reply was very short and decisive: "No; thirteen and a half per cent. reduction must be conceded before we will agree to open the pits." When asked why they increased their demand they said they had done so because the stoppage of the pits had entailed a great loss upon them, and they thought the men should pay for it. In addition, they chided the Board with simply being message carriers instead of men of influence. There were three results from the action of the owners. The first was to bring the Federation Board and Committees into closer relations with the people as a whole. There had been a tendency towards peace, when the employers took the false step. They had an idea that the workmen were beaten, and there is no doubt there would have been a much earlier settlement but for that mistake. Before, the leaders were doing their best to persuade their people to let them settle the dispute, but afterwards they were in determined opposition to the settlement on the lines of the increased demand. The second result was to throw public sentiment against the owners. It was very clear that, so long as the employers stood by their original demand, there was at least a silent condemnation of the workmen for refusing to place confidence in their leaders, but after the thirteen and a half per cent. was asked for the public veered round to the side of the workmen. The third result was to change the feeling of the miners in relation to their trust in the leaders. What persuasion could not do the extreme demand did. At a Miners' Council held on May 7th it was decided to leave the entire case in the hands of the Board. On the 9th, at a united meeting of the four Committees, the subject was discussed for a considerable time, when it was decided that the Board meet the owners, but the Committees to be in attendance. A telegram was sent to Mr Guthrie informing him that: "The Federation Board having received full power to settle the wages question, can you fix a day as soon as possible for us to meet your Wages Committee? Board waiting reply." To this Mr Guthrie replied that he would call a meeting for the 11th, and lay the message before their members. The meeting took place on the 13th of May. The owners stood firm to their thirteen and a half per cent. The united Committees offered to give five per cent. That offer was refused. The Committees then proposed the following:-- WORKMEN'S OFFER _May 13th, 1892._ That we, the united Committees, representing the four sections of the workmen employed in the county, cannot accede to the demands of the owners for a thirteen and a half per cent., but in order that we may end this dispute, with the consequent stoppage of trade and deprivation amongst the people, we are willing to accept an immediate reduction of seven and a half per cent. from the thirty-five per cent., leaving the wages twenty-seven and a half per cent. above the 1879 basis; and further, that we are willing at the earliest moment after the starting of work to recommend to our members the formation of a Wages Board for the settlement of all county wage questions in the future. W. H. PATTERSON. OWNERS' REPLY The Owners' Wages Committee regrets that it is impossible to accept the offer of the united Committees for an immediate reduction of seven and a half per cent. only. In other respects the Committees' proposal is acceptable. The Wages Committee must again point out that the ascertainment of selling price for the month of February showed that the owners are entitled--according to the relation of wages to prices that so long prevailed, and which the owners still regard as fairly and fully measuring the rates that can be afforded--to a reduction of fifteen per cent. from the standards. In asking for thirteen and a half per cent. only the owners feel that this is the smallest reduction that they would be justified in accepting. They believe, having regard to the deepening depression of trade, that any higher rate of wages than would be thus established must lead to a serious diminution in the amount of employment that could be afforded. REGINALD GUTHRIE. These were sent out with a statement of the case, with three questions upon which the members were asked to vote: Should the owners' terms be accepted? Should the strike continue? What suggestion had they to offer? In the circular sent out four days after these questions the Federation Board pointed out the seriousness of the position. It was difficult to carry on the struggle much longer. Arbitration had been offered to the employers, the pits commencing at the old rate. That had been emphatically refused, although it might have been accepted, if agreed to at the first. One suggestion had come to them--viz. to offer to accept a reduction of ten per cent. This was sent out as from themselves, and was carried by a majority of nearly four to one. When forwarded to the owners it was refused. The following is the resolution:-- _May 23rd, 1892._ RESOLUTION That we, the united Committees, representing the four sections of the workmen employed in the county, adhere to our refusal to accede to the demand of the owners for a thirteen and a half per cent. reduction, but in order that we may end this dispute, with the consequent stoppage of trade and deprivation amongst the people, we are willing to accept ten per cent. reduction from the thirty-five per cent., leaving the wages twenty-five per cent. above the 1879 basis; and further, that we will at the earliest moment after the starting of work recommend to our members the formation of a Wages Board for the settlement of all county wage questions in the future. Seeing the Owners' Committee have refused our offer of ten per cent. reduction, and press for their full claim of thirteen and a half per cent. in wages as a settlement of the present dispute, we offer to submit the whole question to open arbitration, providing the pits be opened out at once. On the refusal of this offer it became clear to the workmen that they were being most harshly dealt with, and as a natural consequence there were a few outbursts of temper and disturbances. There were numbers of policemen imported into the county. Against this the united Committees protested, and pointed out that the massing of these men was likely to cause disturbance, where otherwise there would be peace. They likewise thought the rate-payers should demand the withdrawal of the policemen, as they were an unnecessary burden upon the county. At the same time they placed before the county a detailed account of the whole proceedings from the initiation of it. They showed that they had done all they could in the interests of peace. They had offered to submit to a reduction, the justice of which had never been sufficiently proved; in fact, they were willing to give two and a half more than the owners asked for when they came out, which was equal to the fullest demand before the stoppage. They concluded by saying: The future of this awful struggle is with the owners. We have done our part. We cannot and do not ask you to accept the unjust and exorbitant demand made upon you. So far as we can see, the struggle must continue, that is, unless you are prepared to submit to the unjust demands of the owners. Are you prepared to do this? We implore you to be patient under the strain placed upon you by the latest action of the owners, from which it is evident that they would crush you, and reduce your manhood to the level of serfdom. We urge you to be law-abiding and still continue to show, as you have done in the past, that the men of Durham are a credit, not only to Trade Unionism, but to the country at large. The owners are aware that our ability to successfully resist their demands depends upon our being able to procure the necessaries of life. It is a matter which they have no need to personally fear, but which they appear determined to use as a weapon to force us to accept their terms. We must all do our best to defeat their projects, and nothing shall be left undone that we can do to secure subscriptions in order that our people may have food. We are thankful to those friends who have helped us, and we hope that workmen and all lovers of justice will respond to our appeal. As Committees, we tender our thanks to the leaders and friends at our local lodges, who have so untiringly and unceasingly given their labours for that purpose. They are in a good cause, and we are sure they will not weary in their well-doing. Their action is made more necessary by the determination of the owners. The offer of the employers (thirteen and a half per cent.) was submitted to the county along with the alternative of strike, with the result that every section voted by large majorities for a continuance of the strike, the least majority of any section being near four to one, and in one section nine to one. The resources of the men were gone, but their spirit of determination was strong. The owners by a statement tried to put themselves right with the public, but the Board replied by a counter statement. Then some of the influential men in the county (including Bishop Westcott) thought it was time to interfere, and letters were written by them to the Board, for which thanks were sent in reply. Among the communications was one from N. Wood, Esq., M.P., in which he expressed his regret at the failure to settle and the great misery among the people, and suggested that the Board should make an offer of eleven and a half. A letter of thanks was sent to him, expressing surprise that he should make the suggestion, and informing him that they would feel glad if he would try to get the owners to see that they were preventing a settlement by their stubborn refusal to shift from their demand for thirteen and a half per cent. The good Bishop, however, was not satisfied, and persisted in his endeavours to get the parties together. He was told that as soon as the owners were willing the Board would meet, and an arrangement was made on June 1st at Auckland Castle. A very long joint meeting took place, and then each party met in a separate room, the Bishop passing from room to room, full of solicitude for a settlement. At nearly the final stage of the proceedings he tried his best to persuade the workmen to offer eleven per cent., and he was told that, while he had their most profound respect, and they were sorry to refuse him, yet if they thought ten and a half would settle the dispute they would refuse, and continue the strike. At that point the parties met jointly again, when the following resolution was handed to the workmen:-- OWNERS' OFFER The Federation Board have offered explanations as to the establishment of a system of conciliation in the future, which the Bishop of Durham recommends the owners to accept as satisfactory, and the Bishop having strongly appealed to the owners--not on the ground of any judgment on his part of the reasonableness or otherwise of the owners' claim of 13½ per cent., but solely on the ground of consideration for the impoverished condition of the men and of the general prevailing distress--to reopen the pits at a present reduction of 10 per cent. (that is, from 35 to 25 above standard), with the full expectation that wages will hereafter be amicably settled by the system of conciliation contemplated, the owners yield to the Bishop's appeal on these grounds, and assent thereto. Bishop Auckland, _June 1st, 1892._ It was thought desirable to settle certain details before work was resumed. Amongst these was the restarting of all men as they came out. Some of the owners demurred, and thereupon the meeting broke up, and adjourned until Friday, the 3rd. The workmen at that meeting asked for a plain statement that every man would be engaged at his own work. The proposal of the owners was as follows:-- OWNERS' RESOLUTION 1. The Owners' Association have decided that no person shall be refused employment in consequence of having taken part in the affairs of the Workmen's Associations during the strike; they cannot, however, give a pledge to re-employ all their workmen, but they will recommend their members to employ as large a number as possible, and that the re-engagement of hewers be as follows:--That the places in each pit be cavilled for according to the last cavilling sheet, and that men cavilled to the places not intended to commence again shall be the ones not to be employed, it being understood that one hewer in a family being cavilled to a place that is to work is equal to the engagement of the whole family. In cases where a whole seam is stopped, it having been previously cavilled separately, the men belonging to such seam shall not be entitled to have a cavil put in for any other seam. This mode of re-engagement shall not be adopted as precedent in future cases, either in discharging or employing workmen. 2. That the owners are not prepared to discharge or remove the workmen whom they have employed during the strike for the purpose of reinstating other workmen who were previously employed, but will use their best endeavours to re-engage those previously employed as vacancies occur. REGINALD GUTHRIE, _Secretary_. Durham Coal Owners' Association, _June 3rd, 1892._ The united Committees objected to the second portion, but were willing to accept the first. No definite agreement was come to, but there was an understanding that the matter would be allowed to adjust itself smoothly, which it did, and no disturbance whatever took place in the absence of an agreement. The united Committees guarded themselves by drawing up a resolution, in which they interpreted the owners' resolution to mean that every man would be re-employed as before the stoppage. At the same time they informed their members that if any case of refusal took place, then all the other men must refuse to work. Thus ended one of the most memorable strikes in this or any other country, not on account of its length, but the circumstances which were connected with it. The workmen were poor in funds at the start, and the help (although generous from some quarters) was small per individual; the total benefit for the three months did not exceed 25s. each full member. With these poor resources and prospects they entered upon what was felt would be a strike of a very determined kind--this, too, with the minimum amount of friction. The only event of much importance happened at Castle Eden. The disturbance took place on May 7th. It arose in reference to a man named Stogdale, who would not abstain from working during the strike. Four of the workmen at Castle Eden were tried for intimidation. Their names were Michael Forbes, W. R. Robbins, T. Jones, and T. H. Cann. They were tried at the Durham Assizes in July 1892, before Judge Day. They were tried under the Intimidation Act. The judge summed up in a very strong manner against all the men except Robbins, who was discharged, but the other three were sent to prison. The judge said they had been found guilty by the jury of the offence with which they were charged--namely, with the object of preventing a certain person from pursuing his legal occupation "you in a disorderly manner, with other people, followed him along the road." After making a long speech in a similar strain, to show how beneficent the law was in his opinion and what a trio of desperadoes they were, he sentenced Forbes to a month, Jones to six weeks, and Cann, because the judge thought he was the ringleader, to two months. THE AFTERMATH OF THE STRIKE If the strike was unique in its endurance and order it was none the less important in its lessons. In it, as in 1879, was seen the result that followed the lack of confidence. A strike is the harvest field of the agitator, who cares not what is destroyed so long as he prospers. What would have been the gain to the individual member and to the Association if the resolve taken in the last few weeks had been taken before the tools were brought to bank? The funds, such as they were, would have been kept intact instead of being wasted. The great loss in individual income would have been avoided; in that respect the savings banks and co-operative societies (which in many cases are the poor man's bank) could have told a tale of hardly saved stores used up which had been kept for a "rainy day" of unavoidable troubles. The unnecessary and destructive friction which is sure to arise in these matters, no matter how peaceably the struggle be conducted, would have been avoided. Two great bodies, such as the two great Associations in Durham, are two great armies, and in the struggle and strivings anger will arise, and regrettable things will be said in the heat of the moment. These have a more far-reaching effect than people are apt to credit. Then the loss in wages. This was twofold. There was the three months' irredeemable loss and there was the lessening of the reduction. It was admitted on all hands that less than the ten per cent. would have kept the pits working if the Federation Board had been trusted with power to settle, even up to the eve of the strike. In saying this there is no intention of measuring the result of a strike by the money loss or gain. The world would not have been so far as it is in the path of reform and better life if the forlorn hopes of labour had not been fought, but it would be a piece of false logic if we were to infer that strikes should, therefore, be entered upon at all times. And certainly no one who in 1892 was able to appreciate the situation then would say it was one of those necessities of our industrial life. It was far from that; the gain would have been greater by the avoidance of the quarrel. If in writing our history this is emphasised, it is not in the spirit of reflection, but rather that we may learn wisdom; for in these matters it cries aloud in the street, and we can from a remembrance of such events escape the like evils. If this be done, then the strike of that day will be useful in the greatest degree to those of us who are active in this. Using Longfellow's figure, it is part of our dead selves, of which we can make a ladder, by which we can rise to higher things. Another part of the aftermath was the burden which was thrown upon the funds. This was twofold. There were the men who could not get started, in the first instance, because of the state some of the pits were in; and second, because of the dislocation of trade, which was sure to follow a stoppage of work for three months. Business connections are liable to break, and the difficulty is to heal them again. The consequence was that there were men out of work for a long time after the actual strike was settled, and these were to maintain for a considerable time, many of them so long that they had to be transferred to the Relief Fund. The money paid to them was the outcome of a levy, which pressed heavily on those at work. Then there was another burden, the result of the strike, but which was not any portion of the obligations of rule, the payment of the back rent of those who were living in rented houses. There was one peculiar and pleasing feature in connection with that strike, as with that of 1879, there was no interference with the men who were living in the colliery houses. There was in one or two places some little talk of a rent obligation from such men, but it came to nothing. Perhaps it was never intended that it should. This much it is our duty to state, to the credit of the employers: the men who were in battle with them were allowed to live in their houses, and were not prevented from gathering coal wherever such was lying about. To the men who were in rented houses the case was vastly different. Every week off work added to their debt, which they were bound to pay when they resumed work. With a spirit of generosity which is not restricted the whole of the members recognised the debt of those men as belonging to the whole county, and resolved to pay a levy for the purpose of paying the back rent. The resolution was carried at the Council meeting on June 18th, 1892: "That a levy of 3d. per full member and 1½d. per half member throughout the county be made to help to pay the house rent of the members living in rented houses." At the same meeting the present (1906) Relief Fund was formed, to support men who were out of work. The system adopted in paying rent was to cavil the collieries, and pay them as they were drawn, with this provision, that if any colliery were drawn, but had not paid the levy, no rent was allowed until the levy was paid. THE EIGHT HOURS AGAIN The only remaining subject in 1892 was the ballot on the legal eight hours. We have noted previously how and when this was first introduced, with some plain advice given by Mr Crawford--advice which has never been shown to be wrong. It was decided at the Council meeting held on August 13th "that the county be balloted for and against the eight hours." On September 21st the Committee took the ballot, and issued a circular setting forth their views on the subject. As we have now (1906) reached a crucial stage in the discussion, it will be useful to place on record what the Committee of that date thought of the question and the difficulties it involved. In their opinion there were two modes of procedure by which the hours of labour might be shortened: legal interference and Trades Union effort. The latter was the one they had adopted, and it had been successful. No man could think they were against short hours; any opportunity to shorten them would be welcomed. They referred the members to the action in 1890: how they had given up a claim for ten per cent. and accepted a shorter day. "We are not now to set up a show of weakness, and sacrifice our manhood and independence, by handing ourselves over to the supervision and control of the House of Commons, which is not acquainted with the peculiarities of our occupation." If it were the function of the State to fix hours of labour, was it not logically its function to fix the wages of the workman? "It is said that some of the organisations are weak, and therefore the State should protect." The reply was: "Where weak organisations exist low wages are found. It is therefore necessary for the State to fix the amount of wages men should be paid, for men require bread as well as hours." They then turned to the difficulty. EIGHT HOURS Those who favour legal eight hours must consider how it would work. There would be serious alteration needed in our present mode of working. We must either have two shifts of 8 hours, making 16 hours' coal drawing and 8 hours' shifts, increasing the hours of hewers by 1 to 1½ hours per diem, and deputies half hour per day. This would increase the output, and consequently the price of coal, and necessarily the wages of all men. The other alternative is an 8 hours' shift for all men and boys, which would throw into the labour market thousands of men. Consequently, competition amongst ourselves such as we experienced in '76 and '77 would arise, and thus we would have a repetition of the hardships we underwent in those disastrous times. Much is made of the hours of boys; these we will shorten at the earliest opportunity. Under our present system, and taking a number of years, we work less than we should do under eight hours by law. We therefore strongly urge on you to vote to a man against any Parliament fixing the hours of labour, as in our opinion it would be injurious to the working classes generally, and to ourselves in particular. Do not be led away by the idea that the short hours we have obtained for the hewers will be maintained. The request is eight hours from bank to bank for all and every man who works down the pit. To this, it may be said, it is a maximum number of hours, and that, therefore, some might be allowed to work less. That will depend upon the arrangement. If the employers get the sanction of the law, and they require us to work eight hours, we shall be expected to so work. There is another point which demands consideration. It is a question of wages. Let us suppose the Act passed, and those who work ten hours (both below and above ground) were reduced to eight, how much should the wages be reduced? If we shorten the hours by negotiation, it will be done gradually, and wages could be arranged. The result of the ballot was: for parliamentary eight hours, 12,684; against it, 28,217. 1893 The Wages Board--The Miners' Federation THE WAGES BOARD During the negotiations for a settlement of the strike in 1892 the employers laid emphasis upon what they designated the Wages Board, but which afterwards was known as the Conciliation Board. Their idea (commendable in every point) was to bring the parties closer together, and avoid the recurrence of the stoppage, which they felt (as all must feel) had been a disaster to the whole of them. The question rested over until the beginning of the year, when the owners made application for a reduction in wages, and at the same time asked that the formation of the Board might be taken into consideration. The meeting took place, and on February 27th the Executive Committee issued a circular, putting the whole position before the members. The miners at the time were in a complicated position, being connected with the Durham Federation, and they had a short time before become members of the Miners' Federation of Great Britain. Under Rule 20 that Federation claimed to have control of the wages disputes in all the districts identified with them. In order that the position may be properly understood we will insert the rule. 20. That whenever any county, federation, or district is attacked on the wage question, or any action taken by a general conference, all members connected with the Society shall tender a notice to terminate their contracts, if approved by a conference called to consider the advisability of such action being taken. The application of that rule to Durham, in the situation it was in, would have been to leave the whole matter in the hands of the Miners' Federation, which would have taken full charge of the question, and have told the Durham Association what they must do--whether to accept or reject. The complication arose from the fact that they were members of the home Federation as well, and there would be confusion if two bodies, one in the county and the other at a distance, were to have supervision. It was impossible to go on in that state. One body was on the spot, and knew the whole bearings of the case; the other was at a distance, and therefore bound to be in comparative ignorance of the facts of the situation. The Executive Committee felt they were compelled to put the position clearly before the Federation Board and the county, and inform them they were members of the Miners' Federation. In addition, they resolved to call a special Council, and place before it the plain issue. "Let us state the position to you," they said. "Prior to our becoming members of the Federation of Great Britain we acted on all general and wage questions with the Durham Federation Board. Our action was a whole one with the cokemen, mechanics, and enginemen, the last strike being the most recent and clearest illustration of that. You will remember with what loyalty the four sections worked together on that occasion." If they were resolved to remain members of the Miners' Federation, and accept Rule 20, they must prepare for leaving the county Federation. That would result in sectional action in Durham, for the other sections would naturally seek to make the best of themselves they could. It was not reasonable to ask them to wait until the Miners' Federation had decided, as per Rule 20, for Durham to strike, and then ask the cokemen, mechanics, and enginemen to join in it. There was needed some definiteness on the point, and the Council would be asked to decide two questions: First, "Shall it be settled by the Federation of Great Britain?" Second, "Shall it be settled by the Durham Federation Board and the united Committees?" At the Council held on March 6th the decision was in favour of the latter question. In accordance with that resolution the united Committees met the owners on March 13th, and asked them to reduce their demand for ten per cent. to five, and they (the Committee) would at once accept it. The employers accepted the offer, the following being their resolution:-- The Durham Coal Owners' Wages Committee feels the responsibility of accepting a less reduction than the 10 per cent. claimed, because upon an adequate reduction really depends the extent of employment that can be afforded. Whilst, therefore, the owners' judgment is that the true interest of both parties lies in at once bringing into operation a reduction of at least 10 per cent., the owners, desiring to show a spirit of conciliation, accept the Federation Board's offer to submit to a reduction of 5 per cent., to come into operation from the next pay of each colliery; but in doing so the owners feel it their duty to point out that so small a reduction as 5 per cent. falls far short of meeting the urgent necessities of the trade, and can therefore be regarded only as a temporary settlement. This reduction brought the percentage above the standard down to twenty. But the employers were not satisfied; they pressed upon the Board the formation of a Wages Board. On May 27th Mr Guthrie wrote to Mr Patterson as follows:-- I am directed by the Durham Coal Owners' Association to press strongly upon you the honourable obligation we come under to the Bishop of Durham, and to each other, to endeavour to establish a Wages Board which would secure by conciliation or arbitration the pacific settlement of all questions outside the jurisdiction of the Joint Committee. That honourable obligation has been more than once reaffirmed by your Federation Board, but no steps have been mutually taken to give effect to it, and my Association feels that such steps should not be longer delayed, and therefore instructs me to ask your Board to meet the Owners' Committee in order to advance the matter. The members of the Federation Board were eager, as individuals, to come to an arrangement, but were not sure how the membership would receive it. It was a new but necessary departure in an industry such as the Durham coal trade, but in order that it might be acceptable they were desirous that some scheme (beyond a mere name) should be outlined at least, and placed before the various sections for consideration. They asked the owners, therefore, for certain information: "(1) The allocation of the 3s. 10d. basis price of coal under the following heads:--wages, salaries, material, royalties, and profits. (2) The proportion of coal required to make a ton of coke in 1893 as compared with 1877. (3) The cost of producing a ton of coke in 1893 as compared with the same in 1877. (4) A statement setting forth the various objects to which the 2d. per ton was allocated. (5) A statement showing the percentage of steam coal, gas coal, household coal, manufacturing coal, and coal converted into coke. (6) The average lengths of contracts, with the periods when they are ordinarily made." A reply to these questions was received on December 7th. This was in conjunction with an application for an advance made by the Federation Board. They were informed that the Owners' Committee was willing to meet and discuss the question at the same meeting when the proposed Wages Board was considered. In reference to the list of questions the letter contained the following:-- "The meaning of some of your questions does not seem clear, and generally my Committee failed to understand how they bear on the expediency or otherwise of forming the proposed Board, or arise prior to its establishment, but the Committee accepts your suggestion that a meeting should be held to discuss your communication." The meeting was held on December 19th. Nothing was done in relation to the Wages Board, but an arrangement was made with respect to the advance. The Owners' Committee were convinced that the tendency of prices was downward. These had been somewhat higher during the strike in the Midlands, but the effect of that was passing away, and they had very grave reasons to doubt whether the first quarter in 1894 would justify the rate of wages then paid. They had given a temporary advance in October for six pays only, and they were prepared to make that permanent, and bring the wages to twenty-five and twenty-two per cent. respectively above basis rates. DURHAM AND THE MINERS' FEDERATION In order that we may make the chronology of our history as close and sequential as possible, we will postpone the Wages Board until 1894, and take up a subject which is within the year we are dealing with. In the autumn of 1892 Durham decided to join the Miners' Federation of Great Britain. The membership continued without any difference (except that arising from the eight hours, and the case of the reduction in Durham mentioned above) until the month of July 1893, when a demand was made upon the Miners' Federation for a reduction of twenty-five per cent. In connection therewith a conference was held in Birmingham (the proverbial Hen and Chickens' Conference) to consider the situation. Two delegates were sent from Durham (Mr J. Johnson and Mr J. Wilson). It was found that in some districts organisation was in a very poor condition. The delegates from Durham were sent to move the whole question be referred to arbitration, but when they brought it forward as the best mode of procedure, they were prevented for some time, but finally were permitted, with the result that, by a majority of four to one, they were outvoted. A resolution was carried pledging all the districts within the Federation area to give in notices. If they had suffered reductions within two years, then they had to apply for an advance equal to the amount lost, without regard to the state of trade or any other consideration. The absolute order was to give in notices, the aim being to bring all into the struggle which was impending, and these had to be given within a fortnight. When these proceedings were reported to the county a circular was sent out by the Executive Committee, in which they commented upon the situation, and asked the members what should be done. They said there were two questions for them to decide upon--first, the position in the south; and second, the demand they had to make for fifteen per cent. advance, as per the Birmingham resolution. These could have been sent out in a bald form, but it was their duty to give the county guidance, for if a Committee be appointed for anything at all, it is to watch, warn, and guide the members of the organisation. There could be no doubt but that Durham was in favour of arbitration, for the last vote taken on the instructions to the delegates proved that. This was refused, and instead they were ordered to make a demand for fifteen per cent. advance. The question which they must answer first was: Is trade favourable for such a demand? Unless trade is prosperous now, could they expect to succeed in such a claim? What support could they get? Their own funds were gone entirely. If the Federation strike took place, then there was no source of income anywhere. There were at that moment 5000 men out of work, some of whom had never started since the late strike. The small support these men had been receiving would be cut off. They would have to commence a strike, not in comparative, but absolute poverty. Where, then, was the hope? But suppose notice was not given in for an advance, then Durham must give in notice to terminate their engagement when they had no dispute with their employers. If they were asked "what they were striking about" what answer could be given, except the following:--"Nothing whatever in our own county; we have no difference." Further, if the employers were to offer a ten per cent. advance, it could not be taken without the leave of the Federation. Neither could they accept arbitration, for they had been told the No. 20 Rule of the Federation would not admit of it. Therefore they must strike, or be expelled from the Federation. But, said the Committee, "much as we desire national federation, and may regret our expulsion from that body, we cannot urge you to a course that would in our opinion be disastrous." The questions involved were then placed before a special Council, when it was decided to ask for an advance of fifteen per cent., but that they would not join the Miners' Federation in the strike. The Council likewise resolved to ask the cokemen, mechanics, and enginemen to join them in their demand for the fifteen per cent. If not, then the Miners' Executive should apply themselves. The Federation Board considered the decision of the miners. They regretted the circumstances which had led to the great dilemma in which they were found, but, having a desire to keep the solidity of the Board, they would accede to the request, and meet the owners, but if it were refused, it would be desirable to refer the question to their respective sections for further instructions, and at the same time they would ask the united Committees to accompany the Board. The owners could not accede to the request, and it was necessary that the will of the members should be ascertained by the miners. This was the position: they had been ordered by the Birmingham conference to make a demand for fifteen per cent., and if not conceded, to give in their notices. None of the other sections had received the same orders. The questions were: Should there be a strike to force the demand, or should they work on? But before that stage was reached, it was necessary that they should ascertain whether the ballot should be the whole of the Durham Federation, or simply the miners. The voting was: for the whole Federation Board, 267; for the miners' vote alone to decide, 167. It was then found that the other sections could not join the ballot until they had consulted their members, and the Executive Committee determined to take a ballot of their members alone. The result of the ballot was: for a strike, 20,782; against, 19,704. The rule, therefore, was against a strike. The consequence of that vote was to place Durham in direct conflict with the Miners' Federation. That body had a conference arranged for August 22nd in London. Messrs Johnson and Wilson were sent to it by a nearly unanimous vote. The first business of the conference was to consider the action of Durham, and the following resolution was moved and carried with great unanimity:-- That we, the representatives of this Federation, cannot allow the Durham delegates to sit in this conference, seeing that this district through its officials has not carried out the resolution of the Birmingham conference. There are two very notable things in the resolution and its setting. Durham was expelled from the Federation, and the officials of that organisation were charged with preventing the carrying out of the Birmingham resolution. The first of these is very clear, for on that point the motion is specific; but it will be seen the second is not correct when we consider the two votes recorded above--the first placing it in the hands of the Federation Board and the second by a ballot being against the strike. This is a history, and not a record of any man's opinion. It is necessary that the state of things that existed should be recorded, not a mere theory as to how things should be. The history would be incomplete if we were not to follow the sequence a little further. No sooner had the expulsion taken place than there was an introduction of speakers from the Miners' Federation, who came with the avowed object of trying to induce the county to continue its membership. The only complete illustration of that circumstance would be for a man to kick another out of his house, and the next minute go himself, or send some of his relations, to ask the man to come in again, doing his best to show that he who was kicked out was the offender, and ought to feel thankful for the usage he had received, and to supplicate to be taken in again. It was a curious mode of procedure, to say the least, and, most surprising of all, they were assisted by some of the people in the county, who did not feel the slightest ignobleness in the treatment they had received by the expulsion. 1894-95 The Conciliation Board--Lord Davey's Arbitration The formation of a Conciliation Board was again brought forward by a request from Bishop Westcott to the Federation Board asking them to meet him for the purpose of discussing the subject. The Board acceded to his request, but did not appoint a definite deputation except the four secretaries, leaving any others to join them who thought proper. The result of the interview was the calling of the four Committees to discuss the proposal. The decision of the Miners' Council on March 10th was: That the Committee meet the owners and discuss the advisability of forming a joint Board for fixing the correct selling price of coal, and the other sections of the Federation (county) be asked to join the negotiations and report to the county; that there be a Conciliation Board formed, to consist of members from the owners on the one part and members of the Durham Federation Board on the other part. The said Board shall be formed of equal representatives of the before-named parties, who shall meet on terms of absolute equality. This resolution was brought before the Federation Board, when it was found that the other three sections had not been instructed by their members, and it was resolved that the question be deferred until "they had an opportunity of bringing the matter before their Associations, and that the Board recommend the acceptance of the principle for their adoption, and the four secretaries meet and draw up a code of rules for the guidance of the Conciliation Board." A difficulty arose from a resolution passed by the Cokemen's Association. Dr R. S. Watson had given an award in a cokeman's case shortly before, which in the opinion of the cokemen was not being carried out by the owners, and therefore, while they were in favour of the principle of conciliation, they decided not to take any part in the formation until the owners brought the award into practical operation. The Federation Board regretted the action of the cokemen, as in their opinion "such a Board would be the most effective means of bringing a full recognition of that award. As, however, the other three sections were in favour of proceeding with the formation of the Board, we ask the employers for an early meeting, and we would urge upon the cokemen to reconsider their resolution of March 31st, and give their representatives power to proceed with us in that formation." The owners were desirous that the Board should join them in meeting the Bishop, but they were informed that a previous understanding had been come to, by which it was arranged that each side should meet him separately, and then the joint meeting should take place. They had carried out their part of the bargain, and were ready to meet jointly as soon as his lordship should ask them, as they were very wishful not to throw any obstacle in the way of the formation of the Board. On July 27th the formalities were settled, and the rules were left to the four secretaries, with instructions to draw up a circular recommending such rules to the members. PROPOSED CONCILIATION BOARD Gentlemen,--We hereby desire your attention and consideration to the rules of the "Proposed Conciliation Board," which you instructed us to form. We have always told you that, however carefully we might draft such rules, the acceptance, amendment, or rejection thereof is with you. We were proud to receive the commission of the duty, and we place before you the result of our work, and are hopeful that great benefits will accrue to the trade of the county if these rules are adopted. We do not claim perfection for them, but we do assert that they are in advance of any method ever arranged here for the settlement of disputes. We will not trouble you by any lengthy statement by way of urging you to accept the rules, for in our opinion their fitness is clear, but we will in as brief a manner as possible draw your attention to three of their leading features or principles. First, the scope of the operations of the Board; second, its duration; and third, the machinery by which it arrives at its decisions. The scope of the Board is set forth under the headings of "Objects." We do not quote those objects, but ask you to refer to and consider them carefully. They are clear in their intention and comprehension. What can be more interesting and important to us than the prevention of disputes? We speak for you, as well as ourselves, and say we desire them not, and welcome any mode of settlement which will minimise friction, and help both employers and employed to avoid any irritating action, while it does not interfere with the right of and justice to either party. You will observe that the Board is intended to be _more than a Wages Board_. It will take into its cognisance and decision any questions which may arise and for which the Joint Committee rules do not provide. You know as well as we do the numerous cases that arise which have no standing at the Joint Committee, and you will, therefore, easily recognise the value and importance of any tribunal which will deal with such matters in a ready and expeditious manner. There is no need to enumerate those questions. We hope you will not merely glance at the latter portion of the "Objects," but give it your careful attention. The duration is fixed by rule three. The limit is 1895, and, therefore, if the rules should fail to meet our views, we can terminate the existence of the Board in less than a year and a half from now, which is a short time in the history of our industrial relations. A shorter time than this will not give us the opportunity of testing the usefulness of the arrangement, neither is it long enough to allow any serious evil to arise therefrom. The machinery or mode of operation is contained in rule four and subsequent rules. If you examine these rules you will see, that while they provide for the appointment of an umpire (which is necessary), yet his services are not to be called in until the Board have tried to settle by negotiation and conciliation. We recommend to your special notice the main features of this portion of the rules. These are the provisions for the play of conciliation and mutual confidence. Anything that will beget a feeling of trust and mutuality, that will remove the desire to overreach and withhold on the one hand, and of suspicion and doubt on the other, should be welcomed and tried, and if possible strengthened. There were a number of suggested objects and provisions sent in, which were afterwards commented upon by the united Committees. Amongst these was a minimum wage. The Committees, in relation to that question, drew attention to the period between 1877-79, when, in little more than a year and a half, the miners spent £23,000 in the maintenance of men out of work; that, so severe was the pressure, they were compelled to abolish the Relief Fund; that there were collieries where the men asked to be allowed to work at twenty per cent. below the minimum; and that the actual average went down to nearly 6d. per day below the minimum. The second suggestion was "a voice in the selling price of coals." This, the Committees thought, was a very good ideal, but it was yet a great way off. It implied more mutuality than was in existence, and it was a state which must evolve, rather than be fixed arbitrarily. "The voting to be by ballot at the Board meetings." This was thought to be unbusiness-like, as secret voting was a strange thing for a business meeting. Then it was thought by some lodges that the question of sacrificed men, and arranging for all men to be in the Associations, were matters to come within the purview of the Board, but it was found that they were not compatible with its objects. The rules as framed were not perfect, but were far in advance of any to be found in the country. "Many other districts and trades have adopted the principle, but we venture to say that in no instance has a Conciliation Board been formed which, for breadth of scope in its operation and dealing with questions that can arise, is in any way equal to that proposed for this county. We have had the opportunity of studying the rules of all the Boards already formed, we have watched the work of those, and we unhesitatingly declare that in no single instance have such equitable rules been found." When these views were put before the four sections they were accepted by the other three, but the miners hesitated. The Executive pointed out to them that by a Council resolution the power had been given to the Board to arrange rules and conditions, and therefore theirs was an anomalous position for them to take up by their objection. Under the circumstances they had resolved to call a special Council, in order that the matter might be fully considered. They were confident that if the common good were the aim, and all were imbued by that idea, the Conciliation Board would be formed on the lines suggested by the united Committees. The result of the Council was the acceptance of the proposed constitution, with the alteration of the number of members from fifteen to eighteen on each side, and the owners were informed that the Federation Board was ready to meet and sign the rules. The rules were signed on the 18th of February 1895. There is no need to insert the rules here, as they can at all times be seen in the office, if any person feels desirous of doing so. The election of the first members took place on the 12th February 1895, the following persons being elected:-- J. Wilson. J. Johnson. J. Forman. W. H. Patterson. T. H. Cann. W. Golightly. S. Galbraith. W. House. H. Jemison. At the first meeting of the Conciliation Board the employers asked for a reduction of wages. Many people thought they were in a hurry. Such a conclusion was hardly justifiable when we remember that they had been pressing for a reduction for some time, and the delay had arisen from the length of time taken in the negotiations to establish the Board. The employers felt themselves injured by the delay, and therefore took the first opportunity of having their claim put forward and settled. The Federation Board in their circular on the situation acknowledged that, for they said: We cannot but regret that the first meeting of the Board should have been convened to consider a reduction of wages, yet we feel confident that, however distasteful and unpleasant it may be to submit to a fall in percentage, all who have observed the condition of trade, taken note of the prices prevailing generally, and the serious lessening of the number of hands, during the past six months, could not be otherwise than prepared for a reduction in the rates of wages which were got when the condition of trade was different and prices higher. While the Board were prepared for a demand for a reduction they were not prepared for the amount asked. The demand was for fifteen per cent., which would bring the wages down to a point to which the scale of 1889 would have brought them. The price of coal in 1889 was 4s. 8d., in 1895 it was 5s. 2d. Wages had risen thirty-five per cent., and therefore they had a claim (said the owners) for at least fifteen per cent. The arguments against that claim we need not state in full. The main one was that, taking the whole period since 1889, wages had been between seven and nine per cent. higher than the periodically quoted net selling prices would have given. That argument, as all are aware, was of great weight, and that it influenced the decision, there is not the slightest doubt. The decision of the umpire was a reduction of seven and a half per cent., but it left the wages higher by that amount than the old arrangement would have done. Under it 5s. 2d. per ton would have given a wage ten per cent. above the standard; the award of Lord Davey in May 1895 left it seventeen and a half above the standard. Although they had been called upon to suffer this reduction so early in the era of conciliation, the Federation Board did not lose faith in it as an advance in wage settlements. They said: It may not be out of place to allude to a feature or two of the newly adopted method of dealing with wages regulations as disclosed by recent applications, and we may modestly, yet rightly, claim for it a superiority of character and practice over preceding modes. As already stated, it has by its earliest results confirmed the conviction previously held, that the standard relation of wages to prices governing previous methods was not correct, and established the increased average amount obtained by the negotiations of the past years. At the next meeting of the Board the owners made another application for a reduction. When the July meeting took place the claim was brought forward. It was objected to at first, on the grounds that there had not been sufficient time, seeing the three months had not elapsed. The notice was withdrawn and renewed. The reasons assigned were the declension in the markets and the inadequacy of the previous reduction. These reasons were not accepted, and the umpire was again called in. His decision, after two days' hearing, was a reduction of two and a half per cent. In spite of this adverse circumstance the Federation Board were still strong in their belief in the utility of the system. They said: We are not going to say that its course, so far as it has gone, has been pleasant, for there have been two reductions, but these do not shake our confidence in it. It is an unfortunate coincidence, the initiation of a new system when circumstances are unfavourable and its changes are downward. The true test of institutions, as of men, is their action in a variety of conditions. No arrangement can make trade prosperous. They are dreamers who think so, and are liable to a rude awakening. Wise men recognise the ever-recurring changes, and employ the means which are most expeditious, easy, and equitable in their responses. Friction between employer and employed is a foe to any trade, uncertainty is a sure and hurtful detriment, hastening and enlarging the times of adversity. Our opinion is that, if we have not the best system, we have one which will ward off friction, allay uncertainty, and induce steadiness in the trade of the county. That clear and bold statement of their confidence in the Board was not effective in maintaining it, for at the Miners' Council held on November 16th it was resolved to take a ballot to test its continuance. The Federation Board, on being informed of that action, resolved to take it of all the sections. They at the same time advised their members to keep it intact. They did not find fault with the decision to take the ballot. Their advice was therefore not prompted by a spirit of complaint. It was right that these matters should rest on the will of the members. Their duty, however, was to guide the members and advise, even on subjects that were unpalatable. In October they placed before them their views in as clear a manner as possible. Those views they adhered to, and did not swerve from their belief in conciliation as the best system yet tried. It was condemned, because there had been reductions. If advances had come there would have been loud praise. Would wages not have been reduced if the Board had never been formed? "Without hesitation we tell you that, in our opinion, he is a foolish or a designing man, or ignorant of commercial relations, who attempts to teach such a doctrine. We have never told you such an absurdity. When we asked you in the spring of the year to adopt conciliation we never dreamt of it as a fixed, immovable machine. To us it was (and is) a more mutual, closer, and smoother principle than we have ever had, taking within its comprehension other and important matters outside wages." In spite of this pleading on the part of the Federation Board the voting was: for the Conciliation Board, 11,974; against it, 29,000; neutrals, 17,000, as a result of the miners' vote. The whole Federation vote was: for, 14,894; against, 30,587; neutrals, 20,000. On the strength of that vote notice was given to terminate the Conciliation Board in accordance with rule. 1896 The Conciliation Board--Death of Mr Patterson The Federation Board were still in hope that the decision to terminate the Conciliation Board might be reconsidered, and they again brought the question before the members. They asked what system was to be substituted for it. They were firm in their belief in conciliation, but, if the members still persisted in abolishing it, what other form was to be adopted? "The situation in which we as a county find ourselves makes it imperative that we should address you. We do not refer to our own organisations, for these are strong, but to our relation with the employers and the settlement of our transactions with them. How are these to be managed in the future? Has our attitude to be one of repulsion or attraction? Have the employers and ourselves to act like two antagonistic forces, looking with suspicion upon each other, and ready to take every advantage, as if we were in a continual wrestling match on the catch-who-can principle, where those who get the hold win, whether their cause be righteous or not? If the members persisted in their resolve to have no Conciliation Board, or some substituted machinery, who would suffer most? If there were two parties before you of equal strength and similarly conditioned, then the issue would be uncertain, and the victory would depend upon some unforeseen circumstances. Such is not the case with us. Given a solid organisation of labour, and the same of employers numerically--still the balance of the chances in a wear-and-tear and struggling policy will he on the side of the party who is the best ammunitioned and provisioned. In this case, which in your opinion as the advantage?" They pointed out that they were mutual sufferers with the members, if there were suffering; that there was not time in the lodge meetings to discuss the utility of such a system; and that as a consequence they, as one of the obligations of their office, were bound to have a fuller knowledge of the subject than the members. It was an unfortunate circumstance that the system had been tried in a receding market, but the proper test was not by one condition of trade. If conciliation were tested by an increasing as well as a falling market it would then be seen how useful it was. Some people seemed to charge the Conciliation Board with being the cause of the depression. "There cannot be a greater fallacy. The causes of the reductions lie outside the purview of any system yet arranged, and the control of them is not within the possibility of an arrangement yet thought of. But the question that faces us now, and demands an answer from us, is, would they have come if the Board had never been formed? There needs no philosophical knowledge to satisfy the mind on that point, except it be the philosophy of matter-of-fact, everyday life, which in these matters is not an unsafe test. Let experience guide, and it will afford a sure refutation of the unfounded idea that it is possible to fix, firmly and permanently, wages by any scheme within the knowledge of man." They were desirous of giving them another chance, as the ballot on the previous occasion was very unsatisfactory, and some of the sections had made a request for such to be done. And they were hopeful that, before the notice of termination ran out, the Conciliation Board would be reaffirmed, as "the hope of all true reformers is centred in the cultivation of amicability and friendly intercourse between employers and employed, with a conciliatory method of settling any difference that may arise, monetary or otherwise, and in the ultimate blending of the two forces--Capital and Labour--for the mutual and equal benefit of all concerned. Consider seriously every step we as an organisation take, and let all we do tend towards the attainment of the much-needed object." The result of the second ballot was against the Board, the numbers being in close similarity to the previous vote--the miners being very largely against, while the other three sections were in favour. We may add here that it terminated on August 4th, and for a short time the county entered the region of uncertainty again, which all must acknowledge is no help to trade or district. DEATH OF MR PATTERSON The month of July had been fatal to the organisation, for in it, in 1890, Mr Crawford died, and on July 16th of this year Mr Patterson passed away from the labour to which he gave his youth and manhood. He had filled the position of agent and financial secretary for twenty-five years. It will not be out of place if we insert a portion of the _Monthly Circular_ for the month in which he died. It contains the sincere estimate of one who knew him intimately, who had the highest respect for him while he lived, and who now has pleasant recollections of his manly and reliable actions. He was no self-seeker or panderer for self-profit; he was the antipodes of that mean and despicable character. You might have difference of opinion with Patterson, but you could at all times depend upon the open honesty of his nature. MONTHLY CIRCULAR _July 1896._ My first word must be a note of sorrow. July to us, as regards the agency, has been a fatal month. In it we lost Crawford, and now Patterson has joined the great majority. This is the common lot of all. Happy is the man who leaves this world for the next without regret, feeling that his life has been of some service to his kind, and that the people amongst whom he has lived express their recognition of his worth by their sorrow and appreciation of his labours. Such was our friend. If we, who stood by his bedside in the last moments of the final struggle, could have been cognisant of his thoughts there would have been no regret; for W. H. Patterson was the enemy of no living man, but the friend of all. We were not so privileged, but we were so glad to see the large crowd of people who gathered to pay a tribute to his memory. The gathering was diversified in its character, spontaneous in its gathering, and truly sympathetic in its manner and spirit. But from our regret for his loss let us turn to the influence of his life. The true test of a man is his work. Our friend stood the test. The real measure of a man's life is its actions; he was full measure. He was not showy, but solid, and as such, being dead, yet speaketh--speaks in no uncertain sounds; let us turn no indifferent ear. The main work of his life, in conjunction with others, was the inception, promotion, and solidifying of our organisation. It will be the most real expression of our sorrow if we do our best to carry forward that upon which he set his mind, and which he endeavoured on all occasions to enforce. Would it not be sham sorrow and unreal regret on the part of a son who on the death of a father ... a father who by the toil and care of his life had made a position ... if he were careless of that work, and had regard only to self-indulgence? Little as we may think of it, there has a fortune come to this generation and a position been gained for it by the labours of our friend and others which cannot be estimated in money. We are apt to test everything by a monetary standard, but in this case the test fails. Within the life of Mr Patterson there have been effected changes which he outside the range of wages, but which are none the less valuable to us. These are only known to those whose working life commenced anterior to thirty years ago. There are many who have not the experience, and who cannot, therefore, realise to the full, the contrast. Lightly as these may be inclined to look upon the changed conditions, and think because these conditions exist now they have always existed, there are numbers who know, and who are able to compare, and rejoice in the change made. I would not say that all is attributable to the labours of our lost friend. No man would have protested more strongly against such an idea than himself; but he did what he could; he never devolved his share of work upon others. He was earnest and determined at the foundation of the Society, and anxious for its welfare during the whole course of our existence. We shall best show our respect to his memory by doing what we can to preserve and perfect the Institution. The loss of Mr Patterson was followed by the election of Mr T. H. Cann to the office of treasurer, Mr Wilson being appointed corresponding secretary, and Mr Johnson financial secretary. We will close our reference to our friend by placing on record the estimate placed upon him by the Committee who knew him. [Illustration: T. H. CANN] COMMITTEE NOTICE (_Death of Mr W. H. Patterson_) Gentlemen,--It is with very great regret that we announce to you the death of Mr W. H. Patterson, which took place at 6-15 P.M. on July 16th. Our regrets on this occasion are not those of formality, but are prompted by a recognition of his worth as an official of our organisation and his character as a fellow-worker and a man. Never yet had any organisation a more earnest officer, nor any body of men a more willing colleague, nor any community a more upright, honest, and straightforward man, than our friend who has been taken from us. He has not lived the years allotted to man, but the best part, and by far the largest part, of his life has been spent in the cause of his fellows. He has gone to his rest at the age of forty-nine years. Twenty-eight of these have been spent in active, diligent service--and useful service. He was one of the band of men who twenty-seven years ago, in the face of difficulty, laid the foundation of our organisation; and since that time he has been watchful over its interests, consistent in his desire to benefit the members, and unwearied and uncomplaining in his endeavours to strengthen the structure he helped to rear. It was not his privilege "to die in harness," as we are confident it would have been his pleasure; but those of us who had the opportunity of judging know how anxious he was, so long as he could get about, to do and advise whenever he could. The name of W. H. Patterson is wove into the web of our Institution, and his life will be a blessing after he has gone from our midst. The good that he has done will live after him. Happy shall we be if the same be said of us when Death gathers us in. _July 17th, 1896._ 1897 Miners' Federation--Washington Strike The year 1897 was memorable for two things: the refusal of the Miners' Federation to accept Durham as a member unless the county would agree to support a legislative Eight Hours' Bill, and the conflict between the Executive Committee and Washington Lodge, which settled the question once for all whether money could be paid if a colliery were stopped illegally, even if the Council decided to pay. These we will take in the order stated. Towards the end of 1896 it was decided to join the Miners' Federation. The information was sent to Mr Ashton, the secretary of the Federation, and the application was accepted. Then arose the question as to the meaning of Object 5: "To seek and obtain an eight hours' day from bank to bank in all mines for all persons working underground." In order that the intention might be made clear the Executive passed the following resolution:-- That Mr Ashton be written to, asking whether Object 5 in the Miners' Federation Rules means that the eight hours have to be obtained by State interference alone, or by organised efforts, and whether the districts have any option or choice in the matter. Mr Ashton replied that Object 5 was to be brought about by organised effort or legislation, or both. As far as the district having option or choice was concerned all members were expected to be loyal to the Federation, to be guided by the rules, and assist in carrying out the resolutions passed at the conferences of the Federation. That was interpreted to mean that if Durham became a member, as all the other districts were voting for legislative action, it would be virtually bound to join in the demand for eight hours by State, and the Executive placed the question on the programme for the Council held on February 6th in the following form:-- That the county having decided to join the Miners' Federation, and we having been informed that we must agree to support a legislative eight hours as a condition of membership, and as we remember that the county has decided, by ballot in 1892 and by resolution in 1895, not to support such a measure, we cannot agree to accept that condition until the county alter the previous resolution on the question, either by Council, motion, or ballot. Will delegates come prepared to say what shall be done in this matter? (1) Shall we rescind the previous resolutions? (2) Shall we support an Eight Hours' Bill? (3) Shall a ballot be taken on the subject? The Council passed a general resolution: "We adhere to the resolutions now standing in the Association's minute-books--viz. that we do not go in for the parliamentary eight hours' day, and that there be no ballot taken on the question." That decision was sent to Mr Ashton on February 10th, the following being the letter:-- At our Council meeting held on February 6th our members decided to abide by their previous resolution to oppose any State interference with the hours of labour. I am instructed by our Committee to inform you of this decision and to ask you to let us know whether under these conditions your Executive Committee accept us as members of the Miners' Federation of Great Britain. On the presumption that you will accept us as members on those conditions, I enclose you a cheque on the National Provincial Bank, value £59 (fifty-nine pounds), being our entrance fee at one pound per thousand members.--I am yours, JOHN WILSON. The receipt for the entrance fee not being sent the Executive Committee wrote again on February 18th: If you do not send the receipt the inference on all sides must be that you do not accept us on the conditions stated (our opposition to State interference with hours). If you do send a receipt, then we shall conclude that you do accept us on the conditions, and there will be no need to repeal the resolution of exclusion of 1893. Two days after that was sent Mr Ashton sent a receipt, and said: I have no desire to delay the matter of your district becoming connected with the Federation. I enclose receipt for the entrance fee. As this was written two days after the Committee placed the alternative before the Federation it was assumed that Durham was not to be bound to the legal eight hours. This impression was communicated to Mr Ashton on February 25th, and on the 27th the Committee was surprised to be told: "In reply to your letter of yesterday, Durham has been accepted into the Federation as all other districts have been. Whatever resolutions you may pass on general questions in your Council or Committee meetings you must be governed by majorities at the Federation." Then there arose a dispute about some contributions which were sent to Mr Ashton. The amount was £245, 16s. 8d. The dispute was as to the period which was covered by the payment. On June 30th, in a letter dealing with the disputed point, Mr Ashton said: I think you will agree with me that the difference on the hours question is so great that until Durham can agree to withdraw their opposition to the Miners' Eight Hours' Bill, it is most unwise to keep their connection with the Federation. And on July 10th the cheque for the £245, 16s. 8d. was returned to Durham, and the separation mentioned above was effected by the return of the contributions. The Executive Committee then summarised the situation as follows:-- We decided to join the Federation. We then found that we had resolutions standing against the eight hours. By our own decision of February 6th we resolved to abide by those previous resolutions. We then informed Mr Ashton, as secretary of the Federation, that we had so resolved, and enclosed the cheque for our entrance fee, with the understanding that if the receipt were sent we were accepted on those conditions. Our Council again on May 29th reaffirmed our opposition to the eight hours, and we wrote to Mr Ashton and sent our quarter's contributions, and said we were desirous of remaining members on wage questions. We were then asked to say whether we could pledge the county to come out on strike, which we could not do. The conclusion of the whole matter then is, because we could not give a pledge to come out on strike on every occasion when so ordered, and because we were resolved to oppose the eight hours by State interference, our contributions are returned, and we are told by actions--which speak louder than words--that we are not to be members. We are not to be allowed to judge of our own circumstances and peculiarities, but must submit the most important part of the conditions of our labour to those whose conditions are widely different from ours, and who, knowing nothing of our circumstances, would force us to be guided by the changes they require in the hours of labour. THE WASHINGTON STRIKE It will be observed that there has been no mention of local strikes except there be some peculiarity related to them. There is such in connection with this strike. It was of great importance to the Association and the maintenance of the rules. There had been numbers of illegal stoppages, and although the leaders and members at the lodges affected knew they were breaking the rule, yet they persisted, and were enabled to carry a vote in Council that they should be paid from the General Fund. It was felt that once and for all the question should be decided, and it should be shown that where the constitution of the Association was violated the violation should entail forfeiture of benefit, or else of what use was it to have rules or Committee of Management? To go on in such a loose manner was to make the rules a byword and a mockery. It was time they should have the seal of reality, and be placed on a sure foundation, so that order should be maintained, or at least those who with open eye did wrong should know that their action would not receive condonement, and they be paid the benefit of the Association, as if they had obeyed its provisions. That was the question to be decided. Should the rule be the guide, and the Executive Committee have the management, or should lodges be allowed to stop their colliery in opposition to the constitution, and suffer none of the consequences? The Washington case afforded the opportunity for the settlement, and that is the reason why it is made part of this history. The dispute arose about the application of an agreement made by themselves. The nature of the agreement is of no import now. The action of the lodge and its relation to the rule is what we have to consider. The manager put one interpretation on the agreement, the workmen another, and they were the signatories. Numbers of agreements had been disputed prior to that, and had been brought before Joint Committee or some other properly arranged tribunal, and managed by the agents, or Executive, in accordance with rule. Washington, however, set rule aside, disregarded the Committee, and stopped the pit on the 10th of August. On the 11th the corresponding secretary met their deputation in Newcastle, and told them they were acting illegally, and that they could not be paid from the funds. The deputation, however, were confident the Council would grant them strike pay, although they admitted they were breaking the rule. Other means were adopted to induce them to resume work. The lodge appealed to the Council for a grant; it was not put on the programme. The trustees objected to the treasurer paying the money. They had taken the opinion of Mr Atherley Jones previously. The question submitted to the Counsel was: "Supposing a lodge came out on strike in violation of the rule, without first having obtained the permission of the Committee or Council, would the fact that the Council, after the men came out on strike, approved of their action alter the position or liability of the trustees?" The opinion was as follows:-- MR JONES' OPINION _August 30th, 1897._ With regard to the question raised, whether, under the circumstances described, the trustees have power to allow payments to be made to the men on strike who have violated Rule 50, I am of opinion that they have no such powers, and any payment so made would appear to be a direct breach of trust. Nor do I think the position or liability of the trustees would in any way be altered by the subsequent vote of the Council approving such payments. The wording of Rule 51 is quite clear:-- "Any lodge ceasing work" "under the circumstances which have happened" "shall forfeit all claims on this Association"; and even though the whole Association were to vote in favour of strike pay being granted, I cannot see how the effect of that rule could be removed. Standing upon that advice, the trustees refused to allow the money to be paid. The lodge requested the Executive to call a special Council to consider whether a grant should be given them. The request was refused, because, as the rules had been violated and the trustees had decided that no money should be paid, it was no use calling the Council, seeing, if the vote were given to pay, the decision could not be carried out. However, the question was brought forward at the conclusion of a Council, and the delegates decided to pay a grant equal to strike allowance, but the trustees refused to allow the money to be drawn from the bank. The Executive then placed the position before the members. They said the giving of a grant was but a form of evading the provisions of the constitution. The decision of the Council placed the treasurer in a dilemma: either he had to refuse to pay, or face a prosecution in court for paying money contrary to rule. The Committee had, therefore, either to leave the treasurer to his own devices, or call the trustees together, and place the whole question before them. The meeting was held in the office of Dr R. S. Watson, who was one of the trustees. They decided to take the case to the Court of Chancery, and to inform the Washington Lodge of their intention, and give them the opportunity of being parties to the case. Mr Isaacs (the Association lawyer) was instructed to write the lodge, which he did. He said he was instructed to inquire whether they wished "to be a party to the proceedings, and if so, to kindly supply me with the name and address of any one of your members whom you may appoint to represent the lodge." After some negotiations, and with the view to make the matter mutual, the Executive agreed to bear the cost of the trial for both sides. The hearing did not take place until the 8th of February 1900, but in order that we may keep it in close connection it will be well to consider it here. It was heard in the Chancery Court, before Justice Cozens Hardy. The Association was represented by Mr I. Isaacs, its legal adviser, and the lodge by Mr C. W. Newlands of South Shields. There were able barristers on both sides. The judge decided: If these men came within Section 22 it must be because these particular men must be considered deserving, and also within the objects of the Association. He thought unless there was something to strike them out the argument on their behalf was well founded. The real question was whether, although the language of Rule 3 defining the objects of the Association included them, they had not by 51 been removed. He thought that was the case. He did not think he could limit the effect of that rule so as to make it mean that they should forfeit only the absolute right to have 10s. per week under Rule 52, which it was admitted they had lost. He thought the exclusion applied not merely to claims as of right, but to all protection from the Association, and they could not be deemed legally or properly objects of the benefits of the Association. So far as the Executive and trustees were concerned that trial and decision were satisfactory, but the lodge said they wanted it taken to the Court of Appeal. So far as bearing the cost of the trial was concerned the pledge had been carried out, and the Committee were surprised when it was suggested to carry the case to a higher court. However, as they were desirous to have the case properly decided, and that there should be no room for doubt (the welfare of the Association being their great consideration), they agreed, and guaranteed the payment of the entire costs. The appeal was heard on November 11th and 12th, the Judges being Rigby, Romer, and Vaughan Williams. A strong effort was made to reverse the decision. All the skill, plausibility, and sophistry of very able lawyers were used. The rules were purposely disparaged and travestied, in order that a prejudice might be created against them, but the judges unanimously agreed with the finding of the Court of Chancery. This is a bare record of facts of a dispute and trial which was fraught with importance to the Association. It generated a great deal of bitterness. The leaders could have had no personal ends to serve. Their aim will be truly set forth by a quotation from the _Monthly Circular_ for November 1900. MONTHLY CIRCULAR, 1900 (_The Lessons of the Trial_) The trial is over, and, so far as any personal feelings are concerned, the sooner it is forgotten the better it will be for our Association. To guard and strengthen that should be our first thought and care. But while it will be beneficial for us to forget any attribution of ill motives, and evil speaking or ruffled feelings consequential thereto, we shall be wise men if we gather up the lessons which come to us. This battle has been fought for one purpose only, and that is to support the authority of the rules. To that end, and that alone, have our efforts been devoted. The great question at this moment is: Whether it is better to have a set of rules which requires that the Committee of picked men (responsible year by year to the will of the members) should have a knowledge of, and be called in to assist in, the settlement of disputes before a large colliery is stopped, and a serious expenditure thrown upon the Association; or whether a lodge shall have a free hand to stop a colliery at will, and then run a chance of creating a favourable feeling, and receiving large sums from the funds, when, if the Committee had been consulted, the matter might have been settled; or if not, a strike entered upon legally. Another lesson is that, having received the sanction of the courts to our rules, and having lifted them out of the uncertainty by which they were surrounded, we shall do well to keep them in the certainty in which they have been placed. It is very clear that an attempt will be made to alter the rules which guide this matter. If so, a lax (and ruinous) state of things will be introduced. For the last two or three years the same attempts have been made, and again this year resolutions with the same object are sent in. The rules which place the affairs of the Association in the hands of the Committee (before a stoppage) have to be erased or mutilated, and rendered useless. Surely it is better, and more conducive to the welfare of the Society, to have our affairs placed on business lines, than to have a code of rules which will admit of loose procedure, and spending illegally large sums of money, which will be wanted whenever the depression of trade sets in. My advice to you is to consider carefully every amendment which may come before you. Trades organisations will prosper most when they are founded upon, and guided by, business principles. 1898 The Wages Question--The Compensation Act The uncertainty which the Federation Board had pointed out as the inevitable result of the abolition of the Conciliation Board soon made itself manifest. There were continual demands being made upon the Federation Board to seek advances, but they felt how difficult it was to get reliable data upon which to found a claim. On March 22nd they gave the county an account of an interview they had with the employers on the 12th of that month. The suggestion as to the claim for an advance being made was not supported by any data, and when they met, the employers pointed out that the indications were in the direction of depression more than the expansion of trade, and therefore the Wage Committee could not recommend to the owners to concede an advance. That refusal the Board advised the workmen to accept until there was some better trade prospects. "Like prudent men, and, acting upon the lines you would have us proceed upon, we are convinced it will be more hurtful than useful to initiate or press a demand for an advance unless the state of the markets warrant such a course." Another meeting on the wages question was held on May 25th. A strike took place in South Wales in the beginning of April, the effect of which was felt in an increased demand for the class of coal produced in this district. Their supply being cut off consumers turned to other sources, and as a consequence there was a natural feeling of unrest in Durham among the workmen. They had the impression that the whole of the produce of the county would be affected by the demand, and therefore the increase in price would be an all-round one. The Federation Board met that "false impression which we fear rests in the minds of many of our members" in a statement they sent out on the 26th of May. They pointed out two very important considerations, which the generality of members would lose sight of. There was a large amount of coal sold under contract, which would not be affected by the temporarily increased price, even if all the output of Durham had been steam coal, but it must be remembered that only nine per cent. was of that class. They then gave a calculation to show how a rise on a small percentage would affect the whole. The steam coal being the only part feeling the increase, and that class forming only nine per cent. of the total, what would be its universal effect? "Without contending for the accuracy of the quantities let us give a calculation which may suggest a key to the position. Of the nine per cent. of steam coal let us suppose two-thirds of it was sold under contract at a normal market price. We should then have only three per cent. of the entire output getting a higher price. Let us further suppose that this three per cent. secured an advance in the abnormal state of the market of 6s. per ton during the strike; we should only have realised a general increase equal to, say, 2.16d. per ton over the whole of the coals produced." Considering, then, the purely temporary nature of the rise in price the Board agreed to accept an advance of five per cent.--two and a half on basis rates under the usual conditions, and, with the view of meeting the exceptional circumstances, a temporary advance of two and a half for six pays. The advances were to date back for a fortnight in each case, the understanding being that if the prices fell at the end of the six pays the temporary two and a half would be discontinued. On July 22nd the Board met the employers, when the temporary advance was continued for other six pays. A subsequent meeting was held on October 29th. The employers offered to increase the temporary advance of two and a half to five for a further period of six pays. The Board was willing to take the five per cent. if it were considered a permanent advance. The settlement agreed to was an advance of two and a half, and a continuance of the temporary advance of two and a half for six pays more. THE COMPENSATION ACT During the Parliamentary session of 1897 the first Compensation Act was passed. The date of commencement was fixed for the 1st of July 1898. While the Act was under discussion the representative of the Durham Miners in Parliament urged strongly that, not only should facilities be given for the formation of Committees, but means should be adopted to induce employers and employed to take steps in that direction as a means of avoiding the friction and litigation which the new law involved. The idea of a Compensation Committee was from the very commencement very favourably received by the members of the Association, and the employers were as desirous on their part to join in the endeavour. There was a natural desire on the part of the Permanent Fund officials to formulate a scheme to strengthen their fund. It was found that the attempt between the Trade Unions of Northumberland, the Federation Board, and the Permanent Relief Fund to arrange a Scheme was a failure. A number of meetings of Joint Committees and Sub-Committees, representative of the various Associations, and between those Sub-Committees and the Employers, were held. The failure arose from the character of the proposition--that there should be an Insurance Fund, which would take over all the liabilities of the owners, and insure all the workmen, which, said the employers, was the primary condition. The Miners' Executive in Durham could not accept such a scheme, and they turned to the formation of a Committee representative of their Association alone, and the owners. Negotiations went on with the owners, and finally the Executive Committee asked for full power on lines which they indicated. This the county agreed to give, and an agreement was come to in time for the commencement of the Act on July 1st. The system of class average obtaining in the county lent itself to the formation and working of such a Committee. This the men readily adopted, and it was another illustration of the hold mutuality and compromise had on the men of the county as a whole. Some men would have made above the average wage, and have worked more than the agreed number of days, and as a consequence their compensation would have been greater, but it would have entailed a large amount of labour if it had been on an individual basis. But by the Committee arrangement the system worked automatically. In the formation of the Compensation Committee Durham stood alone. There was nothing like it in any other district or trade, and its action was of the greatest benefit to employers and workmen alike. 1899 Election of Mr House--The Wages again--The second Conciliation Board--The Aged Miners' Homes--Deputies' Basis Wage For some time there had been a growing desire for a further subdivision of the labour in connection with the agency. It was thought that it might be useful if, instead of the Joint Committee business being in the corresponding secretary's department, an agent was appointed, who should have sole charge of that Committee. This rearrangement was hastened by the passing of the Compensation Act. The work thrown upon the organisation as a result of that measure was immense owing to the very great liability there is to accidents in the miners' occupation, and consequently the large number of delicate questions that were sure to arise in the application of a complex and complicated measure such as the new Act. The Executive Committee felt that it was imperative something should be done, and, acting on their suggestion, a new department was formed. Mr W. House was the gentleman selected to fill the new office. Mr House brought to the work a very essential qualification. His ability was unquestioned, but he was also experienced, having served on the Executive and Joint Committees for some years, and was thus thoroughly prepared for taking upon himself the duties of the new office. [Illustration: ALDERMAN W. HOUSE] THE WAGES AGAIN In considering the wage negotiations for 1898 mention was made of a temporary advance of two and a half per cent., which was given for six pays, and then carried forward other two periods of the same duration, and extended into 1899. On the 14th of January the Federation Board met the owners, their errand being to get if possible the temporary advance (which would terminate on January 21st) incorporated into the ordinary percentage. That request the employers could not grant, as the ascertained price for October and November was less than for the three months previous. "They are willing, however, to continue the temporary advance for a further period of six pays, or as an alternative they suggest that this meeting be adjourned until Saturday, the 28th inst., by which time the selling price for the quarter ending 31st of December will be ascertained." The Federation Board chose the extension for a further six pays, as they believed it was the most beneficial course. The next meeting was held on April 5th. Nothing was arranged, and there was an adjournment for three weeks. At that meeting the owners said there had been a declension in the prices. After a long discussion they offered an advance of three and three quarters, bringing the percentage above the standard up to twenty-six and a quarter; and, in consideration of special circumstances, to give a temporary advance for three months of one and a quarter, and they were prepared to date it back a fortnight. The arrangement was a very unique one, and, said the Federation Board in their explanation to the members, "it arises from the operation of the two and a half temporary advance, and the fact that the adjourned meeting was not held until after the dates fixed for its termination." THE SECOND CONCILIATION BOARD The delay and uncertainty, both as to time for making application for, and the data upon which to found, the claim, turned the minds of the members to a renewal of the Conciliation Board, or some similar system by which wages could be regulated more smoothly and expeditiously than the policy they were pursuing. On the programme for the Council held on May 27th there appeared a resolution from Marley Hill: "We move that the county be balloted for and against forming a Conciliation Board." The Executive Committee in their note on that resolution strongly recommended its adoption. It was highly desirable that the feeling of the county should be ascertained. They said: We have previously expressed the opinion that the steadier we can make our trade, and the more certainty we can infuse into our industrial relationship with our employers, the better it will be for the workmen; and there is nothing more calculated to foster this desirable condition than the principle of conciliation. It was a mistake when we terminated the previous Board, and this has been revealed more fully in our negotiations with the owners in a rising market. We feel sure we would have done better, and it would have saved a great deal of friction, if we had had the Board. There are other questions of great importance besides the wage question which a Conciliation Board could deal with. We therefore advise that you carry this resolution. Acting on that advice the Council adopted the ballot, and by a majority of 580 in a total vote of 39,713 the Board was re-established. The Bishop (Westcott), who had been anxiously watching the course of events, came forward to offer his congratulations and assistance if required. No time was lost. The four sections were called together, and they recommended that the old rules should be adopted, and that a circular be sent out urging the acceptance of the same as the constitution of the new Board. The objects may be inserted here. "By conciliatory means to prevent disputes and to put an end to any that may arise, and with this view to consider and decide upon _all claims_ that either party may, from time to time, make for a change in county wages or county practices, _and upon any other questions_ not falling within the jurisdiction of the Joint Committee that it may be agreed between the parties to refer to the Board." The following was the voting on the adoption of the old rules:-- For the old Rules Against Majority Miners 258 125 133 Enginemen 125 -- 125 Cokemen 52 3 49 Mechanics 75 -- 75 At the earliest moment after the result of the vote was known a meeting was arranged with the employers. At that meeting the employers wanted to alter the rules in one or two particulars, but the Federation Board informed them that their powers only extended to the adoption of the old rules, and if any alterations were made they would have to be referred to the members for sanction. "It was agreed that the employers should take the statement to a full meeting of their members, and if they persisted in desiring amendments a further meeting should be held, but if not, then the two secretaries should get the rules signed by the Owners' Committee and the Federation Board." The latter alternative was adopted. The old rules were signed as suggested. The first meeting of the Board was held on November 4th. The officers elected were Sir David Dale, Chairman; W. H. Lambton, Vice-Chairman; R. Guthrie and J. Wilson, Secretaries of their respective Associations; and Lord Davey, Umpire. It was further resolved: "That with pays commencing 6th and 13th of November 1899, wages should be advanced by 3¾ per cent., making the wages of underground men, mechanics, enginemen, cokemen, and banksmen to be 33¾ per cent. above the basis of 1879, other classes of surface labour 30¾ per cent. above the basis." THE AGED MINERS' HOMES In October 1899 was initiated a movement of which Durham may justly claim to be the pioneers--viz. the provision (as far as it can possibly be done) of free houses and coal for the aged mine workers. For a few years the subject had been assuming shape. Vague in its inception, by the perseverance of the originators it was inaugurated in this year. The first to make mention of such a movement was Mr J. Hopper, who subsequently became Secretary and Clerk of the Works. To him was soon joined Mr H. Wallace, land steward to Earl Ravensworth; and then other three: the Rev. Canon Moore Ede, J. Johnson, and J. Wilson. Their first step was to secure a large hall and two acres of ground near Boldon which could be made into tenements. The building was the property of the Ecclesiastical Commissioners, but was rented at an easy rent. That was taken over by the Boldon workmen for their own old men. Then the Committee turned to the Ecclesiastical Commissioners again. Without entering into all the stages of the negotiations, the final result was the renting of nine acres of land in three plots situated in three different parts of the county. Just at this juncture there was an opportunity to purchase the colliery village known as Haswell Moor, consisting of 112 houses, to each of which was attached a garden. The whole of it was freehold. This fortunate bargain gave inspiration to the Committee, as it was very cheap, and an impetus to the effort, as it formed a very nice colony of old people, the cost per house being about £25. The scheme rested on a voluntary basis. The Committee in initiating the movement resolved to keep it clear of all compulsion. Their proposition was 1s. per member from all in the Miners' Association per year, which would give £3000. The lodges responded very readily to the appeal, and were soon joined by the other three sections of the Federation Board and the deputies. In addition, the outside public sent large and generous help. One very striking letter was received, enclosing a cheque for £25, which we will record. "Mrs Graham and I are very pleased to find that you are making such good progress with this most useful and laudable scheme. We are quite sure that the old folks would be more at _home_ and more comfortable in cottages such as they have been used to all their lives instead of being placed in specially built almshouses or hospitals. "We would like to feel that we have made one old couple happy by paying the cost of one of the Haswell Moor cottages, as intended to be made fit for habitation, and therefore propose to subscribe £25." That encouraging letter and generous gift were from Coroner Graham of Findon Hill, near Durham, and was soon followed by other expressions of sympathy and substantial help. Bishop Westcott rendered great assistance, and opened his castle at Auckland for one of the sectional meetings the Committee called as a means of bringing the question before the lodges. His lordship allowed the use of his splendid drawing-room, and presided over the meeting, and on every hand the workmen were praised for their grand work. The best commendation, however, was the comfort of the old people, and when the opening day came there could not have been found prouder men anywhere than the Committee of Management. The opening of the first batch of houses took place at Haswell Moor in October. The ceremony was performed by Mr J. Wilson, the chairman of the General Committee, and the inaugural address was delivered by the Bishop. A quotation from the _Monthly Circular_ giving an account of the proceedings will be fitting here. It was a great occasion, and the address was worthy of it. There was a very large company in the tent to listen to the eloquent remarks, but there was a larger outside who were excluded from the privilege. To the men of mature years there was the rejoicing coming from the past, and an exhortation to act in unity, and not to be simply receivers, but givers of strength to the common cause. They were not alone, not isolated separate units, but members of the great body; strong with the strength of all, and glad with the service which they could render to their fellows. A man who received all and gave nothing was like the Dead Sea. However rich the floods might be that flowed into it, it retained no life-giving, no glad force--all was lost. In addition, there was the urging to avoid despair and have hope. Nothing could be more fatal than to declare that, because we were not moving with greater rapidity, the goal was unattainable. "Do not listen to such a vision of despair, cherish the full vigour of hope." Let me finish with the words to the young men. I wish all could have heard the words of wisdom as they fell from the lips of our respected and honoured Bishop. As they could not, let me quote them, "they had received a splendid inheritance, splendid with noble achievements and noble traditions, and they--as men who had mastered themselves and realised their obligations--would use it well, guard it well, and hand it down to those who came after, enriched by the fulfilment of hopes cherished long ago, and illuminated by the brightness of hopes which those who came after them would perhaps be allowed to fulfil." On that day, by the inauguration, the Durham miners took a long step in the path of benevolence, and raised themselves to a proud and prominent position amongst true reformers. It was a grand illustration of the truth that they who most practise self-help are best able and most eager to help others. A working man's income limits the possibility of giving large sums; but the many small rills make the large river. There is large philanthropy in a small gift. The volume and value of it lies in the spirit and intent which prompts it; and the ultimate success of a movement like the Aged Miners' Homes Scheme lies in the willingness of the thousands of workmen in and about the mines to assist. Based on that, the county can be studded with homes where the aged and worn-out miner and his partner can find home comfort and warmth when the sun of their life is nearing the setting and the shadows of life's evening are gathering thick around them. No young man can measure the full meaning of such provision, but all can feel the rich mental luxury which will assuredly result from taking part in the providing. DEPUTIES' WAGES We will close this year by a reference to a settlement made during it. This was in respect to the fixing of a basis wage for deputies. Prior to the agreement there had been a fixed wage, which was altered by adding a penny or twopence, or more, to it, or reducing in that way if the wages were decreased. It was a very unsatisfactory mode of procedure, and always involved a meeting between the Owners' and the Deputies' Association after the Federation Board had dealt with the wages. For some time there had been a strong desire on the part of the deputies who were in the Miners' Association to have their wages regulated by a percentage, the same as the other classes of workmen. In July the following agreement was signed:-- It is hereby agreed that with pays commencing 24th and 31st of July 1899 the basis wage of deputies shall be fixed at 4s. 8½d. (four shillings and eightpence halfpenny) per shift for back-bye shifts, and that these basis rates shall be subject to the same percentage, advances, and reductions as may be from time to time arranged with regard to the wages of the miners. 1900 Death of Mr Forman--Election of Mr Galbraith--Agreements made during the Year On the 2nd of September death made another inroad upon the original leaders of the organisation by carrying off the president, Mr J. Forman. For over twenty-seven years he had been in that position, and from first to last he carried out the obligations of the office in a manner equalled by few and excelled by none. He was fitted at all points for being president of an organisation of workers such as the Durham miners. The best estimate of his character will be found in quotations from the _Monthly Circular_ and the Executive Committee's Minute. DEATH OF OUR RESPECTED PRESIDENT I am sorry to say Death has made one of its most serious inroads into our ranks, and taken from us one of the most prominent figures in our Association. Our much respected and gentlemanly President is no more, and his services, over more than the average length of a generation, are ended. We long for the sound of a voice that is for ever still, and the touch of a hand that had a friendly grasp. For nearly thirty years the name of Forman has been a household word amongst the miners of Durham. He was not ambitious of "spreading a sounding name abroad," but he had a deep desire to do his duty to his own people. His was a quiet nature; but among men, as in nature, the quiet forces are the most productive of good. In the movements that make for progress in men, as in our physical surroundings, the clamour of violent action and noise are not the most useful. In the history of our Association, from its very commencement, our departed friend has been one of the binding and consolidating influences. Wise in counsel, when a spirit of rashness and impatience seized some of us, he has many a time helped to steady the mind and temper, and tone the action. Prolific in suggestion he has oft pointed a way out of difficulty in the time of stress and strain; in fact, he was well and amply equipped and qualified for the important position he filled amongst us. He took upon himself the office when times were vastly different from what they are now; when capital and labour were in this county like two opposing forces, separated by a spirit of doubt and animosity; and he has done much to establish a better feeling between employers and employed. He knew by experience the position of inferiority and harsh conditions in which our lot was cast before the foundations of the Society were laid. He has assisted and rejoiced over every step towards equality and relationship, and he was very anxious lest anything should be done to mar our usefulness. Mr Forman was more than an agent, he was a friend and an example. A man may be appointed to a position and do his work in a mechanical and perfunctory manner, like a hireling waiting for the shadow of the day, but that is not sufficient, and it did not satisfy him whose loss we mourn. He was an example in conduct and in mental cultivation worthy of imitation by all our young men. He looked upon the workmen as something more than machines, and he was desirous that they should pay more attention to the improvement of their minds, and the formation of thrifty and studious habits. In that he was no theorist, for he was a man of very extensive reading, especially upon scientific subjects, and, as a consequence, he was able to approach and deal with our questions in a most intelligent manner. He has gone, but his work is with us. It is our heritage, not merely for enjoyment, but for employment. We can best show our respect for his memory by our acceptance and proper use of that legacy. These men whose lives like his stretch back into the dark days are decreasing in number year by year. Let us do nothing to damage the Institution they helped to establish and consolidate, and let our effort be to strive for the goal they sought to attain. DEATH OF MR JOHN FORMAN (_Executive Committee's Notice_) _September, 1900._ Our regrets on this occasion are not those of formality, but are prompted by a recognition of his worth as an official of our organisation and his character as a fellow-worker and a man. Never yet had any organisation a more earnest officer, any body of men a more willing colleague, nor any community a more upright, honest, and straightforward man than our friend who has been taken from us. He was privileged to live to the ripe old age of 77 years, and for more than a quarter of a century has devoted the whole of his time and the best of his energies to the upbuilding and consolidation of our Society, and the betterment of the working classes generally. We shall miss his genial presence and guiding counsel from all our business meetings. He was on all occasions a reliable guide and counsellor in our deliberations on complicated questions, and in the general matters pertaining to the work of the Association in the midst of dark times and difficult circumstances. We feel that by his death we have not only lost an able and efficient President and colleague, but the workers in and about the mines in Durham have been deprived of a friend whose lifelong services have been devoted to the bettering of their conditions as wage earners. And further, we would tender to the family our sympathy in the great bereavement which has fallen upon them, and the hope that they may be strengthened by the assurance that, although dead, he still lives in the grateful remembrance of the people amongst whom he lived, and for whom he laboured. [Illustration: ALDERMAN S. GALBRAITH] The vacancy caused by his death was filled by Mr House being transferred from the Joint Committee agency to the presidency, and the election of Mr S. Galbraith as his successor in the Joint Committee. In the election the county chose a well-tried and very trustworthy man. He had been checkweighman at the Browney Colliery for twenty-one and a half years. Those workmen placed absolute reliance in him, and without reserve allowed him to manage the affairs of the lodge. The condition of the colliery, the peace and harmony which obtained, and the fact that only one deputation visited them to make inquiry into a grievance during the whole time he was there, are clear proof that he had great care for the interests of the men, and that they were well repaid for their confidence in him. His tactful management of the local business specially fitted him for the wider sphere of labour. The members reasoned safely when they concluded that he who had been faithful in the local would be faithful in the general. Those who knew Mr Galbraith were in perfect agreement as to the opinion formed by the men who had been in such long and profitable business contact with him. AGREEMENTS Screenmen--Labourers--Datal Wage--Hewers' Datal--Houses and House Rent--Boys' Advance The first of these was the raising of the basis wage of the screenmen and labourers. That wage was fixed by an arbitration at 2s. 7½d., but was never quite accepted by the county. Negotiations had been proceeding, and on 31st March 1900 it was agreed "that the basis wage of _bona fide_ screenmen and labourers on and about the pit-heap and on the colliery branches should be 2s. 10d. per day." This was a clear advance of 2½d. per day, and meant nearly a day's wage increase in the fortnight. The second was in reference to the hewers' datal wage. There was no settled or uniform principle of payment for the back-bye work. On August 16th it was arranged that: "When coal hewers are taken from hewing to do other work for a shift or shifts (or portions of a shift), during which they would otherwise have been employed at coal hewing, they shall, for not exceeding three consecutive shifts employed at such other work, be paid the hewers' county average wage." The third settlement was the "Houses and House Rent." This had been on hand for six or seven years. It was placed on the agenda of the Conciliation Board in 1895. After that Board terminated the question lapsed, but was brought forward by the owners at the Board meeting on May 1st, 1900. It was at first part of a general application, but shortly before the meeting the mechanics introduced a house question, and therefore the request of the owners was made to apply solely to miners. The subject was adjourned to give the employers a chance to rearrange their claim. Before the meeting held on August 3rd the Owners' and Miners' Committee held two meetings, and an agreement had been come to, subject to the approval of the miners' lodges. The Conciliation Board was informed of this; further, that a return was being taken, and that the agreement was being strongly recommended. It was adjourned on the understanding that the owners could put it on the next agenda, if not settled in the meantime, and could then ask the Board or umpire to decide. The request of the owners was as follows:-- That the general question of the supply of houses and coals be considered by the Board of Conciliation with a view to the points of difference between the Owners' and Miners' Associations being decided by the Board. The return mentioned above resulted in a refusal of the agreement, although large material changes had been made in it to the advantage of the workmen. The return was most unsatisfactory, as fifty-two collieries, representing 112 votes, did not vote. The Executive Committee decided to call a special Council, and informed their members of the position. The subject was sure to be settled at the next Conciliation Board meeting. "We have pointed out to you on one or two occasions that if it is not settled by us it will come before the next Conciliation Board, who will be asked by the owners to deal with it or refer it to the umpire." The special Council was held, and a discussion took place on the agreement, but no vote was taken. In due course the subject came before the Board. It was felt that the refusal was caused by the exclusion of the shifters and wastemen. The owners were willing to include these, and the Board agreed to the list of classes and conditions contained in the agreement of November 1900. The agreement settled a long-standing dispute, and established for twelve classes the right to a free house, or rent if houses were not found. In respect to the other classes not specifically named in the list, their right would rest on the custom of the colliery obtaining on the 1st of June 1900. Under the circumstances the agreement was the best that could be got, and was a very long way ahead of the uncertain condition of things which existed prior to its signing. There was this to be considered: if the Board had not settled it then the umpire would have been called in, and there was no assurance that he would have gone so far. With respect to the rent, which was dependent upon the custom of the colliery, the right of the classes named to a rent (if not the amount) was guaranteed. Before the arrangement was made, if there were not sufficient houses, the men belonging to the colliery had to prove, at Joint Committee, it was the custom to pay rent at that colliery. If they failed to establish the custom, then they were non-suited, and without rent. That which was indefinite and uncertain was lifted out of the region of contention once and for all, and that in itself was no small advantage. In judging of the merits of the "Houses and House Rent Agreement" it must be remembered that the Executive Committee and Federation Board had to contend against time and precedent. These were no mean forces. Practices which in some cases had existed for thirty years were difficult to alter by the party seeking the alteration. If the effort had been made twenty-five years before it would have been comparatively easy: "Customs would have admitted of easy proof, and the data would have been new and readily substantiated." Keeping those things in remembrance, the conclusion will be that the agreement was a good one. On the 29th of December other two small agreements were signed. One of them had reference to boys whose wages were below 1s. and those having a basis wage of 1s. and 5d. or less. The former were raised to 1s., and the latter had to have 1d. increase. The other change was in relation to smart money for beat hands. It was agreed that, as the Compensation Act did not cover that injury, the smart money should be continued where it had been the custom to pay it before the Act was passed. 1901 The Coal Tax--The Death of Bishop Westcott--The Appointment of an Accountant In the spring of the year the whole of the mining industry was startled by a proposal made by the Chancellor of the Exchequer to place an export duty of 1s. per ton upon all exported coal. It was done to enable him to meet the heavy expenditure which had been thrown upon the nation by the Boer War. The entire cost was over £250,000,000. The year or two previous the coal trade had been prosperous. The profits of the employers and the wages of the miners loomed up very large, and he being in a desperate position (having a deficit of £50,000,000 to meet) thought it safe to make an attack on the trade. His proposition was a very disastrous one. The arguments advanced in support were uneconomic and fallacious, but were forced upon the House of Commons by the sheer weight and force of a great and obedient majority--a majority whose party loyalty covered a large number of political sins. His main arguments (upon which the changes were rung) were as follows:--Coals were a great national asset, and the exportation should be checked, and even if exported under the 1s. tax the foreigners would pay it. To say the least, the former of these arguments was too narrow to be considered at all seriously, because if the necessities of the nation demanded a preservation of our coal supply, then it could only be done by a total prohibition of the export. Further, it lost sight of the large mining population, the amount of capital sunk in the mines, the ships and sailors employed in the carrying of coal, and the interchange of trade, which would be interfered with if the policy were effected. The argument as to the foreigners paying the 1s. was fallacious and selfish; fallacious because it assumed the foreign consumer would not seek the cheapest market, which would be opened out to him by the development of the Continental coal fields; and selfish because, if correct, it was an endeavour to throw upon him a part of the cost of a mad and wasteful war, when he took no part in the initiation of it. His proposal was met by fierce opposition in all the mining districts, both exporting and non-exporting, but in none more than in Durham. Employer and employed united in opposing it. To such an extent was this joint action carried that the pits were all laid idle for the purpose of affording the workmen an opportunity to hold mass meetings. In a circular issued on April 22nd the Executive Committee informed the lodges that they intended to hold seven simultaneous meetings, and to join the Northumberland miners on the Town Moor, Newcastle. In the circular they said: The occasion is important. Time is short. The question is urgent. A more injurious tax was never proposed. If carried, it will cripple our trade, but more especially that of Northumberland and South Wales. Our export trade is not so large as theirs, but we are so closely bound together that we are sure to suffer with them. Let our protest be as large and emphatic as the tax will be injurious, and then the pressure of public opinion will compel a withdrawal of the Chancellor's proposal. In connection with the national protest large conferences were held. The first of these took place on April 25th and 26th, at which a deputation was appointed to meet the Chancellor on the 29th; but he held out no hope. The conference was resumed on the 30th, and on May 1st. There was a very strong feeling in favour of stopping all the mines in the country, and a resolution in that direction was adopted. The main obstacle to an immediate stoppage was the fact that certain districts had not considered it, and the conference was adjourned for a week to give them time to call Council meetings and consult their members. The adjourned meeting took place on May 7th, but it was found that there was a more peaceful spirit abroad. Durham was in favour of the stoppage, and the delegates, acting on instruction from the Council, voted for that course of action. The conference was against it. An arrangement was come to in view of any district being asked to submit to a reduction in consequence of the coal tax. If that occurred, then "another conference should be called to consider and determine whether the whole of the mines of the country should be laid idle until such intimated reduction is withdrawn." So far as any stoppage of work was concerned, the agitation was at an end, but the protest did not cease with it, for year after year it was brought forward, and at all the galas it was made part of the resolutions. Deputations met the Chancellor, and in Parliament the spokesmen of the miners brought forward the question on every opportunity. At the very outset they compelled him to exempt all coals sold for 6s. per ton and under. And (to anticipate a little) one of the first effects of the return of the Liberal party in 1906 was the removal of the tax, to take effect on the 1st of November that year. THE DEATH OF THE BISHOP OF DURHAM The history would be incomplete if we did not make a reference to the death of Bishop Westcott. He was known amongst us as "The Pitmen's Bishop," and well he deserved the designation, for from the time of his coming to the county he sought on all occasions to make himself acquainted with our conditions, and was ever ready to assist in the work of amelioration. In every effort in that direction he was ready to counsel. He was one of England's greatest scholars, but his learning did not blunt his sympathies nor check his desires to help the people in their struggles. He was highly religious, but it was not the religion of the visionary. It found expression in actions. He proved his faith by his works, and demonstrated it by that higher and truer exponent of a man's creed, his active participation in every movement which tended to purify the conditions of our working and home life. His death was a unique circumstance. At the gala held on July 20th he delivered a masterly address in the cathedral. His closing words were prophetic. He informed the large gathering, mainly miners, that it would be the last time he would address them. Whether this was the presentiment of the coming of the last messenger or not we cannot tell, but it is certain that the kindly heart and eloquent tongue were both stilled by death, and the miners were in sorrow longing for the sound of a voice that was gone, within a short week after he had thrilled the hearts of his hearers, and a great sorrow fell upon the county without regard to class, creed, or social status. The following resolution passed by the Executive Committee will show the appreciation of his worth expressed by them in the name of the miners:-- That we, the Executive Committee of the Durham Miners' Association, in the name of our members, express our universal sorrow at the death of our respected Bishop and friend, the late Bishop Westcott. We recognise that we have lost a sympathiser, counsellor, and helper in all our efforts for better conditions both in our home surroundings and our working life. From the first day of his residence amongst us we felt that it was his desire to be the Bishop of the diocese in the truest and best sense of the term; and as the years have passed that feeling has been strengthened by the words of kindly counsel he has given us and by his generous and helpful actions. While, therefore, we share in the loss that has fallen upon the whole community we join in the expression of regret and sorrow which will be felt in every portion of the sphere in which he moved, and we tender our sympathy to the relations of the truly great and kindly Christian, who has been taken from a life in which he lived usefully and well to a reward which awaits all who try to correct the wrongs and brighten the darkness of this life. APPOINTMENT OF THE ACCOUNTANT Under the sliding scale there were joint ascertainments of prices by each side having a firm of accountants, who agreed to the average realised selling price of coals. When the scales terminated the services of the accountants on the miners' side were dispensed with, and the selling price was gathered by the Federation Board visiting various depôts, the ports whence coal was exported, and the coal exchange in London. Now it was obvious that such a system was at its best very uncertain, and while the data gathered might be asserted it never could be put forward as accurate. Without the accountants, the mode adopted was necessary, but it was difficult, expensive, and unreliable. The Federation Board, upon whom the burden of seeking the prices fell, was never satisfied, and in the end the members came round to that way of thinking. On the Miners' Council programme for September 28th the following resolution appeared:-- Accountant be engaged for the purpose of ascertaining the price of coal, the mode of procedure to be arranged by the Executive Committee. The resolution was carried, and was sent to the Federation, and by them placed before the other sections, and finally adopted. At the Board meeting held on November 28th it was decided "that Mr E. Sparks be appointed as the accountant for the Board in the ascertainment of coal prices on the terms which obtained under the sliding scale, and that he be asked to meet the Board at the next meeting." Between the loose system which obtained prior to his appointment and that which resulted from it there was a very great contrast. Without the definite figures he was able to supply the workmen were always in an atmosphere of uncertainty on two points--first, the time when to apply for an advance; and second, as to the amount to ask for. Further, whatever demand the owners might make it was a matter of guesswork as to the accuracy of the change in the markets. With the quarterly ascertainment the state of the trade was given to the very smallest decimal, it gave reliability as to data, and guaranteed the stability of trade and the regularity of work, which is a great consideration to the workmen. 1902-1903 Hours of Datal Boys and Firemen--Bank Holiday--Mr Patterson's Statue--Ballot on Eight Hours--Coal Drawing after Loose--Agreement of 15th August--Surface Firemen's Wages On Monday, the 27th of January, the Executive Committee met the Employers' Committee on six requests. Three of them were the hours of timber leaders and others, putters at datal work, and the hours of firemen at the week-ends. Those three were settled by the allowing agreement:-- It is hereby agreed between the Durham Coal Owners' Association and the Durham Miners' Association as follows:-- _Putters at Datal Work._--That the hours of putters when sent to datal work shall be those applicable to the particular class of work which they are required to perform. _Firemen's Week-end Shifts._--That the hours of firemen employed at boilers attached to stationary colliery engines which work continuously between 6 A.M. on Saturday and 6 A.M. on Monday shall be eight per shift between these hours. _Timber and Water Leaders._--That the hours of the following classes of boys shall be in future eight per day--namely, timber leaders, stone putters and water leaders, and those boys who for a full shifter's shift may be working with shifters whose hours are eight. Those whose hours are reduced to suffer a proportionate reduction of wage. This agreement to take effect with pays commencing the 3rd and 10th February 1902. For the Durham Coal Owners' Association, REGINALD GUTHRIE, _Secretary_. For the Durham Miners' Association, JOHN WILSON. The result of the settlement so far as it affects the young men will be seen by the following table, and it must be remembered that the total number of days reduced was for any one day, and not for a fortnight:-- Timber leaders 80 Water leaders 234 Stone putters 76 Number of putters at datal work on any given day 220 Other boys so engaged 220 ---- Total days reduced 830 These figures were taken from the Associated Collieries. There were a number of others, which would increase the total somewhat. It will be observed that the hours shortened did not in any way affect the coal-drawing time, and were indications of the willingness to meet the shortening of the hours if it were expedient to do so. It was in complete harmony with the general policy of the Association--self-effort even if the end were a little longer in being reached, and negotiation in preference to an appeal to the legislature. Further, the settlement proved that the inexpediency and difficulty of applying the eight hours a day was the only obstacle in the way of the Durham men, and not their unwillingness to shorten the working time, as was alleged by many outside the county. THE BANK HOLIDAY For some years there had been complaints from the employers in reference to the pits being laid idle on Bank Holidays, without any arrangement being made for the same. The logic of their position was incontrovertible. They stated it in the following manner:-- As Associations we have had business relations for over thirty years. We have in that time made many agreements, and have arranged tribunals for every class of difference, and yet you, one of the Associations, have deliberately set all that machinery to a side, have ruthlessly broken all precedents and procedure, and have for some years laid the pits idle, without even consulting the owners' side. They then brought the subject before the Conciliation Board in August 1902, but while they were wishful to call in the umpire they agreed to defer it for three months. Their request was in the following form:-- The owners complain of the action of the workmen in laying collieries idle on August and December Bank Holidays, and ask that the Conciliation Board take this matter into consideration with a view of requiring the workmen to continue previously existing county arrangements until such are altered, either through negotiations between the Owners' and Workmen's Associations or by the Conciliation Board. After being discussed it was decided that: The claim of the owners, that this Board shall restrain the growing practice of laying pits idle on the August and December Bank Holidays, is to be considered and dealt with at the November meeting of the Board. At that meeting the question was again brought forward; but it was thought desirable that the miners and the employers should have a chance of settling without a reference to the umpire, and for that purpose another adjournment took place, it being understood that if no arrangement were come to the reference should be made as soon as possible. The umpire was not called in until the 8th of July 1903. The hearing of the case took place in London in the Westminster Palace Hotel. On the 13th Lord Davey gave his award: "On the question referred to me at the meeting on July 8th I award that the workmen be allowed the August Bank Holiday, but go to work on the day after Christmas Day." MR PATTERSON'S STATUE The statue was unveiled on Saturday, 31st of January 1903, at two P.M. The ceremony consisted of a formal unveiling in front of the Hall, and a meeting in the Council Chamber immediately after. The Executive Committee, in a short circular sent out to inform the members of the event, said: It will not be necessary to urge upon you to send a deputation to represent you, and thus show respect to a man who did as much as he could to establish our Association and to promote its usefulness. Don't let this be a mere ceremonial function, but let us show by our presence as much as by the statue we are placing in front of the Hall how we appreciate the labours of men like our departed friend. There was a great response to the circular, and both the unveiling and the meeting inside were well attended. The ceremony was performed by the corresponding secretary (J. Wilson), who gave the address. The proceedings were presided over by Mr W. House, the president of the Association, and a number of speeches were delivered by representative men, and many who had been with him during the greater part of his life, and throughout the highest testimony was given to the good qualities and disinterestedness of Mr Patterson. His would be a narrow mind who could say anything else. If true virtue consists of desire to do good, and he is only great who loves his fellow-men, then Patterson was truly great. And that was the standard by which the county judged him, and on that he carried their appreciation. It will be fitting to quote in connection with the unveiling a portion of the _Monthly Circular_ written by one who had lived and worked with Mr Patterson and knew him. But the most cheering part of the unveiling to me does not lie in the appreciation as expressed by the marble, but in the numbers who attended the ceremony and the feeling manifested during the whole of it. If it showed our respect for a colleague and friend, it reflected honour upon us because there was nothing of the cold and formal about it. The gathering was truly representative, and from first to last friendship was in the air and in every heart. There were very few lodges (if any) that were not represented, and in addition there were gentlemen who, although outside our ranks as Trades Unionists, came uninvited to pay a last tribute to a man who in life they had known and learned to respect, and warm were their words in reference to him. THE EIGHT HOURS--SECOND BALLOT This question assumed a new and more prominent shape at the annual Council meeting in 1903. It was decided "to seek for a living wage for all workers in and about the mines and for no man or lad to be more than eight hours from bank to bank in one day." It will be observed that the county had to seek, but it did not define by what means the object had to be sought. The Executive was in a strait between the legal eight hours and negotiation with the employers. They therefore resolved to take the opinion of the county by submitting the question to the ballot. On June 25th they issued the voting papers, accompanied by the following circular:-- Gentlemen,--It will be observed that the word "seek" is the word we invariably use when we send cases before the owners for negotiation. It would have been competent for the Executive Committee to have interpreted the new object in that light, and have looked upon it as being a point to aim at, rather than take it as absolute, and especially when you remember that, recognising the evils of a sudden introduction of a shortening of the hours from ten to eight hours, we have always been against the State regulation of hours, and by ballot before we have so decided. The Committee, however, think it will be best to submit the question to you to say whether we are to proceed by negotiation, or by an appeal to the State, and for that purpose the ballot papers have been drawn up, so that we may have a plain issue upon the two methods. There can be no mistake. There are three things I would like to mention. First, let every full member (and no other) vote, as it affects all, and will affect all; second, I ask the lodge officials to let the ballot be such in nature more than name. Let it be as secret as possible; and third, let me urge upon you not to be led away by sentiment, but consider the effect it may have upon the position of every man, lest we may make things worse than they are. It will be too late to regret after. We had better weigh well the result before the step is taken. J. WILSON. _June 25th, 1903._ The result of the ballot was as follows:--for Trades Union effort, 30,841; for State interference, 12,899; majority, 17,942. There were 161 lodges voted. Some lodges refused to vote, expressing their opposition to any change in the hours, but some refused without assigning any reason. The vote, however, was very decisive, and reaffirmed the opposition to legal enactment in respect to the eight hours. COAL-DRAWING AGREEMENT The question of drawing coals after loose had been for some time in dispute between the two Associations. A number of meetings were held. In the discussion the employers claimed the right to draw coals, if it suited their convenience, at any time. This could not be granted. Then they asked for an arrangement which would allow them to draw coals if it were the custom prior to 1890, and in case of a break up to draw coals to make up the loss. If this were granted they would concede four of the requests the workmen were making. The Executive Committee was not willing to retrospect so far as 1890, but was willing to date back to 1900, and to allow the employers the opportunity for proper preparation for the pit starting the day after an accident, if it were long. This concession formed the basis of settlement, and the following agreement was made:-- It is this day agreed between the Durham Coal Owners' and the Durham Miners' Association as follows:-- 1. That at all collieries where at the end of December 1900 it was customary for coals to be drawn at other times than the ordinary coal-drawing hours, such customs shall continue to the same extent. 2. That at all collieries the owners shall have the right of drawing after the 10 or 20 hours' coal drawing time, as the case may be, such of the coals standing in the shaft sidings as owing to accident it may be necessary to send to bank for any of the following purposes:-- (_a_) To enable stones to be drawn; (_b_) To enable pit timber or other material to be got down and clear of the shaft sidings. 3. That at all collieries, in case of an accident or breakdown which is not remedied one hour before loose, such coals shall be drawn as may be necessary to prepare the pit for working the next shift, such preparations to mean drawing such a quantity of coal as will enable one empty set (or 45 tubs where endless rope haulage is employed) to be taken to each landing affected by the accident. For the Durham Coal Owners' Association, REGINALD GUTHRIE. For the Durham Miners' Association, JOHN WILSON. JOHN JOHNSON. Three of the concessions on the part of the employers are contained in the following agreement:-- It is hereby agreed between the Durham Coal Owners' Association and the Durham Miners' Association as follows:-- _Hand Putters' Basis Wage._--That the basis wage for hand putters when employed on datal work shall be 3s. 4d. per day. _Stone Putters' Short Shifts._--That stone putters when working with stonemen and shifters shall be allowed the same short shifts as those granted to the men with whom they are working. _Boys' Minimum Wage._--That the minimum basis wage of boys employed at bank shall be one shilling per day. For the Durham Coal Owners' Association, REGINALD GUTHRIE. For the Durham Miners' Association, JOHN WILSON. BROKEN PRICE There was a fourth question which was not put in the agreement because it was so complicated--viz. the fixing of a relative price between the whole and broken prices. The custom at some collieries had been to fix a whole and broken price for the seam, the definite figure being named of, say, 2d. per ton difference. In every case where a future broken started it was at the original price, no matter how much the whole prices might have increased. The effect was that there were men who might be working at 2s. or 2s. 6d. per ton on the Saturday, and through the area of goaf being taken out they would have a reduction of in some cases 1s. and 1s. 4d. per ton on Monday. It was always difficult to get a rectification at Joint Committee, and it was thought best to arrange a uniform or relative price between the whole and broken prices, so that, no matter how the prices in the former might alter, the relative difference would never vary. The arrangement removed a very great anomaly and grievance, it being left to the Joint Committee to decide. SURFACE FIREMEN'S WAGES This was a settlement made by the Conciliation Board. Some years prior, by an arbitration, it was decided "that the standard or basis average wage of firemen at bank working twelve hours per day is 3s. 3d. per day of twelve hours." The operation of that award was that before a man could claim the 3s. 3d. he must be working the full twelve hours per day; if not, the employer could claim a proportionate reduction. The arrangement made on November 6th, 1903, reduced the time to eleven hours for the 3s. 3d., those above that time receiving an advance of 3d. per day. By a return taken at the time the number of men and hours at the Associated Collieries was found to be as follows:-- 12 hours per shift 506 men 11½ " " " 1 man 11 " " " 37 men 10½ " " " 78 " 10 " " " 38 " 8 " " " 3 " --- 563 Average hours per shift, 11.63; and the result, therefore, was an all-round increase of 3d. per day. 1904 Labour Representation--Mr Johnson and Gateshead--Suspension of Joint Committee--Conciliation Board--The Fillers' Agreement It will be necessary to retrace our steps a year or two to keep this question in consecutive order. The action taken in 1885 has been set forth, with the result thereof. The matter rested with one representative until the Council meeting held on June 7th, 1902, when the Executive Committee placed on the programme the following resolution:-- The time is now opportune for considering the question of increased Labour representation in Parliament for the county of Durham. On the Council programme for September 12th, 1902, the Committee placed another resolution: With a view of giving effect to Council resolution, with regard to further Labour representation, we ask that the whole matter be relegated to the sections comprising the Federation Board. On November 1st that resolution came before the Federation Board, when it was resolved as follows:-- That we express our belief that the time has fully arrived when we ought to have increased Labour representation in Parliament, and that the other three sections be requested to consult their members on the subject, and as soon as they intimate their decision to the secretary a meeting of the Board be called. The course of action indicated in that resolution was followed. The idea was accepted nearly universally. The Federation Board, therefore, resolved to place the matter before the four Committees on January 31st in the Miners' Hall, Durham. It was decided to call a special delegate meeting, to be held in the Town Hall, Durham, the following programme to be submitted:-- (1) Shall there be an increase in the number of Labour representatives in the county? (2) If so, how many more shall be chosen? (3) Who shall they be? (4) That the selections of divisions be left to the four Committees. (5) Ways and means. The united Committees advised that there should be an increase of two. This was not done because they believed it to be a mathematically fair proportion of the county, but because it was best to move safely. They left the choice of candidates to the Council, but suggested that the selection of divisions should be remitted to them (the four Committees), and that as regards the ways and means the same system as obtained in the case of Mr Wilson should apply to those chosen. Having regard to our space we need not enlarge upon the various steps in the procedure. It will be sufficient to say that the Council accepted the advice, leaving the carrying out of the details to the four Committees. The candidates selected were Mr J. Johnson and Mr J. W. Taylor. Shortly after the selection was made, and while the Committees were trying to arrange for the division, a communication was received from the South-East Durham Liberal Association asking that Mr J. Johnson should be sent there as a candidate. In the end the request was acceded to, but before much was done beyond the acceptance Sir W. Allan, M.P. for Gateshead, died suddenly, and within a day or two the Liberal Association made overtures, and invited Mr Johnson. A meeting was called, and in response he was transferred to Gateshead. It would not serve any good purpose nor assist our history if notice were made of some objections and some objectors. It will be sufficient if we record that he was returned on January 20th, 1904, by a majority of 1205, and we make mention of two matters--first, a resolution of the Federation Board: That we, the Federation Board, representing the whole of the workers in and about the mines in Durham, desire to tender our thanks to the electors of Gateshead for the splendid majority with which they have returned Mr Johnson as Member of Parliament for their borough, and all who worked to secure his return. Second, a portion of the _Monthly Circular_ for January: There are many matters worthy of notice this month, but the one nearest your hearts and mine is _our_ success at Gateshead. Mr Johnson is the M.P. for that borough, but the victory is _ours_. I have no envy for the state of mind of any man or men who can find room for carping or faddism in connection with the election. We are the last people among whom such should be found. The invitation to contest the seat was spontaneous. The workers were numerous, energetic, and of all classes, and the rejoicing when the result was known was of the most enthusiastic nature. It was encouraging to receive from a number of our lodges good wishes during the contest, and their congratulations since the victory was secured. SUSPENSION OF JOINT COMMITTEE Through a dispute which arose over a decision given by the chairman of Joint Committee the meetings were entirely suspended, the employers alleging that the decision was against the rules of the Joint Committee. This objection was not taken until after the decision was given. The Federation Board, as the authority dealing with the Joint Committee, considered the question, and decided: That in the opinion of this Board the protest entered by the owners' side of the Joint Committee on January 15th, 1904, is entirely in opposition to the tenth rule of the Joint Committee constitution, and that whatever stoppage there may be in the proceedings of that Board the blame rests only with them. And further, we protest against the refusal of the owners to meet the other sections of the Board, as in our opinion it is in violation of all past procedure, and cannot conduce to the harmonious relation between the Employers' and Workmen's Associations; and we hope that, whether the difference between the miners and employers be settled or not, no objection will be raised to the business of the other sections being proceeded with. In the opinion of the Federation Board there was something lying behind the objection to the decision. "If," said they, "that was the sole cause for the suspension, why not go on with the other sections?" They felt (rightly or wrongly) that the main objection was against the chairman. It was time for the appointment or reappointment of the chairman, and by the refusal of the owners to reappoint Judge O'Connor the Board was strengthened in their opinion that it was the man--more than the single decision--the objection was taken to. The secretary received a letter from Mr Guthrie asking the Board to meet for the purpose of appointing a chairman, and he was instructed to say they were ready to meet at any time convenient to the owners. That reply was repeated again on April 6th. The business was suspended from January 15th until July 4th, when it was resumed, the chairman being appointed _pro tem_. until the appointment of Colonel Blake, who occupied the position for the first time on October 31st. CONCILIATION BOARD A mention of this is made here because of a unique circumstance which arose at the August meeting of the Board. The ascertainment showed a fall in price sufficient to warrant a reduction of one and a quarter per cent. The Federation Board objected to it. Then the employers asked for the umpire to be called in, and requested it should be done as speedily as possible. There was a difficulty in the way. Mr Wilson was arranging to go to America, and had paid an instalment of his passage money. Either he must forfeit the money he had paid or the meeting must be delayed. In their circular for November the Federation Board placed the following statement of the case:-- Neither of these alternatives was acceptable, and in order to meet the situation the following resolution was submitted by the owners and accepted by us:-- In order to meet the convenience of Mr Wilson it is agreed that consideration of the claim for a reduction of wages be postponed until the meeting of the Board in November, when Lord Davey shall be invited to attend and, failing agreement, to decide on the claim after consideration of the information which may then be put before him as to the state of trade, a preliminary meeting of the Board to be held on October 29th, in order if possible to effect a settlement without the intervention of the umpire. In harmony with that resolution we met on the 29th of October. There were two courses open to us, as you will see: either we must consider the circumstances warranted the reduction asked for, or on the 5th of November--which is the date of the ordinary quarterly meeting--meet the umpire. One thing more let us point out: on the 24th of October we received the accountants' ascertainment for the quarter ending September, which showed a further fall in the realised selling price of coal. You will easily perceive the force of the situation which he had to meet. Let us enumerate the circumstances. In August the employers claimed a reduction on the result of the ascertainment then obtained. Although they were (as they said) convinced of the validity of their claim, we have kept the higher wage for three months, and you will know how much that means to us as a county, with our large wage fund and the thousands of men and boys employed. Furthermore, there had been another fall in price. If we had gone to the umpire these facts faced us. These facts were fully considered, and the probabilities of the case carefully investigated, and we were convinced that the course most conducive to the best interest of those we represent was the acceptance of the one and a quarter per cent. reduction, and we are as fully convinced that the action will carry your general approval. As is seen by the circular, a settlement was made without the umpire. Lord Davey was informed, and replied as follows:-- 86 Brook Street, W., _October 30, 1904._ Dear Sirs,--I deplore the existence of the circumstances which have admittedly rendered some reduction of wages necessary. But I congratulate both parties on having been able to settle the question themselves by amicable discussion without the intervention of a third party. Nothing affords me greater pleasure than to hear that they have done so. I say this not from any desire to spare myself any trouble in your service, but because it is the best earnest for future harmony and co-operation in which the joint claims both of capital and of labour will be recognised.--I am, dear sirs, yours very faithfully, DAVEY. The Joint Secretaries, Durham Board of Conciliation. THE FILLERS' AGREEMENT With this notice we will conclude our history. For some time there had been a gradual introduction of "Mechanical Coal Cutters," and it was necessary that an arrangement should be made for a new class of workmen known as "Fillers," whose work consisted solely of filling the coals after they had been got down. One main feature had obtained from the commencement in the policy of the Association--viz. the permission to the employers to work the mines as they thought proper (consistent with the safety of the workmen), providing the workmen were paid a recognised wage; and second, no objection was ever raised to the introduction of new machinery, if regard were had to safety and wage. When these machines were brought in their utility was recognised. It was seen they were to ease the heaviest portion of the hewers' work, and the attention was turned to the two considerations named. After many meetings and much negotiation the following agreement was made:-- Agreement made this day, 26th day of November 1904, between the Durham Coal Owners' and Durham Miners' Association:-- 1. That the standard basis piece rate of wages for "Fillers" who follow mechanical coal cutters shall be four shillings and sixpence per shift, and that the length of shift shall be eight hours from bank to bank, except on Saturdays, when it shall be less in proportion to the reduced coal-drawing hours on that day at the respective collieries. 2. That the above standard piece rate shall be the basis for Joint Committee purposes, or for the purpose of any adjustment of "filling" prices, either as to advance, reduction, or revision thereof as the case may be, provided that each one and a quarter per cent. advance or reduction in the county percentage shall be held for Joint Committee purposes to vary the wages of "Fillers" by three farthings per shift. 3. That the duties of "Fillers" shall be held to embrace, according to the requirements of the management of the particular colliery concerned, breaking up, casting, and filling (into such receptacle as may be provided by the said management) coal kirved by mechanical coal cutters; the squaring of the coal face so as to leave it straight and perpendicular; the picking out and casting back under an agreed "laid-out" penalty of all material which the hewers are expected to pick out at the respective collieries; timbering in the absence of the deputy and according to the special and timbering rules; preparing the face and leaving it clean and free for the subsequent operations of the coal cutter. 4. That the "Fillers" shall be included among the classes of men entitled to free houses or the customary allowance for house rent under the conditions of the Conciliation Board resolution of November 5th, 1900, regarding "Houses and House Rent." For the Durham Coal Owners' Association, REGINALD GUTHRIE. For the Durham Miners' Association, JOHN WILSON. The noticeable features in the agreement are--first, the wages, which are 4d. per day (as a basis wage) higher than those of the coal getter, the hours being eight from bank to bank; second, the percentage is regulated as it is for the hewers, five per cent. in price meaning 3d. per day in wages; third, the duties they are called upon to perform are plainly set forth; and fourth, they are entitled to free houses or the customary allowance for rent as the other acknowledged classes. * * * * * _P.S._--Inadvertently the death of Mr Meynell, chairman of the Joint Committee, and the appointment of Judge O'Connor to that office has been omitted and this _P.S._ supplies the omission. The last meeting at which Mr Meynell presided was held on December 14th, 1900. The first under the presidency of Mr O'Connor was on April 9th, 1901; the chair in the _interim_ being filled _pro tem_. AFTER WORDS The Lawyers--The Changes We leave the history of the organisation for the time being, but before closing the volume, it would leave a vacuum if there were not some mention (even if it were little) of the legal advisers who have been connected with the Association, and have helped it in the questions of law which from time to time are inevitable in such a large organisation. The first regular lawyer was Mr "Harry" Marshall, the leading solicitor in the city of Durham. He was well on in life when the Association was founded, but he was retained until the time of his death. His offices were in the Market Place, Durham. He was followed by Mr H. Forrest, who was heir to the business and offices of Mr Marshall, and by a natural sequence the legal matters of the organisation fell into his practice; but they did not remain there long. Gradually Mr I. Isaacs of Sunderland was called in, until finally he was appointed officially to the position. In Mr Isaacs the Association had a very skilful and painstaking adviser, and a gentleman who stood well with the magistrates in every district in the county. He died a young man, but he had attained to a position which was one of the envied positions by the whole of the legal gentlemen in the county. He was made clerk to the Castle Eden magistrates, but, unfortunately, died shortly after; in fact, before he had rightly taken over his duties. He was a man of the highest type, a Jew by religion, upright in all his dealings. The standard he lived up to was high enough for all to aim at. [Illustration: H. F. HEATH] To keep the succession complete we may insert here a notice of his successor, Mr H. F. Heath. He was in Mr Isaacs' office until a very short time prior to the decease of the latter, and from the time of his appointment has proved himself a reliable guide. His advice is given for the good of the Association, and not on the low ground of personal profit. He is as skilful in the stating of a case, or detecting the weak places in the position of his opponents, as he is versed in law. Having to deal with mining matters he has made himself thoroughly acquainted with the technicalities of the mine, and is most desirous for the success of the business which is placed in his hands. No member of the Durham Miners' Association has more regard to its welfare and prosperity than has the miners' solicitor and advocate. CHANGES Within the period of our associated life there have been many changes, a few of which we may with profit enumerate. The "Yearly Bond" has been dealt with as one of the first actions of the Associations. It was considered a species of slavery, and a remnant of the old feudal times when men were part of the estate. We need not dwell further upon it nor its abolition. The change in the "First Caller" is no mean one, apart from its implied shortening of the hours. It uniformed the time for men commencing work in the foreshift, and it gave them two or three hours more time to rest when it was most natural and most needed. The writer of this (as all men who were hewers at that time would go) went to work, if in the whole, at one in the morning. The "caller" made his rounds then, but there were many men who never waited until he came. They were at the pit and down before the time. At some collieries the back shift men went in at six or six-thirty A.M. If they were out until the latter time they were the last to go in. It was not considered necessary to suspend the coal-drawing to send them down. The man and his picks were put into an empty tub, and went down against the full tubs coming up. The engineman was told there was a "man on," and the only difference in the running was the easing up a little at the bottom. When the back shift hewer got to the face he had the company of his marrow for some two or three hours. In 1872 the calling time was changed, and the loosing in the face established. Take the position of checkweighmen. Prior to the commencement of the Union (and at the time) the workmen's choice of their weighman was merely nominal. They selected, but the selection was subject to the approval of the employer or manager, and he was at all times liable to receive his notice, not from the men for whom he worked, but from the manager--and it could be given for anything which did not harmonise with the will of the manager. A breach of the law was not considered except it was colliery-made law. It will be obvious that his freedom of action (so far as the advocacy of the rights of workmen was concerned) would be very much restricted. In the generality of cases the policy was to "lie low." In this there has been a great and useful change. Now the checkweighman is employed by the workmen, and can only be removed by them, except he violates the conditions of the Mines' Regulation Act; and now he is (with rare exceptions) the mouthpiece of the men when meeting the manager, the leader in public movements, and the most prominent in matters relating to the Association. No less important is the facility for meeting the employers, and the spirit of equality which obtains. What a contrast between 1869 and 1904! Then it was truly a meeting of the superior with his inferiors, and as a natural consequence there was an absence of free discussion, which is so essential to the proper settlement of the questions arising between employers and workmen. Happily, that feeling has died out. There is less of the dictator and dictated to, and more of the meeting of equals. Then it was thought to employ men was to confer a favour upon them, and that consequently they were to consider themselves under patronage, and be satisfied with the treatment meted out to the patronised. Now it is realised that if the employers employ a man's labour the workmen employ their capital, that reciprocity and mutuality form the platform upon which the two sides can meet, and that free, unrestrained, courteous expression is not merely the right, but the safest and most beneficial course. There has not only been an economic benefit accruing to both sides alike, as a result of this equality, but there has been a mental stimulus given to the workmen. It is true that, concurrently with the life of the Association, the schoolmaster has been more abroad amongst the people. The boys commence work later in life, and with a larger mental capital, and that as a consequence there is more ability at command for the use of workmen, but it is a safe assertion that the fact of the organisation operating in our midst has been no mean factor in stimulating the use of the learning so acquired. The young men think it no small attainment to take part in the various offices which are held out to them in the Union, and they know as well that they must be prepared to fill those offices in an intelligent manner. It would be a difficult, but yet a most interesting, calculation if it could be shown how many men have been incited to mental activity in the manner indicated. From the very inception the Association has demonstrated that the industrial relations in this county were passing out of the region of brute force into that of reason, and the play of mind against mind, and that the body of working men who desire to hold their own, and progress, must do so by the mental force they could command. The greater that force the safer the position, and the more assured the amelioration of their conditions. By that will they conquer. The contrast between the number of able men now and in 1869 is encouraging. It gives the young assurance, and rejoices the heart of the aged, who in their youth saw this day as in a vision, but desired it. A natural corollary from the equality in meeting and the mental impetus is the amended mode of settling disputes and conducting our negotiations. We have come from a chronic state of open and avowed antagonism to (if not complete conciliation) at least a great approach to it. The history in describing the various stages in our path, will prove that the old era of contention was wearying and wasteful, as it was sure to be when the two parties considered themselves as two armies, and their strength of numbers and increase in capital were for purposes of crushing the other side. These ideas, like that of national superiority and large armaments, were hard to destroy on either side. Their presence made the attempts at compromise more difficult, and often helped those who were wishful to retrograde. They brought about the abolition of the sliding scales and the first Conciliation Board. It may be at some future stage they will effect the same with the second. This will not be, if the past teaches any lessons and the workmen of Durham recognise the tendency of the times. That is towards conciliation, and no step should be taken except to perfect it. If wisdom rules, that backward action will be avoided as a great danger. A very pleasing change is the greater care for life manifest during the last thirty-six years. The county has had its share of explosions in the period indicated. The following table will give us a view as to the extent of the life-saving in the mines of the nation. The table deals with three decades, and 1905 singly, and gives the deaths per year, the numbers of persons employed, with the number of tons, the average of each ten years being taken. Ten Years Deaths per Number of Number of ending Year Persons Employed Tons 1882 1129 558,816 152,221,629 1892 1032 614,200 182,646,507 1902 1015 666,060 215,790,835 1905 1159 887,524 249,782,594 The table is very cheering. The full value of it will be realised if we take the decade ending 1882 and compare it with 1905. There we have thirty more deaths, but we have 300,000 more people employed, and an increase of over 97,000,000 tons in output. The proportionate reduction in the saving of life is great. Three more changes remain to be noted. First, the political change. In 1869 the political power in the hands of the miners (as of all county dwellers) was a very small quantity. The logic of the situation was curious. Above a certain monetary position or size of a house, or possession of land, or living on one side of a line, men were allowed to vote; without those, and being over the line, they were prohibited. The law of England was an open declaration that houses, money, land, all insensate, could guarantee a man a qualification for doing that which alone can be done properly by the operation of mind, and living within an arbitrary area imparted to him full competency for the right of citizenship. He might have them to-day, and live on the borough side of the line, and be qualified; but the vicissitudes of life might strip him of his possessions--or the necessities of his occupation might compel him to move to-morrow--and he would be considered unfit to take part in the election of those who had to make the laws he was bound to obey, which is certainly a most sacred right. That anomaly was swept away. The Durham miners took their share of the work, and set the example as to the proper use of the power. Another of the changes we note is the strong desire there is for an improved home life. It is not an extraneous feeling forced upon the miners by outsiders, but is within them. There is a great change in that respect. There has been much done in the direction of the much-needed reform. The present is a long way from being satisfactory, but it is far in advance of the state at the inception of the Association. That only existed because it was born of use. The old-time houses are a standing witness of the opinion those who built them had of the workmen. How should we know that the merciful man regarded the life of his beast except by the manner of his feeding and _housing_? There is a change in that respect, but there is a more hopeful one, and that is the desire on the part of those who live in them for betterment. The man who is _content_ with a hovel, or room in a slum, will never look higher. To be dissatisfied with them is healthy, and is the sure road to a better state. May the feeling grow until bad houses and insanitation are removed; but it should never be forgotten that a house itself does not make a home--the life in it alone can do that. The last of the changes, but not the least, is the altered opinion about, and the more accurate knowledge of, the miner there is in the country. Forty years ago, to many of the people of London the northern miner was a dweller in remote regions, and a man of uncouth and rude speech and habits. Some believed he remained down in the mine, never coming to bank except for a holiday. The writer was once asked by a man not far from London how long he had been in the mines. He replied eight or nine years. Then said the querist: "Have you never been up till now?" He was informed that the miner came up every day. With surprise he exclaimed: "I thought you lived down in the mines altogether." That is only one of the numerous instances which could safely be quoted expressive of the ignorance about the miner and his life. They knew his product because it warmed them and cooked their food, but that was the extent of their correct information. But the change in the geographical and domestic knowledge is not all, nor the most important; the altered opinion of the miner as a man is more. The common name was the "Geordies," and that was used as being indicative of something low rather than a class cognomen. It was the idea as seen in the attitude of many in Durham when the first gala was held--as stated above. That is all changed during the thirty-six years we have existed as an Association. The man who speaks lightly of the class does it in the face of the clearest light, and from malice. It is of the class we speak here. If we reason from the individual our logic will be unsound, and all classes stand condemned. Taken in the bulk, as compared with our start, the miner has been raised on to a pedestal of respect. That is a result of his own self-respect. Without the latter the former will never be attained. It is the compelling force. It is the philosophy of Shakespeare's "To thine own self be true," which finds exemplification in every sphere and grade of life. The Durham miners have shown this in a marked degree. They may be void of some of the polish which is to be found amid the complaisances and conventionalities of the finer trades or higher walks of life--their battle for bread is a rough one--but he who wants honesty, uprightness, and bravery will not be disappointed if he turns to them. He need not seek far. IN MEMORIAM We have finished our history for the present, and traced it in rapid outline for thirty years. With the benefits we are enjoying from it, the enjoyment must not induce forgetfulness of the brave men who laid the foundations of our little kingdom, for such it is. We enter into their labours, but we will do so with gratitude, and not indifference. Their memory deserves more than a mere casual place with us. We should not be true men if we gave it only that. Let us remember that in reality the position we have realised and the solidity of our Association have been won and made possible by their spirit and foresight, and because we have kept ourselves close to the lines of their procedure. Ours is a great organisation, not because of its numbers (bulk may be weakness), but because of its principles. If it were not so, instead of standing out prominently as we do we should be in a dwarfed and stunted condition, and comparatively useless. The structure we now possess has risen by slow growth from very small beginnings and opposing forces. Every new idea, all the teaching of experience, were used as blocks by those patient builders laying the foundation for those who were to follow them. It is true there might be some mistake and bungling in the building. But in spite of these the structure has arisen with solidity, and from the rubble of that time we have reared up great walls and fair outlines, giving promise of future strength, durability, and usefulness. Truly the little one has become a great nation, and the weak one a strong force, and as long as we do not harm ourselves no power outside can. How shall we show our respect for them? We have no possible way except by carrying on their work and seeking to give effect and volume to it. The end of their policy was reform, not revolution--not only in a political way, but in every direction where it was needed. Every hindrance in the whole round of working conditions was to them an evil, and as such should be removed. Where immediate abolition was not possible they tried to reduce its magnitude. They preached the ideal life, seized the possible, and made the best of circumstances. And is the wisdom of their action not evident? The spasmodic has been succeeded by the settled and the orderly. Where hate was endangering the general weal by its unreasoning action we now have regular business relations. No doubt to many whose main feature is ardency and rush they were slow-paced. These would have gone faster, but there would have been slower progress. To the Israelites Moses was slow-paced, but the wilderness was their portion as a result of their grumbling. There were grumblers in our start from Egypt to a better position (some of them remain to this day), but these are not the spirits who would either lay foundations or rear structures. The live men before us now were not grumblers. They were too busy; the work before them was too imperative. They were discontented; but in essence there is a wide difference between that and a grumbler. Never since the world began has any grievance been removed by the latter class. They may have hindered, but never helped. They are the drags on the wheels, and complain because more speed is not made. The men of 1869 were men of different mettle, or the fear is we should never have had the Association we have, nor stood in the proud position we enjoy among the trades organisations of the nation. We are reaping where they sowed, and while we enjoy the harvest let us remember the sowers. We have placed their statues in a prominent position; but what do they mean to us? They are reminders of a state of things in a large part passed away, and as suggesters of a hope of a larger life in the future they contain a recognition and a resolve--a recognition of their work and a resolve to carry it forward: a recognition of the debt we owe to them, which can only be paid by service rendered to others. It is a debt which no statue, no matter how costly or lifelike, can liquidate. It can only be paid in kind. That is a truth we should not forget, but on all occasions give expression to. It is that expression which stamps real dignity upon the life of any man. Position, rank, title, wealth are all useless, for the true index is manliness and useful service. The true reformers have been (and are) men who assisted the good and resisted the evil, not simply because it would pay or bring preferment or popularity, but because they felt in their hearts the impulses (and compulsions, if you will) of duty. The love of man constrained them, and the imperative _I must_ forced them onward. The world's progress has not depended on the acts of the so-called great men, but on the endeavours and self-denials of men who were lost often amid the mists and struggles and poverty of life, and to whom its heavy burdens were not theoretical, but terribly near in their contact, and fearful in their weight and trial. The deeds of the workers of the race are not recorded to decorate history, but for strengthening the generations to come. For such purpose has prominence been given here to our workers. "The measure of a nation's civilisation is the number of the brave men it has had, whose qualities have been harvested for children and youth." We have had our brave men. They did not live to themselves. In this we must be their imitators. AU REVOIR I have had many pleasant occupations in connection with our Association, and the writing of this outline of our history is not the least pleasing among them. It has taken much time, but the result has been (not to be burdensome, but) to impart a somewhat hurried and loose character to the writing, and perhaps some slight omissions of facts, not material to the general course of the history. It has been compiled in the rush of other matters, and in odd minutes as they offered themselves, but its purpose will be attained if a desire to form a closer acquaintance with our growth and transactions be provoked, especially in the minds of our young men, in the hope that they may be rooted and grounded in their faith in Trades Unionism. The dependence of the future is upon them. What is more important than for them to have a full knowledge of our policy and procedure? The subject is to me of the most interesting nature. From start to finish it has been running the current of my own life, because in nearly all the incidents I have had some small share--as one in the ranks at first, and in these later years as one of the officials. I saw the start, have seen the growth, and feel proud of its position. With those who helped to form it I shared the evil speaking and unfair treatment when we made the attempt, and have never hesitated to be a partner in the blame and slanders which small-minded men have seen fit to bestow upon those who were doing their duty. The narrow mind always feels a pleasure in censuring others. I say nothing of the work which has been done except this: in all I have had any part in there has been pleasure, and none of the hireling waiting for the shadow of the day. I have shared the regrets of those who regretted the failures, and now I am thankful there is large room to rejoice over the progress made and the position attained. This feeling, you will permit me to say, is bound to be stronger in me than in most men. It is part of my life. Thirty-seven years is a long time. A man is a fool, or worse, if, living in contact with an institution (one in which he has lived and moved and had his being), it has not made more than a mechanical impression upon him. I have passed from youth to age in that contact. It commenced in the prime of manhood, and continues when life's day is declining, and the gathering shades indicate the sun has dipped far to the west, and to find myself in active service, even with the limited powers resulting from the weight of threescore years and ten, is the crown of my rejoicing. I have been a long time the colleague of some of you. In the battle we have been shoulder to shoulder, and our hair has turned grey in the fight. We have been together in good and evil, for the web of our life has been of mingled yarn. Good and evil together have been mixed, but the good has predominated--how much we alone can tell. I rejoice with you that we have lived to see this day, and that we are still fighting the good fight, with the hopeful spirit, if the physical energies are less than when we commenced. There is a great distance between the point we have attained and the valley whence we started--a distance not measured by time. The true standard is an experience such as our life alone can supply. My final word is to my young brothers. It is that of exhortation to appreciate not merely the conditions you enjoy, but the possibilities opened out to you. The thought of these should stir you up to the enjoyment of one and the use of the other. Believe me, about this I am very anxious, and shall rejoice if something in this book, or suggested by it, tends to stir you to good and profitable use of the facilities and time the Association has opened out to you. The opening out of these devolves upon you a twofold duty: to yourselves first, and then devoting yourselves to the improvement, solidifying, strengthening, and perfecting of the organisation. Let me quote a few words I have written to you before: To omit the duty you owe to yourselves; to neglect the opportunities which are open to you; to think all of pleasure and sport, and nothing of mental culture; to leave the institutes which are opening out to you, with their libraries, and which with their stores of knowledge bring you into living, thoughtful contact with the mental giants of the race; to live only for present enjoyment, with no preparation for to-morrow, which will need and make demands upon you, is surely a lack of forethought, which is condemnable for two reasons, because it stunts your own nature (for no uneducated man is complete), and hinders your usefulness when matured manhood calls upon you to take your place in the affairs of your class and nation, to assist in the progress of one and the rectification of the national evils. Put not your trust in other people entirely; look not to some power outside yourselves to raise you higher in the social scale, whether it be parliamentary or otherwise. The most effective means for further progress lies in us. We want to be true to ourselves, resting not satisfied with foul conditions and surroundings nor ignorance. An educated people is a powerful people; for where is there a man who knows what is due to a man who will be satisfied with less than what a man requires and deserves? These thoughts form the _raison-d'être_ of this history. The aim is to make it a reliable record of facts and an inspiration to those who read. There has been no attempt at literary display. There has been a desire to give prominence to the principles of the founders, and to urge adherence to them, for by them we have come, and by them we shall progress. Our course has been gradual, but it has been safe. We have a record of which all may justly feel proud. It has not been rushing nor spasmodic. In these ofttimes lies ruin, and this we have found when we as an Association have tried that method. Carefulness and caution are not cowardice. These feelings may not be heroic, but they have proved their fitness in the years that are gone. "Discretion is the better part of valour." "More firm and sure the hand of courage strikes When it obeys the watchful eye of caution." This was the leading feature of those who made our present possible. No one would dare charge them with lack of true heroism. Let me urge upon you the same spirit. The road may seem longer, and the processes more painful and slow, but these need not damp your spirits. They should brace you for the struggle, strengthen your purpose, fix more firmly your hopes, give you larger faith in the future, induce you to realise your place in life and not be drifters with the current. There are too many who are satisfied to merely exist. They have no aspiration nor ideal nor hope. No man has a right to pass through life indifferent to the wrongs around him. Two things we must avoid: impetuosity in associated work and stagnation in the individual life. Each life should be a clear current, invigorating, not a mere moral miasmatic pool, but cleansing, elevating, ennobling. There are three voices calling upon this generation: the past with the work done for us; the present with its demands upon our help for rectification; and the future with its possibilities of a better and purer life. There are many powers opened out to you, but there are three which stand out prominently: sobriety, education, association. These used, the darkness will disperse, the downtrodden be raised, and England made truly a home for her people. The continuous sunshine in which some dwell and the dark poverty in which thousands exist will be blended, every soul-enslaving fetter be bruised and broken and cast away, and the world be brighter for our living in it; and we, when called to our account, will feel cheered that we have done what we could to cast out the old and cruel conditions and ring in the Christ that is to be, when want and hunger shall be no more and that state which the rich provision in nature and the wonderful production around us provides for shall be realised. APPENDIX I THE GALAS, WITH THE DAY AND DATE UPON WHICH THEY WERE HELD 1871 Saturday, August 12th, at Wharton Park, Durham. 1872 " June 15th, on Race-course, Durham. 1873 " June 14th " " 1874 " August 15th " " 1875 " July 3rd " " 1876 Monday July 3rd " " 1877 " July 16th " " 1878 Saturday July 6th " " 1879 " July 5th " " 1880 " July 31st " " 1881 " July 30th " " 1882 " July 1st " " 1883 " July 14th " " 1884 " July 5th " " 1885 " July 25th " " 1886 " July 31st " " 1887 " July 23rd " " 1888 " July 14th " " 1889 " July 6th " " 1890 " July 12th " " 1891 " July 4th " " 1892 " July 23rd " " 1893 " July 29th " " 1894 " July 21st " " 1895 " July 27th " " 1896 " July 18th " " 1897 " July 24th " " 1898 " July 16th " " 1899 " July 22nd " " 1900 " July 28th " " 1901 " July 20th " " 1902 " July 26th " " 1903 " July 18th " " 1904 " July 23rd " " 1905 " July 29th " " 1906 " July 21st " " APPENDIX II CHANGES IN WAGES FROM 1872 Date of change Advance Reduction taking effect per cent. per cent. February 1872 20 -- July 1872 15 -- February 1873 15 -- April 1874 -- 10 November 1874 -- 9 April 1875 -- 5 February 1876 -- 7 September 1876 -- 6 April 1877 -- 7½ May 1879 -- 8¾ July 1879 -- 1¼ December 1880 2½ -- April 1882 3¾ -- August 1882 -- 1¼ November 1882 1¼ -- February 1883 1¼ -- August 1884 -- 1¼ May 1885 -- 1¼ May 1886 -- 1¼ February 1888 1¼ -- May 1888 -- 1¼ August 1888 -- 1¼ November 1888 1¼ -- February 1889 1¼ -- August 1889 10 -- December 1889 10 -- March 3-10, 1890 5 -- December 29, 1890 5 -- January 5, 1891 -- -- June 1, 1892 -- 10 March 1893 -- 5 [1]October 16, 1893 5 -- May 6-13, 1895 -- 7½ October 7-14, 1895 -- 2½ August 14-21, 1897 2½ -- [2]May 16-23, 1898 2½ -- May 16-23, 1898 2½ -- Oct. 31-Nov. 7, 1898 2½ -- [3]April 17-24, 1899 2½ -- July 24-31, 1899 2½ -- November 6-13, 1899 3¾ -- February 12-19, 1900 5 -- May 14-21, 1900 7½ -- August 13-20, 1900 10 -- November 12-19, 1900 10 -- February 11-18, 1901 -- 1¼ May 13-20, 1901 -- 11¼ August 12-19, 1901 -- 7½ November 12-19, 1901 -- 5 February 17-24, 1902 -- 1¼ May 12-19, 1902 -- 2½ August 11-18, 1902 -- 2½ February 9-16, 1903 1¼ -- May 11-18, 1903 -- 1¼ August 10-17, 1903 -- 1¼ February 8-15, 1904 -- 1¼ May 16-23, 1904 -- 2½ November 7-14, 1904 -- 1¼ February 5-12, 1906 1¼ -- August 6-13, 1906 2½ -- November 12-19, 1906 1¼ -- [Footnote 1: Originally given as a temporary advance for six pays, afterwards converted into an ordinary advance.] [Footnote 2: Originally given for six pays, afterwards continued for further period of six pays, and again extended until pays ending 15th and 22nd April 1899; it was then continued as an ordinary advance.] [Footnote 3: Of this advance one and a quarter per cent. was given for seven pays, and afterwards merged in the ordinary percentage.] APPENDIX III Table showing the explosions and inundations, with the date and number of lives lost, since the beginning of 1869, in Durham, brought down to the end of 1906, with two statements on the dust theory by Mr J. Forman. Lives lost 1869--May 25, Monkwearmouth 7 1871--October 25, Seaham 30 1878--July 6, Craghead exploded 4 1880--September 8, Seaham Colliery exploded 168 1882--February 16, Trimdon Colliery exploded 74 1882--April 18, Tudhoe exploded 36 1882--April 13, West Stanley exploded 13 1885--March 2, Usworth exploded 41 1885--June 3, Houghton-le-Spring 12 1885--December 2, Elemore 28 1889--November 2, Hebburn 6 1895--December 13, Eppleton 3 1896--April 13, Brancepeth A Pit 20 1897--May 6, East Hetton, inundation 10 1899--August 15, Brandon C Pit 6 1902--May 20, Deaf Hill 1 1903--November 16, Sacriston, inundation 3 1906--October 14, Wingate, explosion 24 1906--December 17, Urpeth Busty, explosion 4 A THEORY SHOWING HOW COAL DUST IS IGNITED AND EXPLODED IN A COAL MINE, MORE ESPECIALLY ON IN-TAKE AIR ROADS In the first place, there must be a considerable quantity of very fine and dry coal dust in the immediate proximity of a shot when fired; and if the shot is a strong one the concussion will be very great. This force, acting on the air, throws the finest particles of coal dust into the circulating current, in a finely divided state, with orbid motion, thereby causing each particle of coal dust to be surrounded with air, and these particles of dust in this condition coming in contact with the flame of a shot, are easily ignited. At the moment of ignition the temperature of the particles of dust is low, but as the ignition extends to other particles, and they become ignited in quantity, the temperature rises, so that the motion of the heated particles becomes more rapid by expanding and compressing the air, until their velocity is so great that the temperature of the burning dust is raised to the temperature of gas flame, exploding the coal dust in its course. At this high temperature, the expansion of the air will develop great force, which acting on the dust at rest, will whirl it into the air current, and this will be continued so long as there is a sufficient quantity of coal dust and air to feed the flame. JOHN FORMAN. * * * * * To J. Wilson, Esq., Secretary to the Royal Commission on Explosions from Coal Dust in Mines. Dear Sir,--In October 1871 an explosion occurred at Seaham Colliery, and my attention was called to it; and, after considering all the circumstances of the case, I eventually came to the conclusion that the shot fired by the two Simpsons ignited the coal dust and caused the explosion. In September 1880 another explosion took place at Seaham Colliery. I went down the pit in the evening of the day of the explosion with Mr Stratton (the manager) and other Mining Engineers, and I remained at Seaham Colliery for 12 months, until the last body was found, and was, during that time, down the pit almost every day as an explorer. I also attended the inquest and gave evidence. I was satisfied from what I saw that the shot fired by Simpson and Brown ignited the coal dust and caused the explosion. In February 1882 an explosion occurred at Trimdon Grange Colliery. I went down the pit and attended the inquest, and from what I saw and heard I concluded that the explosion was caused by a flushed kitty or straw at Maitland's shot firing a small quantity of fire-damp, which ignited the coal dust and caused the explosion. In April 1882 an explosion occurred at West Stanley Colliery. I attended the inquest, and from what I could learn the shot fired by the two men (Douglas and Hutchinson) ignited a small portion of fire-damp, which fired the coal dust, and brought on an explosion. In March 1885 an explosion happened at Usworth Colliery. I attended the inquest, and came to an opinion that the shot fired by the two men, named Brown, ignited the coal dust, which produced an explosion. In December 1886 an explosion occurred at Elemore Colliery. I went down the pit and attended the inquest. I was satisfied, in my mind, that the shot fired by the three men (Johnson, Appleby and Luke) ignited the coal dust, thereby causing the explosion.--Yours, etc. JOHN FORMAN. _December 1886._ INDEX A Accountants, 128, 164, 314 Aftermath of 1892 strike, 245 Agents' districts, 23-24 Alteration of the "First Caller," 59, 337 Amicability in disputes, 340 Arbitration, Deputies', 170 -- earliest, 33 -- first general, 85, 103 -- second, 109 -- third, 113 -- fourth, 118 -- owners refuse, 152 -- working hours, 169 Armstrong, W., 103, 109 Attempts to form Union, 6 Average, county, 162 -- theoretical and real, 147 Award, 1879, _pro tem_., 157 -- J. R. Lyn's, 220 Awards, Lord Davey's, 1895, 267-269 Award, Lord Davey's, 1902, 319 B Bank Holiday, 318 Banking account, 18 Benefits, reduction of, 199 Blagdon, Rev. M., 26 Bond, yearly, 17, 47, 49 Boys' wages, 309, 324 Broken price agreement, 325 Brown, W., 8, 35 Building, the, 16 Bunning, T. W., 47 Burt, T., 8, 20, 103, 182 C Cairns, A., 23, 26, 32 "Caller, First," 59, 337 Candymen, 96 Cann, T. H., appointed treasurer, 276 Care for life, 341 Changes, 337 Checkweighmen, 73, 338 Clerk, first appointed, 105 Coal-drawing agreement, 323 Coal Owners' Association formed, 46 Coal Tax, 310 Commission, Royal, 86 Committee, 1879, 160 Compensation Act 1897, 291 Conciliation Board, 263 -- first members of, 266 -- renewed, 294, 331 Co-operative colliery, 90, 110 -- Committee, 110 County Council, 209 Crake, W., 7, 13 Crawford, W., 6, 9, 23, 26, 31, 33, 37, 103, 109 -- attack on, 80 -- censure on, 84 -- candidature of, 88 -- death of, 215 D Dale, D., Sir, 103, 109, 157 Dark Days, 197 Deputies' basis wage fixed, 301 -- difference as to, 120 -- hours, 1870, 121 -- wage, 1870, 121 -- wage, 173 Derby, Lord, 160 Desire for better houses, 343 E Educational benefit of Union, 340 Emigration, 131, 165 Employers' Liability Act, 172 Entrance fee, first, 18, 121 Equality, 339 Evictions, Wheatley Hill, 96 Ex-Committee condemned, 145 -- expelled, 114 -- rules, 114 F Federation Board formed, 140 -- condemned, 145 -- first members of the, 141 Federation, Miners', -- Durham miners and the, 251, 256 -- expulsion from the, 259 -- refuses Durham, 277 Fillers' agreement, 333 Firemen's week-end shifts, 316 Five days per week, 183 Forman, J., 36, 38, 103, 105, 119 -- death of, 302 Forsters', W. E., award, 109 Fowler, J., 61 Franchise Association, 88 -- extension of, 191 G Gala, first, 31-34 -- first on the race-course, 59 Galbraith, S., appointed, 305 Golightly, W., 105 Gordon, W., 114, 118 Graham, Coroner, 298 Gurney's, Russell, award, 103 Guthrie, R., 207 H Hall, the new, 82, 118 Hand putters' basis wage, 324 Heath, Mr, 337 Hewers' datal wage, 306 Homes, Aged Miners', 297 Hopwood's, C. H., award, 113 Hours arbitration, 132 Hours', arrangement, ten, 214, 217 -- eight, 199 -- ballot on, 248 -- second ballot on, 321 -- of boys, 32, 48, 74, 77, 83 Houses and house rent, 307 Housing condition, 104, 110 House, W., appointed to Joint Committee, 292 -- appointed President, 305 I Imprisonment of Messrs Cann, Jones, and Forbes, 244 Increased knowledge of the miners, 343 Industrial Remuneration Conference, 190 Isaacs, Mr, 336 J Johnson, J., appointed treasurer, 217 -- fin. secretary, 276 Johnson, Mr, and Gateshead, 328 Joint Committee, formation of, 66 -- first meeting, 69 -- suspended, 164, 329 Jones, L., 83, 103, 109, 119, 196 Judge, a, puzzled, 30 L Labourers' basis wage, 306 Labour representation, 194, 326 Leaders, the first, 37 Lords, House of, 192 M Macdonald, A., 17 -- death of, 180 Meynell, Mr E., 112, 335 -- award, 134 Miners' demand for trained miners, 90 -- International Congress, formed, 223 -- National Conference, 25, 124 -- Act 1861, 1 -- Act 1871, 71 -- Act 1872, 71, 72 N Negotiations of 1890, 211 Notices given to enforce a reduction, 101 -- again given by owners, 107 O O'Connor, Judge, 197, 335 Officers, first, 14 Opposition, 41, 42, 43, 44 P Patterson, W. H., 8, 13, 26, 39, 113 -- appointed corres. secretary, 216 -- death of, 273 Patterson's, Mr, statue, 319 Political power, 342 Position of the Association, 136 President, first, 19 President, permanent, 105 Putters' hours at datal work, 316 -- short shift, stone, 324 R Ramsey, T., 8, 25, 80 Reduction, first, 89, 91 -- second, 98 -- third, 105 -- fourth, 111 -- fifth, 115 -- of bankmen, 104 -- of 1879, 141 Reductions, private, 148 Relief Fund, first, 129 -- second, 187 Rent paying in 1892, 247 Resolutions, first gala, 61 Restriction of output, 167 Rhymer, E., 6, 84 Richardson, J., 7, 11 Rocking Strike, 2 S Salary of first treasurer, 25 Sanderson, R. B., 68, 112 Screenmen's basis wage, 306 Seaham strike, 55 Shaw Lefevre's award, 119 Simpson, C., 114 Sliding Scale, first, 124 -- second, 163 -- third, 174 -- fourth, 185 -- abolished, 202 -- violation of, 167 Smart money, 309 Stobart, W., 46 Strike at Silksworth, 223 -- at Wheatley Hill, 95 -- of 1874, 93 -- of 1879, 154 -- of 1892, 231 Strikes illegal, 24 Surface firemen's wages, 325 T Taylor, Hugh, 47, 63 -- J. W., 328 Thornley meeting, 13 Timber leaders' hours, 317 Trotter, L., 197 Trustees, first, 14 W Wage Board, first mention of, 235, 251, 254 Wages, advance in, 48, 50, 63, 71, 76 Wages in 1898-99, 288, 293 Washington strike, 281 Water leaders' hours, 317 Wearmouth strike, 3 Westcott, Bishop, 241, 262, 299 -- death of, 313 Wheatley Hill inundation, 28 -- "Putt Pay," 188 Wilkinson, N., 8, 14, 38, 113, 119, 182 Wilson, J., 114, 118, 182, 192 -- appointed fin. secretary, 217 -- appointed corres. secretary, 276 Wood, Lindsay, Mr, 68, 83, 157, 207 J. H. VEITCH AND SONS DURHAM * * * * * Transcriber's Notes Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected. Hyphenation has been rationalised. Variations in spelling and punctuation have been retained. Words in _italics_ are denoted thus. The repetition of the title on page 1 has been removed. 
31128	----	[Illustration: BULLDOG FINDS A FRIEND.] FACING DEATH OR, THE HERO OF THE VAUGHAN PIT. A TALE OF THE COAL MINES. BY G. A. HENTY, Author of "With Clive in India;" "In Freedom's Cause;" "By Sheer Pluck;" "Under Drake's Flag;" &c. _WITH EIGHT FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS BY GORDON BROWNE._ LONDON: BLACKIE & SON, LIMITED; NEW YORK: CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS, 743 AND 745 BROADWAY CONTENTS. CHAP. PAGE I. EVIL TIDINGS, 9 II. BULL-DOG, 16 III. THE RESOLUTION, 31 IV. THE VAUGHAN PIT, 39 V. SETTING TO WORK, 49 VI. "THE OLD SHAFT," 54 VII. FRIENDSHIP, 64 VIII. PROGRESS, 74 IX. THE GREAT STRIKE, 80 X. HARD TIMES, 96 XI. THE ATTACK ON THE ENGINE-HOUSE, 105 XII. AFTER THE STRIKE, 117 XIII. A HEAVY LOSS, 124 XIV. THE NIGHT-SCHOOL, 134 XV. THE SEWING-CLASS, 146 XVI. A NEW LIFE, 156 XVII. THE DOG FIGHT, 166 XVIII. STOKEBRIDGE FEAST, 173 XIX. THE GREAT RIOT, 183 XX. THE ARM OF THE LAW, 193 XXI. A KNOTTY QUESTION, 201 XXII. THE SOLUTION, 209 XXIII. THE EXPLOSION AT THE VAUGHAN, 222 XXIV. IN DEADLY PERIL, 235 XXV. THE IMPRISONED MINERS, 239 XXVI. A CRITICAL MOMENT, 253 XXVII. RESCUED, 259 XXVIII. CHANGES, 274 XXIX. THE NEW MANAGER, 283 XXX. RISEN, 289 XXXI. CONCLUSION, 298 ILLUSTRATIONS. PAGE BULLDOG FINDS A FRIEND, _Frontispiece_. IN THE OLD SHAFT--CAN HE BE SAVED? 58 NELLY'S FIRST LESSON, 70 A LIFE OR DEATH STRUGGLE, 113 JACK IS VICTORIOUS, 170 THE NEW SCHOOLMISTRESS, 217 AFTER THE FIRST EXPLOSION--THE SEARCH PARTY, 237 SAVED! 270 FACING DEATH: OR, HOW STOKEBRIDGE WAS CIVILIZED. CHAPTER I. EVIL TIDINGS. A row of brick-built houses with slate roofs, at the edge of a large mining village in Staffordshire. The houses are dingy and colourless, and without relief of any kind. So are those in the next row, so in the street beyond, and throughout the whole village. There is a dreary monotony about the place; and if some giant could come and pick up all the rows of houses, and change their places one with another, it is a question whether the men, now away at work, would notice any difference whatever until they entered the houses standing in the place of those which they had left in the morning. There is a church, and a vicarage half hidden away in the trees in its pretty old-fashioned garden; there are two or three small red-bricked dissenting chapels, and the doctor's house, with a bright brass knocker and plate on the door. There are no other buildings above the common average of mining villages; and it needs not the high chimneys, and engine-houses with winding gear, dotting the surrounding country, to notify the fact that Stokebridge is a mining village. It is a little past noon, and many of the women come to their doors and look curiously after a miner, who, in his working clothes, and black with coal-dust, walks rapidly towards his house, with his head bent down, and his thick felt hat slouched over his eyes. "It's Bill Haden; he works at the 'Vaughan.'" "What brings he up at this hour?" "Summat wrong, I'll be bound." Bill Haden stopped at the door of his house in the row first spoken of, lifted the latch, and went in. He walked along a narrow passage into the back-room. His wife, who was standing at the washing-tub, turned round with a surprised exclamation, and a bull-dog with half-a-dozen round tumbling puppies scrambled out of a basket by the fire, and rushed to greet him. "What is it, Bill? what's brought thee home before time?" For a moment Bill Haden did not answer, but stooped, and, as it were mechanically, lifted the dog and stroked its head. "There's blood on thy hands, Bill. What be wrong with 'ee?" "It bain't none of mine, lass," the man said in an unsteady voice. "It be Jack's. He be gone." "Not Jack Simpson?" "Ay, Jack Simpson; the mate I ha' worked with ever since we were butties together. A fall just came as we worked side by side in the stall, and it broke his neck, and he's dead." The woman dropped into a chair, threw her apron over her head, and cried aloud, partly at the loss of her husband's mate, partly at the thought of the narrow escape he had himself had. "Now, lass," her husband said, "there be no time to lose. It be for thee to go and break it to his wife. I ha' come straight on, a purpose. I thawt to do it, but I feel like a gal myself, and it had best be told her by another woman." Jane Haden took her apron from her face. "Oh, Bill, how can I do it, and she ill, and with a two-month baby? I misdoubt me it will kill her." "Thou'st got to do it," Bill said doggedly, "and thou'd best be quick about it; it won't be many minutes afore they bring him in." When Bill spoke in that way his wife knew, as he said, that she'd got to do it, and without a word she rose and went out, while her husband stood staring into the fire, and still patting the bull-dog in his arms. A tear falling on his hand startled him. He dropped the dog and gave it a kick, passed his sleeve across his eyes, and said angrily: "Blest if I bain't a crying like a gal. Who'd a thawt it? Well, well, poor old Jack! he was a good mate too"--and Bill Haden proceeded to light his pipe. Slowly and reluctantly Mrs. Haden passed along the row. The sad errand on which she was going was one that has often to be discharged in a large colliery village. The women who had seen Bill go in were still at their doors, and had been joined by others. The news that he had come in at this unusual hour had passed about quickly, and there was a general feeling of uneasiness among the women, all of whom had husbands or relatives below ground. When, therefore, Jane Haden came out with signs of tears on her cheeks, her neighbours on either side at once assailed her with questions. "Jack Simpson's killed by a fall," she said, "and I ha' got to break it to his wife." Rapidly the news spread along the row, from door to door, and from group to group. The first feeling was everywhere one of relief that it was not their turn this time; then there was a chorus of pity for the widow. "It will go hard with her," was the general verdict. Then the little groups broke up, and went back to their work of getting ready for the return of their husbands from the pit at two o'clock. One or two only, of those most intimate with the Simpsons, followed Jane Haden slowly down the street to the door of their house, and took up a position a short distance off, talking quietly together, in case they might be wanted, and with the intention of going in after the news was broken, to help comfort the widow, and to make what preparations were needed for the last incoming of the late master of the house. It was but a minute or two that they had to pause, for the door opened again, and Jane Haden beckoned them to come in. It had, as the gossips had predicted, gone hard with the young widow. She was sitting before the fire when Jane entered, working, and rocking the cradle beside with her foot. At the sight of her visitor's pale face, and tear-stained cheeks, and quivering lips, she had dropped her work and stood up, with a terrible presentiment of evil--with that dread which is never altogether absent from the mind of a collier's wife. She did not speak, but stood with wide-open eyes staring at her visitor. "Mary, my poor girl," Mrs. Haden began. That was enough, the whole truth burst upon her. "He is killed?" she gasped. Mrs. Haden gave no answer in words, but her face was sufficient as she made a step forward towards the slight figure which swayed unsteadily before her. Mary Simpson made no sound save a gasping sob, her hand went to her heart, and then she fell in a heap on the ground, before Mrs. Haden, prepared as she was, had time to clasp her. "Thank God," Jane Haden said, as she went to the front door and beckoned the others in, "she has fainted." "Ay, I thawt as much," one of the women said, "and a good job too. It's always best so till he is brought home, and things are straightened up." Between them Mary Simpson was tenderly lifted, and carried upstairs and laid on the bed of a lodger's room there. The cradle was brought up and put beside it, and then Jane Haden took her seat by the bed, one woman went for the doctor, while the others prepared the room below. In a short time all that remained of Jack Simpson was borne home on a stretcher, on the shoulders of six of his fellow-workmen, and laid in the darkened room. The doctor came and went for the next two days, and then his visits ceased. It had gone hard with Mary Simpson. She had passed from one long fainting fit into another, until at last she lay as quiet as did Jack below; and the doctor, murmuring "A weak heart, poor little woman; the shock was too much for her," took his departure for the last time from the house. Then Jane Haden, who had not left her friend's side ever since she was carried upstairs, wrapped the baby in a shawl and went home, a neighbour carrying the cradle. When Bill Haden returned from work he found the room done up, the table laid for tea, and the kettle on the fire. His wife was sitting by it with the baby on her lap. "Well, lass," he said, as he entered the room, "so the poor gal's gone. I heard it as I came along. Thou'st's had a hard two days on't. Hulloa! what's that?" "It's the baby, Bill," his wife said. "What hast brought un here for?" he asked roughly. Jane Haden did not answer directly, but standing in front of her husband, removed the handkerchief which covered the baby's face as he lay on her arm. "Look at him, Bill; he's something like Jack, don't thou see it?" "Not a bit of it," he said gruffly. "Kids don't take after their father, as pups do." "I can see the likeness quite plain, Bill. Now," she went on, laying her hand on his shoulder, "I want to keep him. We ain't got none of our own, Bill, and I can't abear the thought of his going to the House." Bill Haden stood irresolute. "I shouldn't like to think of Jack's kid in the House; still he'll be a heap of trouble--worse nor a dozen pups, and no chance of winning a prize with him nohow, or of selling him, or swopping him if his points don't turn out right. Still, lass, the trouble will be thine, and by the time he's ten he'll begin to earn his grub in the pit; so if thy mind be set on't, there's 'n end o' the matter. Now let's have tea; I ain't had a meal fit for a dog for the last two days, and Juno ain't got her milk regular." So little Jack Simpson became a member of the Haden family, and his father and mother were laid to rest in the burying-ground on the hillside above the village. CHAPTER II. BULL-DOG. A curious group as they sit staring into the fire. Juno and Juno's daughter Bess, brindles both, with their underhanging lower jaws, and their black noses and wrinkled faces, and Jack Simpson, now six years old, sitting between them, as grave and as immovable as his supporters. One dog is on either side of him and his arms are thrown round their broad backs. Mrs. Haden is laying the table for her husband's return; she glances occasionally at the quiet group in front of the fire, and mutters to herself: "I never did see such a child in all my born days." Presently a sudden and simultaneous pricking of the closely-cropped ears of Juno and Bess proclaim that among the many footsteps outside they have detected the tread of their master. Jack accepts the intimation and struggles up to his feet just as Bill Haden lifts the latch and enters. "It's a fine day, Bill," his wife said. "Be it?" the collier replied in return. "I took no note o't. However it doant rain, and that's all I cares for. And how's the dogs? Did you give Juno that physic ball I got for her?" "It's no manner of use, Bill, leaving they messes wi' me. I ha' tould you so scores o' times. She woant take it from me. She sets her jaws that fast that horses could na pull 'em apart, and all the while I'm trying she keeps oop a growl like t' organ at the church. She's a' right wi'out the physic, and well nigh pinned Mrs. Brice when she came in to-day to borrow a flatiron. She was that frighted she skirled out and well nigh fainted off. I had to send Jack round to the "Chequers" for two o' gin before she came round." "Mrs. Brice is a fool and you're another," Bill said. "Now, ooman, just take off my boots for oim main tired. What be you staring at, Jack? Were you nearly pinning Mother Brice too?" "I doant pin folk, I doant," Jack said sturdily. "I kicks 'em, I do, but I caught hold o' Juno's tail, and held on. And look 'ee here, dad, I've been a thinking, doant 'ee lift I oop by my ears no more, not yet. They are boath main sore. I doant believe neither Juno nor Bess would stand bein lifted oop by their ears, not if they were sore. I be game enough, I be, but till my ears be well you must try some other part. I expect the cheek would hurt just as bad, so you can try that." "I do wish, Bill, you would not try these tricks on the boy. He's game enough, and if you'd ha' seen him fighting to-day with Mrs. Jackson's Bill, nigh twice as big as himself, you'd ha' said so too; but it ain't Christian-like to try children the same way as pups, and really his ears are sore, awful sore. I chanced t' notice 'em when I washed his face afore he went to school, and they be main bad, I tell 'ee." "Coom here," the miner said to Jack. "Aye, they be sore surely; why didn't 'ee speak afore, Jack? I doant want to hurt 'ee, lad." "I wa'n't going to speak," Jack said. "Mother found it out, and said she'd tell 'ee o't; but the last two nights I were well nigh yelping when 'ee took me up." "You're a good plucked 'un, Jack," Bill Haden said, "and I owt not t' ha done it, but I didn't think it hurt 'ee, leastways not more nor a boy owt to be hurt, to try if 'ee be game!" "And what's you and t' dogs been doing to-day, Jack?" the miner asked, as he began at his dinner. "We went for a walk, dad, after school, out in the lanes; we saw a big black cat, and t' dogs chased her into a tree, then we got 't a pond, and d'ye know, dad, Bess went in and swam about, she did!" "She did?" the miner said sharply. "Coom here, Bess;" and leaving his meal, he began anxiously to examine the bull-dog's eyes and listened attentively to her breathing. "That were a rum start for a bull too, Jack. She doant seem to ha' taken no harm, but maybe it ain't showed itself. Mother, you give her some hot grub t' night. Doant you let her go in t' water again, Jack. What on airth made her tak it into her head to go into t' water noo, I wonder?" "I can't help it if she wants to," Jack said; "she doant mind I, not when she doant want to mind. I welted her t'other day when she wanted to go a't parson's coo, but she got hold o' t' stick and pulled it out o' my hand." "And quite raight too," Bill Haden said; "don't 'ee try to welt they dogs, or I'll welt thee!" "I doant care," the child said sturdily; "if I goes out in charge o' they dogs, theys got to mind me, and how can I make 'em mind me if I doant welt 'em? What would 'ee say to I if Bess got had up afore the court for pinning t' parson's coo?" As no ready reply occurred to Bill Haden to this question he returned to his meal. Juno and Bess watched him gravely till he had finished, and then, having each received a lump of meat put carefully aside for them, returned to the fire. Jack, curling himself up beside them, lay with his head on Juno's body and slept till Mrs. Haden, having cleared the table and washed up the things, sent him out to play, her husband having at the conclusion of his meal lighted his pipe and strolled over to the "Chequers." Bill Haden had, according to his lights, been a good father to the child of his old mate Simpson. He treated him just as if he had been his own. He spent twopence a day less in beer than before, and gave his wife fourteen pence in addition to her weekly money for household expenses, for milk for the kid, just as he allowed twopence a day each for bones for Juno and Bess. He also when requested by his wife handed over what sum was required for clothing and shoes, not without grumbling, however, and comparisons as to the wants of dorgs and boys, eminently unfavourable to the latter. The weekly twopence for schooling Mrs. Haden had, during the year that Jack had been at school, paid out of her housekeeping money, knowing that the expenses of the dogs afforded no precedent whatever for such a charge. Bill Haden was, however, liberal to the boy in many ways, and when in a good temper would often bestow such halfpence as he might have in his pocket upon him, and now and then taking him with him into town, returned with such clothes and shoes that "mother" held up her hands at the extravagance. Among his young companions Jack was liked but feared. When he had money he would purchase bull's-eyes, and collecting all his acquaintances, distribute them among them; but he was somewhat sedate and old-fashioned in his ways, from his close friendships with such thoughtful and meditative animals as Juno and Bess, and when his wrath was excited he was terrible. Never uttering a cry, however much hurt, he would fight with an obstinacy and determination which generally ended by giving him the victory, for if he once got hold of an antagonist's hair--pinning coming to him naturally--no amount of blows or ill-treatment could force him to leave go until his agonized opponent confessed himself vanquished. It was not often, however, that Jack came in contact with the children of his own age. His duties as guardian of the "dorgs" absorbed the greater part of his time, and as one or both of these animals generally accompanied him when he went beyond the door, few cared about having anything to say to him when so attended; for the guardianship was by no means entirely on his side, and however excellent their qualities and pure their breed, neither Juno nor Bess were animals with whom strangers would have ventured upon familiarity. Jack's reports to his "dad" of Bess's inclination to attack t' parson's coo was not without effect, although Bill Haden had made no remark at the time. That night, however, he observed to his wife: "I've been a thinking it over, Jane, and I be come to the opinion that it's better t' boy should not go out any more wi' t' dorgs. Let 'em bide at home, I'll take 'em oot when they need it. If Bess takes it into her head to pin a coo there might be trouble, an I doan't want trouble. Her last litter o' pups brought me a ten pun note, and if they had her oop at 'a court and swore her life away as a savage brute, which she ain't no way, it would pretty nigh break my heart." The execution of this, as of many other good intentions, however, was postponed until an event happened which led to Jack's being definitely relieved of the care of his canine friends. Two years had passed, when one morning Jack was calmly strolling along the road accompanied by Juno and Bess. A gig came rapidly along containing two young bagmen, as commercial travellers were still called in Stokebridge. The driver, seeing a child with two dogs, conceived that this was a favourable opportunity for a display of that sense of playful humour whose point lies in the infliction of pain on others, without any danger of personal consequences to the inflictor. With a sharp sweep he brought down his whip across Jack's back, managing to include Bess in the stroke. Jack set up a shout of mingled pain and indignation, and stooping for a stone, hurled it after the man who had struck him. Bess's response to the assault upon her was silent, but as prompt and far more effectual. With two springs she was beside the horse, and leaping up caught it by the nostrils and dragged it to the ground. Juno at once joined in the fray, and made desperate attempts to climb into the gig and seize its inmates, who had nearly been thrown out as the horse fell. Recovering himself, the driver, pale with terror, clubbed his whip, and struck at Juno with the butt-end. "Don't 'ee hit her," Jack cried as he arrived on the spot; "if thou dost she'll tear 'ee limb from limb." "Call the brute off, you little rascal," cried the other, "it's killing the horse." "Thou'd best keep a civil tongue in thy head," the child said coolly, "or it will be bad for 'ee. What did 'ee hit I and Bess for? It would serve 'ee roight if she had pinned 'ee instead o' t' horse." "Call them off," the fellow shouted as Juno's teeth met in close proximity to his leg. "It be all very well to say call 'em orf," Jack said, "but they doan't moind I much. Have 'ee got a strap?" The man hastily threw down a strap, and this Jack passed through Juno's collar, she being too absorbed in her efforts to climb into the gig to heed what the child was doing; then he buckled it to the wheel. "Noo," he said, "ye can light down t' other side. She caan't reach 'ee there." The young men leapt down, and ran to the head of the horse; the poor brute was making frantic efforts to rise, but the bull-dog held him down with her whole might. Jack shouted and pulled, but in vain; Bess paid no attention to his voice. "Can you bite his tail?" one of the frightened men said; "I've heard that is good." "Boite her tail!" Jack said in contempt; "doan't yer see she's a full-bred un; ye moight boite her tail off, and she would care nowt about 't. I've got summat here that may do." He drew out a twisted paper from his pocket. "This is snuff," he said; "if owt will make her loose, this will. Now one o' yer take holt by her collar on each side, and hoult tight, yer know, or she'll pin ye when she leaves go o' the horse. Then when she sneezes you pull her orf, and hoult fast." The fear of the men that the horse would be killed overpowered their dread of the dog, and each took a firm grip upon its collar. Then Jack placed a large pinch of snuff to its nostrils. A minute later it took effect, the iron jaws unclosed with a snap, and in an instant Bess was snatched away from the horse, which, delivered from its terrible foe, sank back groaning on the road. Bess made the most furious attempts to free herself from her captors, but in vain, and Juno strained desperately at the strap to come to the assistance of her offspring. "Ha' ye got another strap?" Jack asked. "There's a chain in the box under the seat." Jack with some difficulty and an amount of deliberation for which the men could gladly have slain him, climbed up into the gig, and presently came back with the chain. "Noo tak' her round to t' other side o' gig," he said; "we'll fasten her just as Juno is." When Bess was securely chained to the wheel the men ran to raise the horse, who lay with its head in a pool of blood. "There's a pond in yon field," Jack said, "if 'ee wants water." After Bess was secured Jack had slipped round to Juno, and kept his hand upon the buckle in readiness to loose her should any attempt be made upon his personal safety. The men, however, were for the moment too scared to think of him. It was some time before the horse was got on to its legs, with a wet cloth wrapped round its bleeding wound. Fortunately Bess's grip had included the bit-strap as well as the nostrils, and this had somewhat lessened the serious nature of the hurt. Jack had by this time pacified the dogs, and when the men looked round, after getting the horse on to its legs, they were alarmed to see him standing by quietly holding the dogs by a strap passing through their collar. "Doan't 'ee try to get into that ere cart," he said; "you've got to go wi' me back to Stokebridge to t' lock-oop for hitting I and Bess. Now do you walk quietly back and lead t' horse, and oi'll walk beside 'ee, and if thou mov'st, or tries to get away, oi'll slip t' dogs, you see if I doan't." "You little villain," began one of the men furiously, but a deep growl from Bess in reply to the angry tone at once silenced him; and burning with rage they turned the horse's head back towards the village and walked on, accompanied by Jack and his dogs on guard. The arrival of this procession created much excitement, and a crowd of women and children soon gathered. Jack, however, serenely indifferent to questions and shouts, proceeded coolly on his way until he arrived at the residence of the local constable, who, hearing the din, appeared at his door. "Maister Johnson," the child says, "I give them chaps in charge for saulting I and Bess." "And we give this little ruffian in charge," shouted the men, secure that, in face of the constable and crowd, Jack could not loose his terrible bull-dogs, "for setting his dogs at us, to the risk of our lives and the injury of our horse, which is so much hurt that we believe it will have to be killed." Just at this moment Bill Haden--who had returned from work at the moment that a boy running in reported that there was a row, that a horse was covered wi' blood, and two chaps all bluidy over t' hands and clothes, were agoing along wi' Jack and t' dorgs oop street to lock-oop--arrived upon the spot. "What's oop, lad?" he asked as he came up. "They chaps hit I and Bess, dad, and Bess pinned t' horse, and Juno would ha' pinned 'em boath hadn't I strapped she oop, and then we got Bess orf, and I brought 'em back to t' lock-oop." "How dar 'ee hit my lad?" Bill Haden said angrily, stepping forward threateningly. "Look oot, dad, or t' dogs will be at 'em again," Jack shouted. Bill seized the strap from the child's hand, and with a stern word silenced the dogs. "Well," the constable said, "I can't do nowt but bring both parties afore Mr. Brook i' the morning. I suppose I needn't lock 'ee all oop. Bill, will you bind yourself to produce Jack Simpson t'morrow?" "Ay," said Bill, "oi'll produce him, and he'll produce hisself, I'm thinking; seems to me as Jack be able to take 's own part." This sally was received with laughter and applause, for local feeling was very strong in Stokebridge, and a storm of jeers and rough chaff were poured upon the bagmen for having been brought in prisoners by a child. "Thee'd best get away to th' inn," the constable said, "else they'll be a stoaning thee next. There be only two on us here, and if they takes to 't we sha'n't be able to do much." So the men, leading their horse, went off to the Inn, groaned and hooted at by the crowd on the way. On their arrival a messenger was at once sent off for a veterinary surgeon who resided some four miles away. On the following morning the parties to the quarrel, the two bagmen and the injured horse on the one hand, and Jack Simpson with the two bull-dogs under charge of Bill Haden on the other, appeared before Mr. Brook, owner of the Vaughan pit and a county magistrate. Jack first gave his account of the transaction, clearly and with much decision. "I war a walking along quiet wi' t' dogs," he said, "when I hears a cart a coming from Stokebridge. I looks round and seed they two chaps, but didn't mind no further about it till as they came oop that sandy-haired chap as was a driving lets me and Bess ha' one which made me joomp, I can tell 'ee. Bess she pinned the horse, and Juno she tried to get into t' cart at 'em. They were joost frighted, they hollers, and yawps, and looks as white as may be. I fastens Juno oop wi' a strap and they houlds Bess while I poot some snoof t' her nose." "Put what?" Mr. Brook asked. "Joost a pinch of snoof, sir. I heard feyther say as snoof would make dogs loose, and so I bought a haporth and carried it in my pocket, for th' dogs don't moind oi when they are put oot. And then they gets horse oop and I makes 'em come back to t' lock-oop, but maister Johnson," he said, looking reproachfully at the constable, "wouldn't lock 'em oop as I wanted him." There was some laughter among the audience, and even the magistrate smiled. The young men then gave their story. They denied point blank that either of them had struck Jack, and described him as having set his dog purposely on the horse. Jack had loudly contradicted them, shouting, 'That's a lee;' but had been ordered to silence. Then drawing back he slipped off his jacket and shirt, and when the evidence was closed he marched forward up to the magistrate bare to the waist. "Look at moi back," he said; "that 'ull speak for itself." It did; there was a red weal across the shoulder, and an angry hiss ran through the court at the prisoners, which was with difficulty suppressed. "After what I have seen," Mr. Brook said, "there is no doubt whatever in my mind that the version given by this child is the correct one, and that you committed a cowardly and unprovoked assault upon him. For this you," he said to the man who had driven the horse, "are fined £5 or a month's imprisonment. It is a good thing that cowardly fellows like you should be punished occasionally, and had it not been that your horse had been severely injured I should have committed you to prison without option of a fine. Against you," he said to the other, "there is no evidence of assault. The charge against the child is dismissed, but it is for the father to consider whether he will prosecute you for perjury. At the same time I think that dogs of this powerful and ferocious kind ought not to be allowed to go out under the charge of a child like this." The man paid the fine; but so great was the indignation of the crowd that the constable had to escort them to the railway-station; in spite of this they were so pelted and hustled on the way that they were miserable figures indeed when they arrived there. And so Jack was released from all charge of the "dorgs," and benefited by the change. New friendships for children of his own age took the place of that for the dogs, and he soon took part in their games, and, from the energy and violence with which, when once excited, he threw himself into them, became quite a popular leader. Mrs. Haden rejoiced over the change; for he was now far more lively and more like other children than he had been, although still generally silent except when addressed by her and drawn into talk. He was as fond as ever of the dogs, but that fondness was now a part only instead of the dominating passion of his existence. And so months after months went on and no event of importance occurred to alter the current of Jack Simpson's life. CHAPTER III. THE RESOLUTION. An artist sitting in the shade under a tree, painting a bit of rustic gate and a lane bright with many honeysuckles. Presently he is conscious of a movement behind him, and looking round, sees a sturdily built boy of some ten years of age, with an old bull-dog lying at his feet, and another standing by his side, watching him. "Well, lad, what are you doing?" "Nowt!" said the boy promptly. "I mean," the artist said with a smile, "have you anything to do? if not, I will give you sixpence to sit still on that gate for a quarter of an hour. I want a figure." The boy nodded, took his seat without a word, and remained perfectly quiet while the artist sketched him in. "That will do for the present," the artist said. "You can come and sit down here and look at me at work if you like; but if you have nothing to do for an hour, don't go away, as I shall want you again presently. Here is the sixpence; you will have another if you'll wait. What's your name?" he went on, as the boy threw himself down on the grass, with his head propped up on his elbows. "Bull-dog," the lad said promptly; and then colouring up, added "at least they call me Bull-dog, but my right name be Jack Simpson." "And why do they call you Bull-dog, Jack?" The artist had a sympathetic voice and spoke in tones of interest, and the lad answered frankly: "Mother--that is, my real mother--she died when I were a little kid, and Juno here, she had pups at the time--not that one, she's Flora, three years old she be--and they used to pretend she suckled me. It bain't likely, be it?" he asked, as if after all he was not quite sure about it himself. "Schoolmaster says as how it's writ that there was once two little rum'uns, suckled by a wolf, but he can't say for sure that it's true. Mother says it's all a lie, she fed me from a bottle. But they called me Bull-dog from that, and because Juno and me always went about together; and now they call me so because," and he laughed, "I take a good lot of licking before I gives in." "You've been to school, I suppose, Jack?" "Yes, I've had five years schooling," the boy said carelessly. "And do you like it?" "I liked it well enough; I learnt pretty easy, and so 'scaped many hidings. Dad says it was cos my mother were a schoolmaster's daughter afore she married my father, and so learning's in the blood, and comes natural. But I'm done with school now, and am going down the pit next week." "What are you going to do there? You are too young for work." "Oh, I sha'n't have no work to do int' pit, not hard work--just to open and shut a door when the tubs go through." "You mean the coal-waggons?" "Ay, the tubs," the boy said. "Then in a year or two I shall get to be a butty, that ull be better pay; then I shall help dad in his stall, and at last I shall be on full wages." "And after that?" the artist asked. The lad looked puzzled. "What will you look forward to after that?" "I don't know that there's nowt else," the boy said, "except perhaps some day I might, perhaps--but it ain't likely--but I might get to be a viewer." "But why don't you make up your mind to be something better still, Jack--a manager?" "What!" exclaimed the boy incredulously; "a manager, like Fenton, who lives in that big house on the hill! Why, he's a gentleman." "Jack," the artist said, stopping in his work now, and speaking very earnestly, "there is not a lad of your age in the land, brought up as a miner, or a mechanic, or an artisan, who may not, if he sets it before him, and gives his whole mind to it, end by being a rich man and a gentleman. If a lad from the first makes up his mind to three things--to work, to save, and to learn--he can rise in the world. You won't be able to save out of what you get at first, but you can learn when your work is done. You can read and study of an evening. Then when you get better wages, save something; when, at twenty-one or so, you get man's wages, live on less than half, and lay by the rest. Don't marry till you're thirty; keep away from the public-house; work, study steadily and intelligently; and by the time you are thirty you will have a thousand pounds laid by, and be fit to take a manager's place." "Do'st mean that, sir?" the boy asked quickly. "I do, Jack. My case is something like it. My father was a village schoolmaster. I went when about twelve years old to a pottery at Burslem. My father told me pretty well what I have told you. I determined to try hard at any rate. I worked in every spare hour to improve myself generally, and I went three evenings a week to the art school. I liked it, and the master told me if I stuck to it I might be a painter some day. I did stick to it, and at twenty could paint well enough to go into that branch of pottery. I stuck to it, and at five-and-twenty was getting as high pay as any one in Burslem, except one or two foreign artists. I am thirty now. I still paint at times on china, but I am now getting well known as an artist, and am, I hope, a gentleman." "I'll do it," the boy said, rising slowly to his feet and coming close to the artist. "I'll do it, sir. They call me Bull-dog, and I'll stick to it." "Very well," the artist said, holding out his hand; "that's a bargain, Jack. Now, give me your name and address; here are mine. It's the 1st of June to-day. Now perhaps it will help you a little if I write to you on the 1st of June every year; and you shall answer me, telling me how you are getting on, and whether I can in any way give you help or advice. If I don't get an answer from you, I shall suppose that you have got tired of it and have given it up." "Don't you never go to suppose that, sir," the boy said earnestly. "If thou doesn't get an answer thou'llt know that I've been killed, as father was, in a fall or an explosion. Thank you, sir." And the boy walked quietly off, with the old bull-dog lazily waddling behind him. "There are the makings of a man in that boy," the artist said to himself. "I wish though I had finished his figure before we began to talk about his plans for the future. I shall be very proud of that boy if he ever makes a name for himself." That evening Jack sat on a low stool and gazed into the fire so steadily and silently that Bill Haden, albeit not given to observe his moods, asked: "What ail'st, lad? What be'st thinkin' o'?" Jack's thoughts were so deep that it took him some time to shake them off and to turn upon his stool. "Oi'm thinking o' getting larning." "Thinking o' getting larning!" the miner repeated in astonishment, "why, 'ee be just a dun o' getting larning. 'Ee ha' been at it for the last foive year, lad, and noo thou'st going to be done wi' it and to work in the pit." "Oi'm a going to work in the pit, dad, and oi'm a gwine to get larning too. Oi've made oop my mind, and oi'm gwine to do it." "But bain't 'ee got larning?" the miner said. "Thou canst read and write foine, which is more nor I can do and what dost want more?" "Oi'm a going to get larning," Jack said again, steadily repeating the formula, "and oi'm gwine soom day to be a manager." Bill Haden stared at the boy and then burst into a fit of laughter. "Well, this bangs a'." Mrs. Haden was as surprised but more sympathetic. "Bless the boy, what hast got in your head now?" Jack showed not the slightest sign of discomfiture at his father's laughter. "I met a chap to-day," he said in answer to Mrs. Haden, "as told I that if I made up my moind to work and joost stuck to 't, I could surely make a man o' myself, and might even roise soom day to be a manager; and I'm a going to do it." "Doant 'ee say a word to check the boy, Bill," Mrs. Haden said to her husband, as he was about to burst out into jeering remarks. "I tell 'ee, what Jack says he sticks to, and you oughter know that by this time. What the man, whos'ever he might be, said, was right, Jack," she went on, turning to the boy. "Larning is a great thing. So far you ain't showed any turn for larning, Jack, as I ever see'd, but if you get it you may raise yourself to be an overman or a viewer, though I doan't say a manager; that seems too far away altogether. If you stick to what you say you may do it, Jack. I can't help you in larning, for I ain't got none myself, but if I can help you in any other way I 'ull, and so 'ull feyther, though he does laugh a bit." "He be roight enough to laugh," Jack said, "for I hain't had any turn that way, I doant know as I ha' now, but I'm a going to try, and if trying can do it," he said in his steady tones, "oi'll do it. I think I ha' got some o' the bull-dog strain in me, and I'll hoult on to it as Bess would hoult on to a man's throat if she pinned him." "I know you will, my lad," Mrs. Haden said, while her husband, lighting his pipe and turning to go out, said: "It matters nowt to me one way or t'other, but moind, lad, larning or no larning, thou'st got to go into the pit next week and arn your living." "Jack," Mrs. Haden said presently, "dost know, I wouldn't do nowt wi' this new fancy o' thine, not till arter thou'st a been to work i' the pit for a while; a week or two will make no differ to 'ee, and thou doan't know yet how tired ye'll be when ye coom oop nor how thou'lt long for the air and play wi' lads o' thy own age. I believe, Jack, quite believe that thou be'st in arnest on it, and I know well that when thou dost begin thou'lt stick to 't. But it were better to wait till thou know'st what 'tis thou art undertaking." Jack felt that there was a good deal in what his mother said. "Very well, mother. 'Twant make no differ to me, but oi'll do as th' asks me." CHAPTER IV. THE VAUGHAN PIT. Among the group of men and boys assembled round the mouth of the Vaughan pit on the 7th of June were two little lads, Jack Simpson and Harry Shepherd, who were to make the descent for the first time. The boys were fast friends. Harry was the taller but was slighter than Jack, and far less sturdy and strong. Both were glad that they were to go into the pit, for although the life of a gate-boy is dull and monotonous, yet in the pit villages the boys look forward to it as marking the first step in a man's life, as putting school and lessons behind, and as raising them to a position far in advance of their former associates. Nowadays the law has stepped in, and the employment of such mere children in the mines is forbidden, but at that time it had not been changed, and if a boy was big enough to shut a door he was big enough to go into a mine. "Dost feel skeary, Jack?" Harry asked. "Noa," Jack said; "what be there to be skeary aboot? I bean't afeard of the dark, and they say in time 'ee get used to it, and can see pretty nigh loike a cat. There be dad a calling. Good-bye, Harry, I'll see thee to-night." The yard of the Vaughan resembled that of other large collieries. It was a large space, black and grimy, on which lines of rails were laid down in all directions; on these stood trains of waggons, while here and there were great piles of coal. In the centre rose up a lofty scaffolding of massive beams. At the top of this was the wheel over which a strong wire rope or band ran to the winding engine close by, while from the other end hung the cage, a wooden box some six feet square. At the corner of this box were clips or runners which fitted on to the guides in the shaft and so prevented any motion of swinging or swaying. So smoothly do these cages work that, standing in one as it is lowered or drawn up, only a very slight vibration or tremor tells that you are in motion. Near the square house in which stood the winding engine was another precisely similar occupied by the pumping engine. The Vaughan was worked by a single shaft divided by a strong wooden partition into two, one of these known as the downcast shaft, that is, the shaft through which the air descends into the mine, the other the upcast, through which the current, having made its way through all the windings and turnings of the roadways below, again ascends to the surface. This system of working by a single shaft, however, is very dangerous, as, in the event of an explosion, both shafts may become involved in the disaster and there will be no means of getting at the imprisoned miners. Nowadays all well-regulated mines have two shafts, one at a distance from the other, but this was less common thirty years back, and the Vaughan, like most of its neighbours, was worked with a single shaft. Each miner before descending went to the lamp-room and received a lighted "Davy." As almost every one is aware, the principle of this lamp, and indeed of all that have since been invented, is that flame will not pass through a close wire-gauze. The lamp is surrounded with this gauze, and although, should the air be filled with gas to an explosive point, it will ignite if it comes in contact with flame, the gauze prevents the light of the lamp from exploding the gas-charged air outside. When the air is of a very explosive character even the Davy-lamps have to be extinguished, as the heat caused by the frequent ignitions within the lamp raises the gauze to a red heat, and the gas beyond will take fire. Jack took his place in the cage with Bill Haden and as many others as it could contain. He gave a little start as he felt a sudden sinking; the sides of the shaft seemed to shoot up all round him, wet, shining, and black. A few seconds and the light of day had vanished, and they were in darkness, save that overhead was a square blue patch of sky every moment diminishing in size. "Be'st afeard, Jack?" Bill Haden asked, raising his lamp so as to get a sight of the boy's face. "Noa, why should I?" Jack said; "I heard 'ee say that the ropes were new last month, so there ain't nothin to be afeard on!" "That is the young un they call Bull-dog, ain't it, Bill?" "Ay!" Bill Haden answered; "he's game, he is; you can't make him yelp. I've licked him till I was tired, but he never whimpered. Now then, out you go;" and as the cage stopped the men all stepped out and started for the places in which they were working. "Coom along, Jack; the viewer told me to put you at No. 10 gate." It was ten minutes fast--and as Jack thought very unpleasant--walking. The sleepers on which the rails for the corves, or little waggons, were laid, were very slippery. Pools of water stood between them and often covered them, and blocks of coal of all sizes, which had shaken from the corves, lay in the road. When it was not water it was black mud. Sometimes a line of waggons full or empty stood on the rails, and to pass these they had to squeeze against the damp walls. Before he reached his post the gloss of Jack's new mining clothes had departed for ever. The white jumper was covered with black smears, and two or three falls on the slippery wooden sleepers had effectively blackened his canvas trousers. "There, lad," Bill Haden said at length, holding his lamp high to afford a general view of the situation; "that's your place." "The place" was a hollow like a cupboard, some five feet high, two deep, and a little wider. There was a wooden seat in it, a peg or two had been driven into the rock to hang things from, and a handful or so of hay upon the ground showed that Jack's predecessor had an idea of comfort. "There you are, and not a bad place either, Jack. You see this cord? Now when thou hearst a team of corves coming along, pull yon end and open the door. When they have passed let go the cord and the door shuts o' 'tself, for it's got a weight and pulley. It's thy business to see that it has shut, for if a chunk of coal has happened to fall and stops the door from shutting, the ventilation goes wrong and we all goes to kingdom come in no time. That's all thou'st got to do 'cept to keep awake. Of course you woan't do that; no boy does. So that you larn to wake up when the corves come along, that ull do foine." "But if I doan't?" Jack asked. "Well, if thou doan't thou'lt get waked with a cuff o' th' ear by the driver, and it depends on what sort o' chap he be how hard the cuff thou'lt get. I doan't think thou'lt feel lonely here, for along that side road they bring down other corves and the horse comes and takes 'em on. On this main road the horses go through to the upper end of the mine, half a mile farther." "How do it make a differ whether this door be open or shut, father?" "Well, lad, the air comes up the road we ha come by. Now it's wanted to go round about by the workings on that side road. This door be put to stop it from going by the straight road, so there's nothing for it but for to go round by the workings, maybe for a mile, maybe three miles, till it gets back into the main road again. So when the door is open the ventilation is checked right round the workings; so mind doan't 'ee open the door till the horse is close to it, and shut it directly it's past." When the door closed behind his foster-father, and Jack Simpson remained alone in the dense darkness, a feeling of utter loneliness and desertion stole over him. The blackness was intense and absolute; a low confused murmur, the reverberation of far-off noises in the pit, sounded in his ears. He spoke, and his voice sounded muffled and dull. "This be worse nor I looked for," the boy said to himself; "I suppose I'll get used to it, but I doan't wonder that some young uns who ain't strong as I be are badly frighted at first." Presently the confused noise seemed to get louder, then a distinct rumble was heard, and Jack felt with delight that a train of waggons was approaching. Then he saw far along the gallery a light swinging, as the man who bore it walked ahead of the horse. The water in the little pools between the sleepers reflected it in a score of little lines of light. Now he could hear the hollow splashing sound of the horses' hoofs, and prepared to answer to the shout of "door" by pulling at the string beside him. When the light came within twenty yards it changed its direction; he heard the grating of the wheels against the points, and saw that the waggons were going up the other road. There upon a siding they came to a stop, and a minute or two later a number of full waggons were brought down by another horse. A few words were exchanged by the drivers, but Jack's ear, unaccustomed to the echoes of a mine, could not catch what they said; then the first man hitched his horse on to the full waggons, and started for the shaft, while the other with the empties went up the road to the workings. The incident, slight as it had been, had altogether dissipated the feeling of uneasiness of which Jack had been conscious. Before, he had seemed shut out from the world, as if within a living tomb, but the sight of men engaged at their ordinary work close by him completely restored the balance of his mind, and henceforth he never felt the slightest discomfort at being alone in the dark. A few minutes after the rumbling of the departing train of "tubs" had died in his ear, he again heard it. Again he watched the slowly approaching light, and when it came within a few yards of him he heard the expected shout of "Gate!" He replied by a shout of "All right!" and as the driver came level with him pulled the cord and the door opened. "G'long, Smiler," the driver said, and the horse went forward. The man leaned forward and raised his lamp to Jack's face. "I thawt 'twasn't Jim Brown's voice. Who be'st thou?" "Jack Simpson; I live along wi' Bill Haden." "Ay, ay, I know'st, I knew thy father, a good sort he was too. Be'st thy first day doon the pit?" "Ay," Jack said. "Foind it dark and lonesome, eh? Thou'lt get used to it soon." "How often do the corves come along?" Jack asked as the man prepared to run on after the waggons, the last of which had just passed. "There be a set goes out every ten minutes, maybe, on this road, and every twenty minutes on the other, two o' ours to one o' theirs;" and he moved forward. Jack let the door slam after him, went out and felt that it had shut firmly, and then resumed his seat in his niche. He whistled for a bit, and then his thoughts turned to the learning which he had determined firmly to acquire. "I wish I'd ha' took to it afore," he said to himself. "What a sight o' time I ha' lost! I'll go over in my head all the lessons I can remember; and them as I doant know, and that's the best part, I reckon I'll look up when I get hoame. Every day what I learns fresh I'll go over down here. I shall get it perfect then, and it will pass the time away finely. I'll begin at oncet. Twice two is four;" and so Jack passed the hours of his first day in the pit, recalling his lessons, reproaching himself continually and bitterly with the time he had wasted, breaking off every ten minutes from his rehearsals to open the door for the train of corves going in empty and going out full, exchanging a few words each time with the drivers, all of whom were good-naturedly anxious to cheer up the new boy, who must, as they supposed, be feeling the loneliness of his first day in the pit keenly. Such was by no means the case with Jack, and he was quite taken by surprise when a driver said to him, "This be the last train this shift." "Why, it bean't nigh two o'clock, surely?" he said. "It be," the driver said; "wants ten minutes, that's all." Soon the miners began to come along. "Hullo, Jack!" Bill Haden's voice said. "Be'st still here. Come along of me. Why didst stop, lad? Thou canst always quit thy post when the first man comes through on his way out. Hast felt it lonely, lad?" "Not a bit, dad." "That's strange too," Bill said. "Most young boys finds it awful lonely o' first. I know I thowt that first day were never coming to an end. Weren't frighted at t' dark?" "I thought it was onnatural dark and still the first ten minutes," Jack admitted honestly; "but arter the first set o' corves came along I never thawt no more about the dark." "Here we are at the shaft, joomp in, there's just room for you and me." CHAPTER V. SETTING TO WORK. A week after Jack Simpson had gone to work in the "Vaughan" there was a knock one evening at the door of the schoolmaster of the Stokebridge National School. "Please, Mr. Merton, can I speak to 'ee?" "What, is that you, Jack Simpson!" the schoolmaster said, holding the candle so that its light fell upon the boy before him. "Yes, come in, my boy." The lad followed him into the parlour. "Sit down, Jack. Now what is it? Nothing the matter at home, I hope?" "Noa, sir. I wanted to ask 'ee what books I orter read, so that I may grow up a clever man?" "Bless me, Jack," Mr. Merton said, "why, I never expected this from you." "Noa, sir, but I ha' made up my mind to get on, and I means to work hard. I ha' been told, sir, that if I studies at books in all my spare time, and saves my money, and works well, I may get up high some day;" and the boy looked wistfully up in the master's face for a confirmation of what had been told him. "That's quite right, Jack, whoever told you. Hard work, study, thrift, and intelligence will take any lad from the bottom of the tree to the top. And you are quite in earnest, Jack?" "Quite, sir." The schoolmaster sat in silence for a little time. "Well, my boy, for a bit you must work at ordinary school-books, and get a fair general knowledge, and be careful to observe the way things are expressed--the grammar, I mean; read aloud when you are alone, and try in speaking to get rid of "thees" and "thous," and other mistakes of speech. I can lend you ordinary school-books, fit for you for the next four or five years, and will always explain any difficulties you may meet with. The books you will want afterwards you can buy second-hand at Wolverhampton or Birmingham. But there will be time to talk about that hereafter. What time have you to study? You have gone into the Vaughan pit, have you not?" "Yes, sir. I ha' time enough all day, for I ha' nowt to do but just to open and shut a door when the tubs come along; but I ha' no light." "The time must seem very long in the dark all day." "It do seem long, sir; and it will be wuss when I want to read, and know I am just wasting time. But I can read at home after work, when dad goes out. It's light now, and I could read out o' doors till nine o'clock. Mother would give me a candle now and again; and I should get on first rate in the pit, but the Vaughan is a fiery vein, and they ha' nowt but Daveys." "Well, my boy, here are a few books, which will suit you for a time. Let me know how you are getting on; and when you have mastered the books, let me know. Remember you want to learn them thoroughly, and not just well enough to rub through without getting the strap. But don't overdo it. You are a very small boy yet, and it is of as much importance for your future life that you should grow strong in body as well as in brain. So you must not give up play. If you were to do nothing but sit in the dark, and to study at all other times, you would soon become a fool. So you must give time to play as well as to work. Remember, do not be cast down with difficulties; they will pass by if you face them. There is an old saying, 'God helps those who help themselves.' And look here, Jack, I can tell you the best way to make the time pass quickly while you are in the dark. Set yourself sums to do in your head. You will find it difficult at first, but it will come easier with practice, and as you get on I will give you a book on 'mental arithmetic,' and you will find that there is nothing more useful than being able to make complicated calculations in your head." The next six months passed quickly with Jack Simpson. He started early with his father for the pit, and the hours there, which at first had seemed so long, slipped by rapidly as he multiplied, and added, and subtracted, finding that he could daily master longer lines of figures. Of an afternoon he played with the other pit boys, and after that worked steadily at his books till eleven o'clock, two hours after Bill Haden and his wife had gone to bed. Once a week he went in the evening to Mr. Merton, who was astonished at the progress that the boy was making, and willingly devoted an hour to explaining difficulties and helping him on with his work. Satisfied now that the boy was in earnest, Mr. Merton a few days afterwards took occasion, when Mr. Brook, the owner of the Vaughan mine, called in on school business, to tell him how one of the pit boys was striving to educate himself. "He is really in earnest, Merton; it is not a mere freak?" "No, Mr. Brook, the lad will stick to it, I'm sure. He goes by the nickname of Bull-dog, and I don't think he is badly named; he has both the pluck and the tenacity of one." "Very well, Merton; I am glad you spoke to me about it. I wish a few more boys would try and educate themselves for viewers and underground managers; it is difficult indeed to get men who are anything but working miners. I'll make a note of his name." A few days afterwards Mr. Brook, after going through the books, went over the mine with the underground manager. "Do the waggons often get off the metals along this road, Evans?" he asked, stopping at one of the doors which regulate the ventilation. "Pretty often, sir; the rails are not very true, and the sleepers want renewing." "It would be as well if there were an extra light somewhere here; it would be handy. This is Number Ten door, is it not?" "Yes sir." "Who is this? a new hand, is he not?" raising his lamp so as to have a full look at the lad, who was standing respectfully in the niche in the rock cut for him. "Yes, sir; he is the son of a hand who was killed in the pit some ten years ago--Simpson." "Ah! I remember," Mr. Brooks said. "Well, serve the boy a lamp out when he goes down of a day. You'll be careful with it, lad, and not let it fall?" "Oh yes, sir," Jack said, in a tone of delight; "and, please, sir, may I read when I am not wanted?" "Certainly you may," his master said; "only you must not neglect your work;" and then Mr. Brook went on, leaving Jack so overjoyed that for that afternoon at least his attempts at mental arithmetic were egregious failures. CHAPTER VI. "THE OLD SHAFT." In the corner of a rough piece of ground near the "Vaughan" was situated what was known as the old shaft. It had been made many years before, with a view to working coal there. The owners of the Vaughan, which at the time was just commencing work, had, however, bought up the ground, and as it adjoined their own and could be worked in connection with it, they stopped the sinking here. This was so long ago that the rubbish which had formed a mound round the mouth of the shaft had been long covered with vegetation, and a fence placed round the pit had fallen into decay. The shaft had been sunk some fifty fathoms, but was now full of water, to within forty feet of the surface. Some boards covered the top, and the adventurous spirits among the boys would drop stones through the openings between them, and listen to the splash as they struck the water below, or would light pieces of paper and watch them falling into the darkness, until they disappeared suddenly as they touched the water. The winch used in the process of excavation remained, and round it was a portion of the chain so old and rusty as to be worthless for any purpose whatever. Lengths had from time to time been broken off by boys, who would unwind a portion, and then, three or four pull together until the rust-eaten links gave way; and the boys came to the ground with a crash. It was a dirty game, however, dirty even for pit boys, for the yellow rust would stick to hands and clothes and be very difficult to remove. One Saturday afternoon a group of boys and girls of from ten to fourteen were playing in the field. Presently it was proposed to play king of the castle, or a game akin thereto, half a dozen holding the circular mound round the old pit, while the rest attacked them and endeavoured to storm the position. For some time the game went on with much shouting on the part of the boys and shrill shrieks from the girls, as they were pulled or pushed down the steep bank. "Let us make a charge a' together," said Jack Simpson, who although not thirteen was the leader of the attacking party. Then heading the rush he went at full speed at the castle. Harry Shepherd, who was one of the defenders, was at the top, but Jack had so much impetus that he gained his footing and thrust Harry violently backwards. The top of the bank was but three feet wide, and within sloped down to the mouth of the old pit shaft, fifteen feet below. Harry tottered, and to avoid falling backwards turned and with great strides ran down the bank. He was unable to arrest his course, but went through the rotten fence and on to the boarding of the shaft. There was a crash, a wild cry, and Harry disappeared from the sight of his horror-stricken companions. The rotten wood-work had given way and the boy had fallen into the old shaft. A panic seized the players, some rushed away at the top of their speed shouting, "Harry Shepherd has fallen down the old shaft!" others stood paralysed on the top of the mound; girls screamed and cried. Two only appeared to have possession of their wits. The one was Jack Simpson, the other was a girl of about twelve, Nelly Hardy. Jack did not hesitate an instant, but quickly ran down to the shaft, Nelly more quietly, but with an earnest set face, followed him. Jack threw himself down by the edge and peered down the shaft. "Harry, Harry," he shouted, "bee'st killed?" A sort of low cry came up. "He be alive, he be drowning," Jack exclaimed, "quick, get off them boords." Nelly at once attempted to aid Jack to lift the boards aside. "Coom," Jack shouted to the boys on the top, "what bee'st feared of? Thou art shamed by this lass here. Coom along and help us." Several of the boys hurried down, stung by Jack's taunt, and half the boards were soon pulled off. "What bee'st goin' to do, Jack?" "Go down, to be sure," Jack said. "Catch hold o' th' windlass." "The chain woan't hold you, Jack." "It maun hold me," Jack said. "It woan't hold two, Jack." "Lower away and hold thee jaw," Jack said; "I am going to send him up first if he be alive; lower away, I say." Jack caught hold of the end of the rusty chain, and the boys lowered away as rapidly as they could. Jack held on stoutly, and continued to shout, "Hold on, Harry, I be a-coming; another minute and I'll be with 'ee." The chain held firmly, and Jack swung downward safely. The shaft was of considerable size, and the openings in the planks had enabled the air to circulate freely, consequently there was no bad air. As Jack reached the water he looked eagerly round, and then gave a cry of joy. Above the water he saw a hand grasping a projecting piece of rock. Harry could not swim, but he had grasped the edge of a projecting stone near which he had fallen, and when his strength had failed, and he had sunk below the surface, his hand still retained its grasp. "Lower away," Jack shouted, and the chain was slackened. Jack could swim a little, just enough to cross the Stokebridge Canal where the water was only out of his depth for some fifteen feet in the middle. First he took off his handkerchief from his neck, a strong cotton birdseye, and keeping hold of the chain before him swam to the spot where the hand was above water. He had a terrible fear of its slipping and disappearing below the dark pool, and was careful to make a firm grasp at it. He was surprised to find the body was of no weight. Without a moment's delay he managed to bind the wrist fast to the chain with his handkerchief. "Above there," he shouted. "Ay," came down. "Wind up very steadily, don't jerk it now." Slowly the winch revolved and the body began to rise from the water. Jack clung to the stone which Harry had grasped and looked upwards. He wondered vaguely whether it would ever reach the top; he wondered whether the arm would pull out of the socket, and the body plump down into the water; he wondered how long he could hold on, and why his clothes seemed so heavy. He wondered whether, if his strength went before the chain came down again, his hand would hold on as Harry's had done, or whether he should go down to the bottom of the shaft. How far was it! Fifty fathoms, three hundred feet; he was fifty below the mouth, two hundred and fifty to sink; how long would his body be getting to the bottom? What would his mother and Bill Haden say? Would they ever try to get his body up? [Illustration: IN THE OLD SHAFT--WILL HE BE SAVED?] He was growing very weak. As from another world he had heard the shout from above when the body of Harry Shepherd reached the brink, and afterwards some vague murmurs. Presently his fingers slipped and he went down in the black pool. The chill of the water to his face, the sudden choking sensation, brought his senses back for a moment and he struck to the surface. There, touching the water, he saw the chain, and as he grasped it, heard the shouts of his comrades above calling to him. He was himself again now. The chain being some feet below the surface he managed to pass it round him, and to twist it in front. He was too exhausted to shout. He saw a great piece of paper on fire fluttering down, and heard a shout as its light showed him on the end of the chain; then he felt a jar and felt himself rising from the water; after that he knew nothing more until he opened his eyes and found himself lying on the bank. Nelly Hardy was kneeling by him and his head was in her lap. He felt various hands rubbing him and slapping the palms of his hands; his animation was quickly restored. He had swallowed but little water, and it was the close air of the shaft which had overpowered him. "Hallo!" he said, shaking himself, "let me up, I be all right; how's Harry?" Harry had not yet come round, though some of them, trying to restore him to consciousness, said that they had heard him breathe once. Jack as usual took the command, ordered all but two or three to stand back, told Nelly Hardy to lift Harry's head and undo his shirt, stripped him to the waist, and then set the boys to work to rub vigorously on his chest. Whether the efforts would have been successful is doubtful, but at this moment there was a sound of hurrying feet and of rapid wheels. Those who had started at the first alarm had reached the village and told the news, and most fortunately had met the doctor as he drove in from his rounds. A man with a rope had leaped into the gig, and the doctor as he drove off had shouted that hot blankets were to be prepared. When he reached the spot and heard that Harry had been brought to bank, he leapt out, climbed the mound, wrapped him in his coat, carried him down to his gig, and then drove back at full speed to Stokebridge, where with the aid of hot blankets and stimulants the lad was brought back to consciousness. Jack Simpson was the hero of the hour, and the pitmen, accustomed to face death as they were, yet marvelled at a boy trusting himself to a chain which looked unfit to bear its own weight only, and into the depth of a well where the air might have been unfit to breathe. Jack strenuously, and indeed angrily, disclaimed all credit whatever. "I didn't think nowt about the chain, nor the air, nor the water neither. I thought only o' Harry. It was me as had pushed him down, and I'd got to bring him oop. If I hadn't a gone down Nelly Hardy would ha' gone, though she be a lass and doan't know how to swim or to hold on by a chain, or nowt; but she'd ha' gone, I tell e'e, if I hadn't; I saw it in her face. She didn't say nowt, but she was ready to go. If she hadn't gone down to th' shaft none of them would ha gone. She's a rare plucked 'un, she is, I tell e'e." But in spite of Jack's indignant repudiation of any credit, the brave action was the talk of Stokebridge and of the neighbouring pit villages for some time. There are no men appreciate bravery more keenly than pitmen, for they themselves are ever ready to risk their lives to save those of others. Consequently a subscription, the limit of which was sixpence and the minimum a penny, was set on foot, and a fortnight later Jack was presented with a gold watch with an inscription. This was presented in the school-room, and Mr. Brook, who presided at the meeting, added on his own account a chain to match. It needed almost force on the part of Bill Haden to compel Jack to be present on this occasion. When he was led up, flushed with confusion, to Mr. Brook, amid the cheers of the crowd of those in the room, he listened with head hung down to the remarks of his employer. When that gentleman finished and held out the watch and chain, Jack drew back and held up his head. "I doan't loike it, sir; I pushed Harry in, and in course I went down to pick him out; besides, Harry's my chum, he be; was it loikely I should stand by and he drowning? I tell 'ee, sir, that you ain't said a word about the lass Nelly Hardy; she had pluck, she had. The boys ran away or stood and stared, but she came down as quiet as may be. I tell 'ee, sir, her face was pale, but she was as steady and as still as a man could ha' been, and did as I told her wi'out stopping for a moment and wi'out as much as saying a word. She'd ha' gone down if I'd told her to. Where be ye, Nelly Hardy? coom oot and let me show ye to Mr. Brook." But Nelly, who was indeed in the building, had shrunk away when Jack began to speak, and having gained the door, was on the point of flying, when she was seized and brought forward, looking shamefaced and sullen. "That be her, sir," Jack said triumphantly, "and I say this watch and chain ought to be hers, for she did much more for a lass than I did for a boy, and had no call to do't as I had." "I cannot give them to her, Jack," Mr. Brook said, "for the watch has been subscribed for you; but as a token of my appreciation of the bravery and presence of mind she has shown, I will myself present her with a silver watch and chain, with an inscription saying why it was given to her, and this she will, I am sure, value all her life." Perhaps she would, but at present her only thought was to get away. Her hair was all rough, she had on a tattered dress, and had only slipped in when those in charge of the door were intent upon hearing Mr. Brook's address. Without a word of thanks, the instant the hands restraining her were loosed she dived into the crowd and escaped like a bird from a snare. Satisfied that justice had been done, Jack now said a few words of thanks to his employer and the subscribers to his present, and the meeting then broke up, Jack returning with Bill Haden and his mother, both beaming with delight. "I be roight down glad, lad, I doan't know as I've been so glad since Juno's dam won the first prize for pure-bred bull-dogs at the Birmingham show. It seems joost the same sort o' thing, doan't it, Jane?" CHAPTER VII. FRIENDSHIP. Nelly Hardy had been unfortunate in her parents, for both drank, and she had grown up without care or supervision. She had neither brother nor sister. At school she was always either at the top or bottom of her class according as a fit of diligence or idleness seized her. She was a wild passionate child, feeling bitterly the neglect with which she was treated, her ragged clothes, her unkempt appearance. She was feared and yet liked by the girls of her own age, for she was generous, always ready to do a service, and good-tempered except when excited to passion. She was fonder of joining with the boys, when they would let her, in their games, and, when angered, was ready to hold her own against them with tooth and nail. So wild were her bursts of passion that they were sources of amusement to some of the boys, until Jack upon one occasion took her part, and fought and conquered the boy who had excited her. This was on the Saturday before the accident had taken place. For some days after the presentation no one saw her; she kept herself shut up in the house or wandered far away. Then she appeared suddenly before Jack Simpson and Harry Shepherd as they were out together. "I hate you, Jack Simpson," she said, "I hate you, I hate you;" and then dashed through the gap in the hedge by which she had come. "Well," Harry exclaimed in astonishment, "only to think!" "It be nat'ral enough," Jack said, "and I bain't surprised one bit. I orter ha' known better. I had only to ha' joodged her by myself and I should ha' seen it. I hated being dragged forward and talked at; it was bad enough though I had been made decent and clean scrubbed all over, and got my Soonday clothes on, but of course it would be worse for a lass anyway, and she was all anyhow, not expecting it. I ought to ha' known better; I thawt only o' my own feelings and not o' hers, and I'd beg her pardon a hundred times, but 'taint likely she'd forgive me. What is she a doing now?" The lads peered through the hedge. Far across the field, on the bank, the other side, lay what looked like a bundle of clothes. "She be a crying, I expect," Jack said remorsefully. "I do wish some big chap would a come along and give I a hiding; I wouldn't fight, or kick, or do nowt, I would just take it, it would serve me roight. I wonder whether it would do her any good to let her thrash me. If it would she'd be welcome. Look here, Harry, she bain't angry wi' you. Do thou go across to her and tell her how main sorry I be, and that I know I am a selfish brute and thought o' myself and not o' her, and say that if she likes I will cut her a stick any size she likes and let her welt me just as long as she likes wi'out saying a word." Harry was rather loath to go on such an errand, but being imperatively ordered by Jack he, as usual, did as his comrade wished. When he approached Nelly Hardy he saw that the girl was crying bitterly, her sobs shaking her whole body. "I be coom wi' a message," he began in a tone of apprehension, for he regarded Nelly as resembling a wild cat in her dangerous and unexpected attacks. The girl leapt to her feet and turned her flushed tear-stained cheeks and eyes, flashing with anger through the tears, upon him. "What dost want, Harry Shepherd? Get thee gone, or I'll tear the eyes from thy head." "I doan't coom o' my own accord," Harry said steadily, though he recoiled a little before her fierce outburst. "I came on the part o' Jack Simpson, and I've got to gi' you his message even if you do fly at me. I've got to tell you that he be main sorry, and that he feels he were a selfish brute in a thinking o' his own feelings instead o' thine. He says he be so sorry that if 'ee like he'll cut a stick o' any size you choose and ull let you welt him as long as you like wi'out saying a word. And when Jack says a thing he means it, so if you wants to wop him, come on." To Harry's intense surprise the girl's mood changed. She dropped on the ground again, and again began to cry. After standing still for some time and seeing no abatement in her sobs, or any sign of her carrying out the invitation of which he had been the bearer, Jack's emissary returned to him. "I guv her your message, Jack, and she said nowt, but there she be a crying still." "Perhaps she didn't believe you," Jack said; "I'd best go myself." First, with great deliberation, Jack chose a hazel stick from the hedge and tried it critically. When fully assured that it was at once lissom and tough, and admirably adapted for his purpose, he told Harry to go on home. "Maybe," Jack said, "she mayn't loike to use it and you a looking on. Doan't 'ee say a word to no un. If she likes to boast as she ha' welted me she ha' a roight to do so, but doan't you say nowt." Jack walked slowly across the field till he was close to the figure on the ground. Then he quietly removed his jacket and waistcoat and laid them down. Then he said: "Now, Nelly, I be ready for a welting, I ha' deserved it if ever a chap did, and I'll take it. Here's the stick, and he's a good un and will sting rare, I warrant." The girl sat up and looked at him through her tears. "Oh, Jack, and didst really think I wanted to welt thee?" "I didn't know whether thou didst or no, Nelly, but thou said thou hate'st me, and wi' good reason, so if thou likest to welt me here's the stick." The girl laughed through her tears. "Ah! Jack, thou must think that I am a wild cat, as John Dobson called me t'other day. Throw away that stick, Jack. I would rather a thousand times that thou laidst it on my shoulders than I on thine." Jack threw away the stick, put on his coat and waistcoat, and sat down on the bank. "What is it then, lass? I know I were cruel to have thee called forward, but I didn't think o't; but I had rather that thou beat me as I orter be beaten, than that thou should go on hating me." "I doan't hate thee, Jack, though I said so; I hate myself; but I like thee better nor all, thou art so brave and good." "No braver than thou, Nelly," Jack said earnestly; "I doan't understand why thou should first say thou hates me and then that thou doan't; but if thou are in earnest, that thou likest me, we'll be friends. I don't mean that we go for walks together, and such like, as some boys and girls do, for I ha' no time for such things, and I shouldn't like it even if I had; but I'll take thy part if anyone says owt to thee, and thou shalt tell me when thou art very bad at hoam"--for the failings of Nelly's parents were public property. "Thou shalt be a friend to me, not as a lass would be, but as Harry is, and thou woan't mind if I blow thee up, and tells 'ee of things. Thou stook to me by the side o' the shaft, and I'll stick to thee." "I'll do that," the girl said, laying her hand in his. "I'll be thy friend if thou'lt let me, not as lasses are, but as lads." And so the friendship was ratified, and they walked back together to the village. When he came to think it over, Jack was inclined to repent his bargain, for he feared that she would attach herself to him, and that he would have much laughter to endure, and many battles to fight. To his surprise Nelly did nothing of the sort. She would be at her door every morning as he went by to the pit and give him a nod, and again as he returned. Whenever other girls and boys were playing or sitting together, Nelly would make one of the group. If he said, as he often did say, "You, Nell Hardy come and sit by me," she came gladly, but she never claimed the place. She was ready to come or to go, to run messages and to do him good in any way. Jack had promised she should be his friend as Harry was, and as he got to like her more he would ask her or tell her to accompany them in their walks, or to sit on a low wall in some quiet corner and talk. Harry, stirred by his friend's example, had begun to spend half an hour a day over his old school-books. "Why dost like larning so much, Jack?" Nelly asked, as Jack was severely reproaching his friend with not having looked at a book for some days; "what good do it do?" "It raises folk in the world, Nell, helps 'em make their way up." "And dost thou mean to get oop i' the world?" "Ay, lass," Jack said, "if hard work can do it, I will; but it does more nor that. If a man knows things and loves reading it makes him different like, he's got summat to think about and talk about and care for beside public-houses and dorgs. Canst read, Nell?" "No, Jack," she said, colouring. "It bain't my fault; mother never had the pence to spare for schooling, and I was kept at hoam to help." Jack sat thoughtful for some time. "Wouldst like to learn?" "Ay." "Well, I'll teach thee." "Oh, Jack!" and she leapt up with flashing eyes; "how good thou be'est!" "Doan't," Jack said crossly; "what be there good in teaching a lass to spell? There's twopence, run down to the corner shop and buy a spelling-book; we'll begin at once." And so Nelly had her first lesson. [Illustration: NELLY'S FIRST LESSON.] After that, every afternoon, as Jack came home from work, the girl would meet him in a quiet corner off the general line, and for five minutes he would teach her, not hearing her say what she had learned, but telling her fresh sounds and combinations of letters. Five or six times he would go over them, and expected--for Jack was tyrannical in his ways--that she would carry them away with her and learn them by heart, and go through them again and again, so that when he questioned her during their longer talks she would be perfect. Then, the five minutes over, Jack would run on to make up for lost time, and be in as soon as Bill Haden. But however accurately Jack expected his pupil to learn, his expectations were surpassed. The girl beyond clearing up the room had nothing to do, and she devoted herself with enthusiasm to this work. Once she had mastered simple words and felt her own progress, her shyness as to her ignorance left her. She always carried her book in her pocket, and took to asking girls the pronunciation of larger words, and begging them to read a few lines to her; and sitting on the door-step poring over her book, she would salute any passer-by with: "Please tell us what is that word." When she could read easily, which she learned to do in two or three months, she borrowed left-off school-books from the girls, and worked slowly on, and two years later had made up for all her early deficiencies, and knew as much as any of those who had passed through the school. From the day of her compact of friendship with Jack her appearance and demeanour had been gradually changing. From the first her wild unkempt hair had been smoothly combed and braided, though none but herself knew what hours of pain and trouble it took her with a bit of a comb with three teeth alone remaining, to reduce the tangled mass of hair to order. Her companions stared indeed with wonder on the first afternoon, when, thus transformed and with clean face, she came among them, with a new feeling of shyness. "Why, it be Nelly Hardy!" "Why, Nell, what ha' done to t'yself? I shouldn't ha' known ye." "Well, ye be cleaned up surely." The girl was half inclined to flame out at their greetings, but she knew that the surprise was natural, and laughed good-humouredly. She was rewarded for her pains when Jack and some other boys, passing on their way to play, Jack stopped a moment and said to her quietly, "Well done, lass, thou lookst rarely, who'd ha' thought thou wert so comely!" As time went on Nelly Hardy grew altogether out of her old self. Sometimes, indeed, bursts of temper, such as those which had gained her the name of the "Wild Cat," would flare out, but these were very rare now. She was still very poorly dressed, for her house was as wretched as of old, but there was an attempt at tidiness. Her manner, too, was softer, and it became more and more quiet as things went on, and her playmates wondered again and again what had come over Nell Hardy; she had got to be as quiet as a mouse. The boys at first were disposed to joke Jack upon this strange friendship, but Jack soon let it be understood that upon that subject joking was unacceptable. "She stood by me," he said, "and I'm a-going to stand by her. She ain't got no friends, and I'm going to be her friend. She's quiet enough and doan't bother, no more nor if she were a dorg. She doan't get in no one's way, she doan't want to play, and sits quiet and looks on, so if any of you doan't like her near ye, you can go away to t' other side o' field. I wish she'd been a boy, 'twould ha' been fitter all ways, but she can't help that. She's got the sense o' one. and the pluck, and I like her. There!" CHAPTER VIII. PROGRESS. "Bless me, lad, another poond o' candles! I never did hear o' sich waste," Mrs. Haden exclaimed as Jack entered the cottage on a winter's afternoon, two years and a half after he had gone into the pit. "Another poond o' candles, and it was only last Monday as you bought the last--nigh two candles a night. Thou wilt kill thyself sitting up reading o' nights, and thy eyes will sink i' thy head, and thou'lt be as blind as a bat afore thou'rt forty." "I only read up to eleven, mother, that gives me six hours abed, and as thou know, six for a man, seven for a woman, is all that is needful; and as to the expense, as dad lets me keep all my earnings save five bob a week--and very good o' him it is; I doan't know no man in the pit as does as much--why, I ha' plenty o' money for my candles and books, and to lay by summat for a rainy day." "Aye, aye, lad, I know thou be'st not wasteful save in candles; it's thy health I thinks o'." "Health!" Jack laughed; "why, there ain't a lad in the pit as strong as I am of my age, and I ha' never ailed a day yet, and doan't mean to." "What ha' ye been doing all the arternoon, Jack?" "I ha' been sliding in the big pond wi' Harry Shepherd and a lot o' others. Then Dick Somers, he knocked down Harry's little sister Fan, as she came running across th' ice, and larfed out when she cried--a great brute--so I licked he till he couldn't see out o' his eyes." "He's bigger nor thee, too," Mrs. Haden said admiringly. "Aye, he's bigger," Jack said carelessly, "but he ain't game, Dick ain't; loses his temper, he does, and a chap as does that when he's fighting ain't o' no account. But I must not stand a clappeting here; it's past six, and six is my time." "Have your tea first, Jack, it's a' ready; but I do believe thou'dst go wi'out eating wi'out noticing it, when thou'st got thy books in thy head." Jack sat down and drank the tea his mother poured out for him, and devoured bread and butter with a zest that showed that his appetite was unimpaired by study. As soon as he had finished he caught up his candle, and with a nod to Mrs. Haden ran upstairs to his room. Jack Simpson's craze for learning, as it was regarded by the other lads of Stokebridge, was the subject of much joking and chaff among them. Had he been a shy and retiring boy, holding himself aloof from the sports of his mates, ridicule would have taken the place of joking, and persecution of chaff. But Jack was so much one of themselves, a leader in their games, a good fellow all round, equally ready to play or to fight, that the fact that after six o'clock he shut himself up in his room and studied, was regarded as something in the nature of a humorous joke. When he had first begun, his comrades all predicted that the fit would not last, and that a few weeks would see the end of it; but weeks and months and years had gone by, and Jack kept on steadily at the work he had set himself to do. Amusement had long died away, and there grew up an unspoken respect for their comrade. "He be a rum 'un, be Jack," they would say; "he looves games, and can lick any chap his age anywhere round, and yet he shoots himself oop and reads and reads hours and hours every day, and he knows a heap, Bull-dog does." Not that Jack was in the habit of parading his acquirements; indeed he took the greatest pains to conceal them and to show that in no respect did he differ from his playfellows. The two hours which he now spent twice a week with Mr. Merton, and his extensive reading, had modified his rough Staffordshire dialect, and when with his master he spoke correct English almost free of provincialisms, although with his comrades of the pit he spoke as they spoke, and never introduced any allusion to his studies. All questions as to his object in spending his evenings with his books were turned aside with joking answers, but his comrades had accidentally discovered that he possessed extraordinary powers of calculation. One of the lads had vaguely said that he wondered how many buckets of water there were in the canal between Stokebridge and Birmingham, a distance of eighteen miles, and Jack, without seeming to think of what he was doing, almost instantaneously gave the answer to the question. For a moment all were silent with surprise. "I suppose that be a guess, Jack, eh?" Fred Orme asked. "Noa," Jack said, "that's aboot roight, though I be sorry I said it; I joost reckoned it in my head." "But how didst do that, Jack?" his questioner asked, astonished, while the boys standing round stared in silent wonder. "Oh! in my head," Jack said carelessly; "it be easy enough to reckon in your head if you practise a little." "And canst do any sum in thy head, Jack, as quick as that?" "Not any sum, but anything easy, say up to the multiplication or division by eight figures." "Let's try him," one boy said. "All right, try away," Jack said. "Do it first on a bit of paper, and then ask me." The boys drew off in a body, and a sum was fixed upon and worked out with a great deal of discussion. At last, after a quarter of an hour's work, when all had gone through it and agreed that it was correct, they returned and said to him, "Multiply 324,683 by 459,852." Jack thought for a few seconds and then taking the pencil and paper wrote down the answer: 149,306,126,916. "Why, Jack, thou be'est a conjurer," one exclaimed, while the others broke out into a shout of astonishment. From that time it became an acknowledged fact that Jack Simpson was a wonder, and that there was some use in studying after all; and after their games were over they would sit round and ask him questions which they had laboriously prepared, and the speed and accuracy of his answers were a never-failing source of wonder to them. As to his other studies they never inquired; it was enough for them that he could do this, and the fact that he could do it made them proud of him in a way, and when put upon by the pitmen it became a common retort among them, "Don't thou talk, there's Jack Simpson, he knows as much as thee and thy mates put together. Why, he can do a soom as long as a slaate as quick as thou'd ask it." Jack himself laughed at his calculating powers, and told the boys that they could do the same if they would practise, believing what he said; but in point of fact this was not so, for the lad had an extraordinary natural faculty for calculation, and his schoolmaster was often astonished by the rapidity with which he could prepare in his brain long and complex calculations, and that in a space of time little beyond that which it would take to write the question upon paper. So abnormal altogether was his power in this respect that Mr. Merton begged him to discontinue the practice of difficult calculation when at work. "It is a bad thing, Jack, to give undue prominence to one description of mental labour, and I fear that you will injure your brain if you are always exercising it in one direction. Therefore when in the pit think over other subjects, history, geography, what you will, but leave calculations alone except when you have your books before you." CHAPTER IX. THE GREAT STRIKE. It was Saturday afternoon, a time at which Stokebridge was generally lively. The men, (dinner over, and the great weekly wash done,) usually crowded the public-houses, or played bowls and quoits on a piece of waste land known as "the common," or set off upon a spree to Birmingham or Wolverhampton, or sat on low walls or other handy seats, and smoked and talked. But upon this special Saturday afternoon no one settled down to his ordinary pursuits, for the men stood talking in groups in the street, until, as the hour of four approached, there was a general move towards the common. Hither, too, came numbers of men from the colliery villages round, until some four or five thousand were gathered in front of an old "waste tip" at one corner of the common. Presently a group of some five or six men came up together, made their way through the throng, and took their stand on the edge of the tip, some twenty feet above the crowd. These were the delegates, the men sent by the union to persuade the colliers of Stokebridge and its neighbourhood to join in a general strike for a rise of wages. The women of the village stand at their doors, and watch the men go off to the meeting, and then comment to each other concerning it. "I ain't no patience wi' 'em, Mrs. Haden," said one of a group of neighbours who had gathered in front of her house; "I don't hold by strikes. I have gone through three of 'em, bad un's, besides a score of small un's, and I never knowed good come on 'em. I lost my little Peg in the last--low fever, the doctor called it, but it was starvation and nothing more." "If I had my way," said Mrs. Haden, "I'd just wring the heads off they delegates. They come here and 'suades our men to go out and clem rather than take a shilling a week less, just a glass o' beer a day, and they gets their pay and lives in comfort, and dunna care nowt if us and th' childer all dies off together." "Talk o' woman's rights, as one hears about, and woman's having a vote; we ought to have a vote as to strikes. It's us as bears the worse o't, and we ought to have a say on't; if we did there wouldn't be another strike in the country." "It's a burning shame," another chimed in; "here us and the childer will have to starve for weeks, months may be, and all the homes will be broke up, and the furniture, which has took so long to get together, put away, just because the men won't do with one glass of beer less a day." "The union's the curse of us a'," Mrs. Haden said. "I know what it'll be--fifteen bob a week for the first fortnight, and then twelve for a week, and then ten, and then eight, and then six, and then after we've clemmed on that for a month or two, the union'll say as the funds is dry, and the men had best go to work on the reduction. I knows their ways, and they're a cuss to us women." "Here be'st thy Jack. He grows a proper lad that." "Ay," Jane Haden agreed, "he's a good lad, none better; and as for learning, the books that boy knows is awesome; there's shelves upon shelves on 'em upstairs, and I do believe he's read 'em all a dozen times. Well, Jack, have ee cum from meeting?" "Ay, mother; I heard them talk nonsense till I was nigh sick, and then I comed away." "And will they go for the strike, Jack?" "Ay, they'll go, like sheep through a gate. There's half a dozen or so would go t'other way, but the rest won't listen to them. So for the sake of a shilling a week we're going to lose thirty shillings a week for perhaps twenty weeks; so if we win we sha'n't get the money we've throw'd away for twenty times thirty weeks, mother, and that makes eleven years and twenty-eight weeks." Jack Simpson was now sixteen years old, not very tall for his age, but square and set. His face was a pleasant one, in spite of his closely cropped hair. He had a bright fearless eye and a pleasant smile; but the square chin, and the firm determined lines of the mouth when in rest, showed that his old appellation of Bull-dog still suited him well. After working for four years as a gate-boy and two years with the waggons, he had just gone in to work with his adopted father in the stall, filling the coal in the waggon as it was got down, helping to drive the wedges, and at times to use the pick. As the getters--as the colliers working at bringing down the coal are called--are paid by the ton, many of the men have a strong lad working with them as assistant. "Is t' dad like to be at home soon, Jack?" Mrs. Haden asked, as she followed him into the house. "Not he, mother. They pretty well all will be getting themselves in order for earning nothing by getting drunk to-night, and dad's not slack at that. Have you got tea ready, mother?" "Ay, lad." "I've made up my mind, mother," the boy said, as he ate his slice of bacon and bread, "that I shall go over to Birmingham to-morrow, and try to get work there. John Ratcliffe, the engineman, is going to write a letter for me to some mates of his there. The last two years, when I've been on the night-shift, I have gone in and helped him a bit pretty often in the day, so as to get to know something about an engine, and to be able to do a job of smith's work; anyhow, he thinks I can get a berth as a striker or something of that sort. I'd rather go at once, for there will be plenty of hands looking out for a job before long, when the pinch begins, and I don't want to be idle here at home." "They've promised to give some sort o' allowance to non-unionists, Jack." "Yes, mother, but I'd rather earn it honestly. I'm too young to join the union yet, but I have made up my mind long ago never to do it. I mean to be my own master, and I ain't going to be told by a pack of fellows at Stafford or Birmingham whether I am to work or not, and how much I am to do, and how many tubs I am to fill. No, mother, I wasn't born a slave that I know of, and certainly don't mean to become one voluntarily." "Lor, how thou dost talk, Jack! Who'd take 'ee to be a pitman?" "I don't want to be taken for anything that I am not, mother. What with reading and with going two hours twice a week of an evening for six years, to talk and work with Mr. Merton, I hope I can express myself properly when I choose. As you know, when I'm away from you I talk as others do, for I hate any one to make remarks. If the time ever comes when I am to take a step up, it will be time enough for them to talk; at present, all that the other lads think of me is, that I am fond of reading, and that I can lick any fellow of my own age in the mine," and he laughed lightly. "And now, mother, I shall go in and tell Mr. Merton what I have made up my mind to do." Mr. Merton listened to Jack's report of his plans in silence, and then after a long pause said: "I have been for some time intending to talk seriously to you, Jack, about your future, and the present is a good time for broaching the subject. You see, my boy, you have worked very hard, and have thrown your whole strength into it for six years. You have given no time to the classics or modern languages, but have put your whole heart into mathematics; you have a natural talent for it, and you have had the advantage of a good teacher. I may say so," he said, "for I was third wrangler at Cambridge." "You, sir!" Jack exclaimed in astonishment. "Yes, lad, you may well be surprised at seeing a third wrangler a village schoolmaster, but you might find, if you searched, many men who took as high a degree, in even more humble positions. I took a fellowship, and lived for many years quietly upon it; then I married, and forfeited my fellowship. I thought, like many other men, that because I had taken a good degree I could earn my living. There is no greater mistake. I had absolutely no knowledge that was useful that way. I tried to write; I tried to get pupils: I failed all round. Thirteen years ago, after two years of marriage, my wife died; and in despair of otherwise earning my bread, and sick of the struggle I had gone through, I applied for this little mastership, obtained it, and came down with Alice, then a baby of a year old. I chafed at first, but I am contented now, and no one knows that Mr. Merton is an ex-fellow of St. John's. I had still a little property remaining, just enough to have kept Alice always at a good school. I do not think I shall stay here much longer. I shall try to get a larger school, in some town where I may find a few young men to teach of an evening. I am content for myself; but Alice is growing up, and I should wish, for her sake, to get a step up in the world again. I need not say, my lad, that I don't want this mentioned. Alice and you alone know my story. So you see," he went on more lightly, "I may say you have had a good teacher. Now, Jack, you are very high up in mathematics. Far higher than I was at your age; and I have not the slightest doubt that you will in a couple of years be able to take the best open scholarship of the year at Cambridge, if you try for it. That would keep you at college, and you might hope confidently to come out at least as high as I did, and to secure a fellowship, which means three or four hundred a year, till you marry. But to go through the university you must have a certain amount of Latin and Greek. You have a good two years, before you have to go up, and if you devote yourself as steadily to classics as you have to mathematics, you could get up enough to scrape through with. Don't give me any answer now, Jack. The idea is, of course, new to you. Think it very quietly over, and we can talk about it next time you come over from Birmingham." "Yes, sir, thank you very much," Jack said, quietly; "only, please tell me, do you yourself recommend it?" The schoolmaster was silent for a while. "I do not recommend one way or the other, Jack. I would rather leave it entirely to you. You would be certain to do well in one way there. You are, I believe, equally certain to do well here, but your advance may be very much slower. And now, Jack, let us lay it aside for to-night. I am just going to have tea, I hope you will take a cup with us." Jack coloured with pleasure. It was the first time that such an invitation had been given to him, and he felt it as the first recognition yet made that he was something more than an ordinary pit-boy; but for all that he felt, when he followed his master into the next room, that he would have rather been anywhere else. It was a tiny room, but daintily furnished--a room such as Jack had never seen before; and by the fire sat a girl reading. She put down her book as her father entered with a bright smile; but her eyes opened a little wider in surprise as Jack followed him in. "My dear Alice, this is my pupil, Jack Simpson, who is going to do me great credit, and make a figure in the world some day. Jack, this is my daughter, Miss Merton." Alice held out her hand. "I have heard papa speak of you so often," she said, "and of course I have seen you come in and out sometimes when I have been home for the holidays." "I have seen you in church," Jack said, making a tremendous effort to shake off his awkwardness. Jack Simpson will to the end of his life look back upon that hour as the most uncomfortable he ever spent. Then for the first time he discovered that his boots were very heavy and thick; then for the first time did his hands and feet seem to get in his way, and to require thought as to what was to be done with them; and at the time he concluded that white lace curtains, and a pretty carpet, and tea poured out by a chatty and decidedly pretty young lady, were by no means such comfortable institutions as might have been expected. It was two months from the commencement of the strike before Jack Simpson returned from Birmingham, coming home to stay from Saturday till Monday. Nothing can be more discouraging than the appearance of a colliery village where the hands are on strike. For the first week or two there is much bravado, and anticipation of early victory; and as money is still plentiful, the public-houses do a great trade. But as the stern reality of the struggle becomes felt, a gloom falls over the place. The men hang about listlessly, and from time to time straggle down to the committee-room, to hear the last news from the other places to which the strike extends, and to try to gather a little confidence therefrom. At first things always look well. Meetings are held in other centres, and promises of support flow in. For a time money arrives freely, and the union committee make an allowance to each member, which, far below his regular pay as it is, is still amply sufficient for his absolute wants. But by the end of two months the enthusiasm which the strike excited elsewhere dies out, the levies fall off, and the weekly money scarce enables life to be kept together. It is distinctive of almost all strikes, that the women, beforehand averse to the movement, when it has once begun, throw themselves heartily into the struggle. From the time it is fairly entered upon until its termination it is rare indeed to hear a collier's wife speak a word against it. When the hardest pinch comes, and the children's faces grow thin and white, and the rooms are stripped of furniture, much as the women may long for an end of it, they never grumble, never pray their husbands to give in. This patient submission to their husbands' wills--this silent bearing of the greatest of suffering, namely, to see children suffer and to be unable to relieve them--is one of the most marked features of all great strikes in the coal districts. "Well, mother, and how goes it?" Jack asked cheerfully after the first greetings. "We be all right, Jack; if we ain't we ought to be, when we've got no children to keep, and get nigh as much as them as has." "Eight shillings a week now, ain't it?" Mrs. Haden nodded. Jack looked round. "Holloa!" he said, "the clock's gone, and the new carpet!" "Well, you see, my boy," Mrs. Haden said, hesitatingly, "Bill is down-hearted sometimes, and he wants a drop of comfort." "I understand," Jack said significantly. "Jack,"--and she again spoke hesitatingly--"I wish ee'd carry off all they books out o' thy little room. There's scores of 'em, and the smallest would fetch a glass o' beer. I've kept the door locked, but it might tempt him, my boy--not when he's in his right senses, you know, he'd scorn to do such a thing; but when he gets half on, and has no more money, and credit stopped, the craving's too much for him, and he'd sell the bed from under him--anything he's got, I do believe, except his pups;" and she pointed to some of Juno's great grandchildren, which were, as usual, lying before the fire, a mere handful of coal now, in comparison with past times. "I'll pick out a parcel of them that will be useful to me," Jack said, "and take them away. The rest may go. And now look here, mother. After paying you for my board, I have had for a long time now some eight shillings a week over. I have spent some in books, but second-hand books are very cheap--as dad will find when he tries to sell them. So I've got some money put by. It don't matter how much, but plenty to keep the wolf away while the strike lasts. But I don't mean, mother, to have my savings drunk away. I'm getting sixteen bob a week, and I can live on ten or eleven, so I'll send you five shillings a week. But dad mustn't know it. I'll be home in a month again, and I'll leave you a pound, so that you can get food in. If he thinks about it at all, which ain't likely, you can make out you get it on tick. Well, dad, how are you?" he asked, as Bill Haden entered the cottage. "Ah, Jack, lad, how be it with 'ee?" "All right, dad; getting on well. And how are things here?" "Bad, Jack. Those scoundrels, the masters, they won't give in; but we're bound to beat 'em--bound to. If they don't come to our terms we mean to call the engine-men, and the hands they've got to keep the ways clear, out of the pits. That'll bring 'em to their senses quick enough. I've been for it all along." "Call off the engine-hands!" Jack said, in tones of alarm; "you ain't going to do such a mad thing as that! Why, if the water gains, and the mines get flooded, it'll be weeks, and maybe months, before the mines can be cleared and put in working order; and what will you all be doing while that's being done?" "It'll bring 'em to their senses, lad," Bill Haden said, bringing his hand down on the table with a thump. "They mean to starve us; we'll ruin them. There, let's have the price of a quart, Jack; I'm dry." Jack saw that argument against this mad scheme would be of no use, for his foster-father was already half-drunk, so he handed him a shilling, and with a shrug of his shoulders walked off to Mr. Merton's. He had long since written to his master, saying that he preferred working his way up slowly in mining, to entering upon a new life, in which, however successful he might be at college, the after course was not clear to him; and his teacher had answered in a tone of approval of his choice. On his way he stopped at the houses of many of his boy friends, and was shocked at the misery which already prevailed in some of them. Harry Shepherd's home was no better than the others. "Why, Harry, I should scarce have known you," he said, as the lad came to the door when he opened it and called him. "You look bad, surely." "We're a big family, Jack; and the extra children's allowance was dropped last week. There's eight of us, and food's scarce. Little Annie's going fast, I think. The doctor came this morning, and said she wanted strengthening food. He might as well ha' ordered her a coach-and-four. Baby died last week, and mother's ailing. You were right, Jack; what fools we were to strike! I've been miles round looking for a job, but it's no use; there's fifty asking for every place open." The tears came into Jack's eyes as he looked at the pinched face of his friend. "Why did you not write to me?" he asked, almost angrily. "I told you where a letter would find me; and here are you all clemming, and me know nought of it. It's too bad. Now look here, Harry, I must lend you some money--you know I've got some put by, and you and your father can pay me when good times come again. Your dad gets his eight shillings from the union, I suppose?" "Yes," the lad answered. "Well, with fifteen shillings a week you could make a shift to get on. So I'll send you ten shillings a week for a bit; that'll be seven shillings to add to the eight, and the other three will get meat to make broth for Annie. The strike can't last much over another month, and that won't hurt me one way or the other. Here's the first ten shillings; put it in your pocket, and then come round with me to the butcher and I'll get a few pounds of meat just to start you all. There, don't cry, and don't say anything, else I'll lick you." But when Jack himself entered the schoolmaster's house, and was alone with Mr. Merton, he threw himself in a chair and burst into tears. "It is awful, sir, awful. To see those little children, who were so noisy and bright when I went away, so pale, and thin, and quiet now. Poor little things! poor little things! As to the men, they are starving because they don't choose to work, and if they like it, let them; even the women I don't pity so much, for if they did right they would take broomsticks and drive the men to work; but the children, it's dreadful!" "It is dreadful, Jack, and it makes me feel sick and ill when I go into the infant-school. The clergyman's wife has opened a sort of soup-kitchen, and a hundred children get a bowl of soup and a piece of bread at dinner-time every day, and they sell soup under cost price to the women. Mr. Brook has given fifty pounds towards it." "Look here, sir," Jack said; "you know I've over fifty pounds laid by--and money can't be better spent than for the children. The strike can't last over a month, or six weeks at the outside, and maybe not that. I'll give you three pounds a week, if you will kindly hand it over to Mrs. Street, and say it's been sent you. But it's to go to feeding children. Let me see; the soup don't cost above a penny a bowl, and say a halfpenny for a hunch of bread. So that will give a good many of 'em a dinner every day. Will you do that for me, sir?" "I will, my boy," Mr. Merton said heartily. "You may save many a young life." "Well, sir, and what do you think of things?" "I fear we shall have trouble, Jack. Last night there was rioting over at Crawfurd; a manager's house was burnt down, and some policemen badly hurt. There is angry talk all over the district, and I fear we shall have it here." When Jack started on Sunday evening for Birmingham, his last words to his mother were: "Mind, mother, the very first word you hear about violence or assault, you post this envelope I have directed, to me. I will come straight back. I'll keep father out of it somehow; and I'll do all I can to save Mr. Brook's property. He's a good master, and he's been specially kind to me, and I won't have him or his property injured." "Why, lauk a' mercy, Jack, you ain't going to fight the whole place all by yourself, are you?" "I don't know what I am going to do yet," Jack said; "but you may be quite sure I shall do something." And as his mother looked at the set bull-dog expression of his mouth and jaw, she felt that Jack was thoroughly in earnest. CHAPTER X. HARD TIMES. It was when the pinch came, the subscriptions fell off, and the weekly payments by the union dwindled to a few shillings for the support of a whole family, that the rough virtues of the people of the mining districts came strongly into prominence. Starvation was doing its work, and told first upon the women and children. Little faces, awhile since so rosy and bright, grew thin and pinched, chubby arms shrank until the bone could almost be seen through the skin, and low fever, a sure accompaniment of want, made its appearance. No more tender and devoted nurses could be found than the rough women, who hushed their voices, and stole with quiet feet around the little beds, letting fall many a silent tear when the sufferer asked for little things, for tea or lemonade, which there were no means to purchase, or when the doctor shook his head and said that good food and not medicine was needed. The pitmen themselves would saunter aimlessly in and out of the houses, so changed from the cottages well stocked with furniture, with gay-coloured pictures on the wall, an eight-day clock, and many another little valuable, and all gone one after another. Very many of them lived upon the scantiest allowance of dry bread which would keep life together, in order that the allowance might all go for the children, retaining as their sole luxury a penny or two a week for the purchase of a pipe or two of tobacco daily. Had it not been for the soup-kitchen scores of children would have died, but the pint of soup and the slice of bread enabled them to live. There was no talk of surrender yet, although compromises, which would at first have been indignantly rejected, were now discussed, and a deputation had waited upon Mr. Brook, but the owner refused to enter into any compromise. "No, never," he said; "you have chosen to join the hands of the other pits in an endeavour to force your employers into giving you a higher rate of wages than they can afford to pay. I, therefore, have joined the other employers. We know, what you cannot know, what are our expenses, and what we can afford to pay, and we will accept no dictation whatever from the men as to their rate of wages. If I prefer, as I do prefer, that the colliery should stand idle, to raising your rate of wages, it is a clear proof that I should lose money if I agreed to your demand. If needs be I would rather that the pit was closed for a year, or for ten years. We have bound ourselves together to make no advance, just as you have bound yourselves not to go to work at the old rate. When you choose to go in at that rate there are your places ready for you, but I will give way in no single point, I will not pay a halfpenny a ton more than before. You best know how long you can hold out. Don't let it be too long, lads, for the sake of your wives and children; remember that the time may come, when, thinking over some empty chair, recalling some little face you will never see again, you will curse your folly and obstinacy in ruining your homes, and destroying those dependent upon you in a struggle in which it was from the first certain that you could not win, and in which, even if you won, the amount at stake is not worth one day of the suffering which you are inflicting upon those you love." Left to themselves the men would have much sooner given in, would indeed never have embarked on the strike, but the influence of the union being over them, they feared to be called "black sheep," and to be taunted with deserting the general cause, and so the strike went on. The tale of the suffering over the wide district affected by the strike was told through the land, and the subscriptions of the benevolent flowed in. Public opinion was, however, strongly opposed to the strike, and for the most part the money was subscribed wholly for soup-kitchen, for children, and for relief of the sick. But the area was wide, there were scores of villages as badly off as Stokebridge, and the share of each of the general fund was very small. A local committee was formed, of which the vicar was at the head, for the management of the funds, and for organizing a body of nurses. All the women who had no children of their own were enrolled upon its lists, and many of the girls of the sewing-class volunteered their services. No one during this sad time devoted herself more untiringly and devotedly than Nelly Hardy. The quiet manner, the steady and resolute face, rendered her an excellent nurse, and as her father and mother were, perforce, sober, she could devote her whole time to the work. A portion of the funds was devoted to the preparation of the articles of food and drink necessary for the sick, and the kitchen of the schoolroom was freely employed in making milk-puddings, barley-water, and other things which brought pleasure and alleviation to the parched little lips for which they were intended. The distress grew daily more intense. The small traders could no longer give credit; the pawnbrokers were so overburdened with household goods that they were obliged absolutely to decline to receive more; the doctors were worn out with work; the guardians of the poor were nearly beside themselves in their efforts to face the frightful distress prevailing; and the charitable committee, aided as they were by subscriptions from without, could still do but little in comparison to the great need. Jane Haden and the other women without families, did their best to help nurse in the houses where sickness was rife. The children were mere shadows, and the men and women, although far less reduced, were yet worn and wasted by want of food. And still the strike went on, still the men held out against the reduction. Some of the masters had brought men from other parts, and these had to be guarded to and from their work by strong bodies of police, and several serious encounters had taken place. Some of the hands were wavering now, but the party of resistance grew more and more violent, and the waverers dared not raise their voices. The delegates of the union went about holding meetings, and assuring their hearers that the masters were on the point of being beaten, and must give way; but they were listened to in sullen and gloomy silence by the men. Then came muttered threats and secret gatherings; and then Jane Haden, obedient to her promise, but very doubtful as to its wisdom, posted the letter Jack had left with her. It was three o'clock next day before he arrived, for he had not received the letter until he went out for his breakfast, and he had to go back to his work and ask to be allowed to go away for the afternoon on particular business, for which he was wanted at home. "Well, mother, what is it?" was his first question on entering. "I oughtn't to tell 'ee, Jack; and I do believe Bill would kill me if he knew." "He won't know, mother, and you must tell me," Jack said quietly. "Well, my boy, yesterday afternoon Bill came in here with eight or ten others. I were upstairs, but I suppose they thought I were out, and as I did not want to disturb 'em, and was pretty nigh worn out--I had been up three nights with Betsy Mullin's girl--I sat down and nigh dozed off. The door was open, and I could hear what they said downstairs when they spoke loud. At first they talked low, and I didn't heed what they were saying; then I heard a word or two which frighted me, and then I got up and went quiet to my door and listened. Jack, they are going to wreck the engines, so as to stop the pumping and drown the mines. They are going to do for the 'Vaughan,' and the 'Hill Side,' and 'Thorns,' and the 'Little Shaft,' and 'Vale.' It's to be done to-night, and they begin with the 'Vaughan' at ten o'clock, 'cause it's closest, I suppose." "They are mad," Jack said sternly. "How are they to earn bread if they flood the mines? and it will end by a lot of them being sent to jail for years. But I'll stop it if it costs me my life." "Oh, Jack! don't 'ee do anything rash," Mrs. Haden said piteously. "What can one lad do against two or three hundred men?" "Now, mother," Jack said promptly, not heeding her appeal, "what police are there within reach?" "The police were all sent away yesterday to Bampton. There were riots there, I heard say. That's why they chose to-night." "Now the first thing, mother, is to prevent dad from going out to-night. He must be kept out of it, whatever others do. I've brought a bottle of gin from Birmingham. Tell him I've come over for an hour or two to see schoolmaster, and I'm going back again afterwards, but I've brought him this as a present. Get the cork out; he's sure to drink a glass or two anyhow, perhaps more, but it will send him off to sleep, sure enough. It's the strongest I could get, and he's out of the way of drink now. I don't suppose they'll miss him when they start; but if any one comes round for him, you tell 'em I brought him some Old Tom over, and that he's so dead sleepy he can't move. Later on, if you can, get some woman or child to come in, and let them see him, so that there'll be a witness he was at home when the thing came off, that'll make him safe. I've thought it all over." "But what be'est thou going to do, Jack?" "Don't mind me, mother. I'm going to save the Vaughan colliery. Don't you fret about me; all you've got to do is to make dad drink, which ain't a difficult job, and to stick to the story that I have been over for an hour to see schoolmaster. Good-bye, mother. Don't fret; it will all come out right." As Jack went down the street he tapped at the door of his friend's house. "Is Harry in?" Harry was in, and came out at once. "How's Annie?" was Jack's first question. "Better, much better, Jack; the doctor thinks she'll do now. The broth put fresh life into her; we're all better, Jack, thanks to you." "That's all right, Harry. Put on your cap and walk with me to the schoolroom. Now," he went on, as his friend rejoined him, and they turned up the street, "will you do a job for me?" "Anything in the world, Jack--leastways, anything I can." "You may risk your life, Harry." "All right, Jack, I'll risk it willing for you. You risked yours for me at the old shaft." "Dost know what's going to be done to-night Harry?" "I've heard summat about it." "It must be stopped, Harry, if it costs you and me our lives. What's that when the whole district depends upon it? If they wreck the engines and flood the mines there will be no work for months; and what's to become of the women and children then? I'm going to Mr. Merton to tell him, and to get him to write a letter to Sir John Butler--Brook's place would be watched--he's the nearest magistrate, and the most active about here, and won't let the grass grow under his feet by all accounts. The letter must tell him of the attack that is to be made to-night, and ask him to send for the soldiers, if no police can be had. I want you to take the letter, Harry. Go out the other side of the village and make a long sweep round. Don't get into the road till you get a full mile out of the place. Then go as hard as you can till you get to Butler's. Insist on seeing him yourself; say it's a question of life and death. If he's out, you must go on to Hooper--he's the next magistrate. When you have delivered the letter, slip off home and go to bed, and never let out all your life that you took that letter." "All right, Jack; but what be'est thou going to do?" "I'm going another way, lad; I've got my work too. You'd best stop here, Harry; I will bring the letter to you. It may get out some day that Merton wrote it, and it's as well you shouldn't be seen near his place." CHAPTER XI. THE ATTACK ON THE ENGINE-HOUSE. No sooner did Mr. Merton hear of the resolution of the miners to destroy the engines, than he sat down and wrote an urgent letter to Sir John Butler. "Is there anything else, Jack?" "I don't know, sir. If the masters could be warned of the attack they might get a few viewers and firemen and make a sort of defence; but if the men's blood's up it might go hard with them; and it would go hard with you if you were known to have taken the news of it." "I will take the risk of that," Mr. Merton said. "Directly it is dark I will set out. What are you going to do, Jack?" "I've got my work marked out," Jack said. "I'd rather not tell you till it's all over. Good-bye, sir; Harry is waiting for the letter." Mr. Merton did not carry out his plans. As soon as it was dark he left the village, but a hundred yards out he came upon a party of men, evidently posted as sentries. These roughly told him that if he didn't want to be chucked into the canal he'd best go home to bed; and this, after trying another road with the same result, he did. Jack walked with Harry as far as the railway-station, mentioning to several friends he met that he was off again. The lads crossed the line, went out of the opposite booking-office, and set off--for it was now past five, and already dark--at the top of their speed in different directions. Jack did not stop till he reached the engine-house of the Vaughan mine. The pumps were still clanking inside, and the water streaming down the shoot. Peeping carefully in, to see that his friend, John Ratcliffe, was alone, Jack entered. "Well, John," he said, "the engine's still going." "Ay, Jack; but if what's more nor one has told me to-day be true, it be for the last time." "Look here, John; Mr. Brook has been a good master, will you do him a good turn?" "Ay, lad, if I can; I've held on here, though they've threatened to chuck me down the shaft; but I'm a married man, and can't throw away my life." "I don't ask you to, John. I want you to work hard here with me till six o'clock strikes, and then go home as usual." "What dost want done, lad?" "What steam is there in the boiler?" "Only about fifteen pounds. I'm just knocking off, and have banked the fire up." "All right, John. I want you to help me fix the fire hose, the short length, to that blow-off cock at the bottom of the boiler. We can unscrew the pipe down to the drain, and can fasten the hose to it with a union, I expect. You've got some unions, haven't you?" "Yes, lad; and what then?" "That's my business, John. I'm going to hold this place till the soldiers come; and I think that with twenty pounds of steam in the boiler, and the hose, I can keep all the miners of Stokebridge out. At any rate, I'll try. Now, John, set to work. I want thee to go straight home, and then no one will suspect thee of having a hand in the matter. I'll go out when thou dost, and thou canst swear, if thou art asked, that there was not a soul in the house when thou camest away." "Thou wilt lose thy life, Jack." "That be my business," Jack said. "I think not. Now set to work, John; give me a spanner, and let's get the pipe off the cock at once." John Ratcliffe set to work with a will, and in twenty minutes the unions were screwed on and the hose attached, a length of thirty feet, which was quite sufficient to reach to the window, some eight feet above the ground. Along by this window ran a platform. There was another, and a smaller window, on the other side. While they were working, John Ratcliffe tried to dissuade Jack from carrying out his plan. "It's no use, John. I mean to save the engines, and so the pit. They'll never get in; and no one knows I am here, and no one will suspect me. None of 'em will know my voice, for they won't bring boys with them, and dad won't be here. There, it's striking six. Let me just drop a rope out of the window to climb in again with. Now we'll go out together; do thou lock the door, take the key, and go off home. Like enough they'll ask thee for the key, or they may bring their sledges to break it in. Anyhow it will make no difference, for there are a couple of bolts inside, and I shall make it fast with bars. There, that's right. Good-night, John. Remember, whatever comes of it, thou knowest nought of it. Thou camest away and left the place empty, as usual, and no one there." "Good-bye, lad, I'd stop with 'ee and share thy risk, but they'd know I was here, and my life wouldn't be worth the price of a pot o' beer. Don't forget, lad, if thou lowerst the water, to damp down the fire, and open the valves." Jack, left to himself, clambered up to the window and entered the engine-house again, threw some fresh coal on the fire, heaped a quantity of coal against the door, and jammed several long iron bars against it. Then he lighted his pipe and sat listening, occasionally getting up to hold a lantern to the steam-gauge, as it crept gradually up. "Twenty-five pounds," he said; "that will be enough to throw the water fifty or sixty yards on a level, and the door of the winding-engine's not more than thirty, so I can hold them both if they try to break in there." He again banked up the fires, and sat thinking. Harry would be at the magistrate's by a quarter to six. By six o'clock Sir John could be on his way to Birmingham for troops; fifteen miles to drive--say an hour and a half. Another hour for the soldiers to start, and three hours to do the nineteen miles to the Vaughan, half-past eleven--perhaps half an hour earlier, perhaps half an hour later. There was no fear but there was plenty of water. The boiler was a large one, and was built partly into, partly out of the engine-house. That is to say, while the furnace-door, the gauges, and the safety-valve were inside, the main portion of the boiler was outside the walls. The blow-off cock was two inches in diameter, and the nozzle of the hose an inch and a half. It would take some minutes then, even with the steam at a pressure of twenty-five pounds to the inch, to blow the water out, and a minute would, he was certain, do all that was needed. Not even when, upon the first day of his life in the pit, Jack sat hour after hour alone in the darkness, did the time seem to go so slowly as it did that evening. Once or twice he thought he heard footsteps, and crept cautiously up to the window to listen; but each time, convinced of his error, he returned to his place on a bench near the furnace. He heard the hours strike, one after another, on the Stokebridge church clock--eight, nine, ten--and then he took his post by the window and listened. A quarter of an hour passed, and then there was a faint, confused sound. Nearer it came, and nearer, until it swelled into the trampling of a crowd of many hundreds of men. They came along with laughter and rough jests, for they had no thought of opposition--no thought that anyone was near them. The crowd moved forward until they were within a few yards of the engine-house, and then one, who seemed to be in command, said, "Smash the door in with your sledges, lads." Jack had, as they approached, gone down to the boiler, and had turned the blow-off cock, and the boiling water swelled the strong leathern hose almost to bursting. Then he went back to the window, threw it open, and stood with the nozzle in his hand. "Hold!" he shouted out in loud, clear tones. "Let no man move a step nearer for his life." The mob stood silent, paralyzed with surprise. Jack had spoken without a tinge of the local accent, and as none of the boys were there, his voice was quite unrecognized. "Who be he?" "It's a stranger!" and other sentences, were muttered through the throng. "Who be you?" the leader asked, recovering from his surprise. "Never mind who I am," Jack said, standing well back from the window, lest the light from the lanterns which some of the men carried might fall on his face. "I am here in the name of the law. I warn you to desist from your evil design. Go to your homes; the soldiers are on their way, and may be here any minute. Moreover, I have means here of destroying any man who attempts to enter." There was a movement in the crowd. "The soldiers be coming" ran from mouth to mouth, and the more timid began to move towards the outside of the crowd. "Stand firm, lads, it be a lie," shouted the leader. "Thee baint to be frighted by one man, be'est 'ee? What! five hundred Staffordshire miners afeard o' one? Why, ye'll be the laughing-stock of the country! Now, lads, break in the door; we'll soon see who be yon chap that talks so big." There was a rush to the door, and a thundering clatter as the heavy blows of the sledge-hammers fell on the wood; while another party began an assault upon the door of the winding-engine house. Then Jack, with closely pressed lips and set face, turned the cock of the nozzle. With a hiss the scalding water leaped out in a stream. Jack stood well forward now and with the hose swept the crowd, as a fireman might sweep a burning building. Driven by the tremendous force of the internal steam, the boiling water knocked the men in front headlong over; then, as he raised the nozzle and scattered the water broadcast over the crowd, wild yells, screams, and curses broke on the night air. Another move, and the column of boiling fluid fell on those engaged on the other engine-house door, and smote them down. Then Jack turned the cock again, and the stream of water ceased. It was but a minute since he had turned it on, but it had done its terrible work. A score of men lay on the ground, rolling in agony; others danced, screamed, and yelled in pain; others, less severely scalded, filled the air with curses; while all able to move made a wild rush back from the terrible building. When the wild cries had a little subsided, Jack called out,-- "Now, lads, you can come back safely. I have plenty more hot water, and I could have scalded the whole of you as badly as those in front had I wanted to. Now I promise, on my oath, not to turn it on again if you will come and carry off your mates who are here. Take them off home as quick as you can, before the soldiers come. I don't want to do you harm. You'd all best be in bed as soon as you can." The men hesitated, but it was clear to them all that it had been in the power of their unknown foe to have inflicted a far heavier punishment upon them than he had done, and there was a ring of truth and honesty in his voice which they could not doubt. So after a little hesitation a number of them came forward, and lifting the men who had fallen near the engine-house, carried them off; and in a few minutes there was a deep silence where, just before, a very pandemonium had seemed let loose. Then Jack, the strain over, sat down, and cried like a child. Half an hour later, listening intently, he heard a deep sound in the distance. "Here come the soldiers," he muttered, "it is time for me to be off." He glanced at the steam-gauge, and saw that the steam was falling, while the water-gauge showed that there was still sufficient water for safety, and he then opened the window at the back of the building, and dropped to the ground. In an instant he was seized in a powerful grasp. "I thought ye'd be coming out here, and now I've got ye," growled a deep voice, which Jack recognized as that of Roger Hawking, the terror of Stokebridge. For an instant his heart seemed to stand still at the extent of his peril; then, with a sudden wrench, he swung round and faced his captor, twisted his hands in his handkerchief, and drove his knuckles into his throat. Then came a crashing blow in his face--another, and another. With head bent down, Jack held on his grip with the gameness and tenacity of a bull-dog, while the blows rained on his head, and his assailant, in his desperate effort to free himself, swung his body hither and thither in the air, as a bull might swing a dog which had pinned him. Jack felt his senses going--a dull dazed feeling came over him. Then he felt a crash, as his adversary reeled and fell--and then all was dark. [Illustration: A LIFE OR DEATH STRUGGLE.] It could have been but a few minutes that he lay thus, for he awoke with the sound of a thunder of horses' hoofs, and a clatter of swords in the yard on the other side of the engine-house. Rousing himself, he found that he still grasped the throat of the man beneath him. With a vague sense of wonder whether his foe was dead, he rose to his feet and staggered off, the desire to avoid the troops dispersing all other ideas in his brain. For a few hundred yards he staggered along, swaying like a drunken man, and knowing nothing of where he was going; then he stumbled, and fell again, and lay for hours insensible. It was just the faint break of day when he came to, the cold air of the morning having brought him to himself. It took him a few minutes to recall what had happened and his whereabouts. Then he made his way to the canal, which was close by, washed the blood from his face, and set out to walk to Birmingham. He was too shaken and bruised to make much progress, and after walking for a while crept into the shelter of a haystack, and went off to sleep for many hours. After it was dusk in the evening he started again, and made his way to his lodgings at ten o'clock that night. It was a fortnight before he could leave his room, so bruised and cut was his face, and a month before the last sign of the struggle was obliterated, and he felt that he could return to Stokebridge without his appearance being noticed. There, great changes had taken place. The military had found the splintered door, the hose, and the still steaming water in the yard, and the particulars of the occurrence which had taken place had been pretty accurately judged. They were indeed soon made public by the stories of the scalded men, a great number of whom were forced to place themselves in the hands of the doctor, many of them having had very narrow escapes of their lives, but none of them had actually succumbed. In searching round the engine-house the soldiers had found a man, apparently dead, his tongue projecting from his mouth. A surgeon had accompanied them, and a vein having been opened and water dashed in his face, he gave signs of recovery. He had been taken off to jail as being concerned in the attack on the engine-house; but no evidence could be obtained against him, and he would have been released had he not been recognized as a man who had, five years before, effected a daring escape from Portland, where he was undergoing a life sentence for a brutal manslaughter. The defeat of the attempt to destroy the Vaughan engines was the death-blow of the strike. Among the foremost in the attack, and therefore so terribly scalded that they were disabled for weeks, were most of the leaders of the strike in the pits of the district, and their voices silenced, and their counsel discredited, the men two days after the attack had a great meeting, at which it was resolved almost unanimously to go to work on the masters' terms. Great excitement was caused throughout the district by the publication of the details of the defence of the engine-house, and the most strenuous efforts were made by Mr. Brook to discover the person to whom he was so indebted. The miners were unanimous in describing him as a stranger, and as speaking like a gentleman; and there was great wonder why any one who had done so great a service to the mine-owners should conceal his identity. Jack's secret was, however, well kept by the three or four who alone knew it, and who knew too that his life would not be safe for a day did the colliers, groaning and smarting over their terrible injuries, discover to whom they were indebted for them. CHAPTER XII. AFTER THE STRIKE. "Well, Jack, so you're back again," Nelly Hardy said as she met Jack Simpson on his way home from work on the first day after his return. "Ay, Nelly, and glad to see you. How have things gone on?" and he nodded towards her home. "Better than I ever knew them," the girl said. "When father could not afford to buy drink we had better times than I have ever known. It was a thousand times better to starve than as 'twas before. He's laid up still; you nigh scalded him to death, Jack, and I doubt he'll never be fit for work again." "I," Jack exclaimed, astounded, for he believed that the secret was known only to his mother, Harry, John Ratcliffe, Mr. Merton and perhaps the schoolmaster's daughter. "Has Harry--" "No, Harry has not said a word. Oh, Jack, I didn't think it of you. You call me a friend and keep this a secret, you let Harry know it and say nowt to me. I did not think it of you," and the dark eyes filled with tears. "But if Harry did not tell you, how--" "As if I wanted telling," she said indignantly. "Who would have dared do it but you? Didn't I know you were here an hour or two before, and you think I needed telling who it was as faced all the pitmen? and to think you hid it from me! Didn't you think I could be trusted? couldn't I have gone to fetch the redcoats for you? couldn't I have sat by you in the engine-house, and waited and held your hand when you stood against them all? oh, Jack!" and for the first time since their friendship had been pledged, nearly four years before, Jack saw Nelly burst into tears. "I didn't mean unkind, Nell, I didn't, indeed, and if I had wanted another messenger I would have come to you. Don't I know you are as true as steel? Come, lass, don't take on. I would have sent thee instead o' Harry only I thought he could run fastest. Girls' wind ain't as good as lads'." "And you didn't doubt I'd do it, Jack?" "Not for a moment," Jack said. "I would have trusted thee as much as Harry." "Well then, I forgive you, Jack, but if ever you get in danger again, and doant let me know, I'll never speak a word to you again." In the years which had passed since this friendship began Nelly Hardy had greatly changed. The companionship of two quiet lads like Jack and Harry had tamed her down, and her love of reading and her study of all the books on history and travel on Jack's book-shelves had softened her speech. When alone the three spoke with but little of the dialect of the place, Jack having insisted on improvement in this respect. With Nelly his task had been easy, for she was an apt pupil, but Harry still retained some of his roughness of speech. Nelly was fifteen now, and was nearly as tall as Jack, who was square and somewhat stout for his age. With these two friends Jack would talk sometimes of his hopes of rising and making a way for himself. Harry, who believed devoutly in his friend, entered most warmly into his hopes, but Nelly on this subject alone was not sympathetic. "You don't say anything," Jack remarked one day; "do you think my castles in the air will never come true?" "I know they will come true, Jack," she said earnestly; "but don't ask me to be glad. I can't; I try to but I can't. It's selfish, but, but--" and her voice quivered. "Every step thou takest will carry you farther up from me, and I can't be glad on it, Jack!" "Nonsense, Nelly," Jack said angrily, "dos't think so little of me as to think that I shall not be as true to my two friends, Harry and you, as I am now?" The girl shook her head. "You will try, Jack, you will try. Don't think I doubt you, but--" and turning round she fled away at full speed. "I believe she ran away because she was going to cry," Harry said. "Lasses are strange things, and though in some things Nell's half a lad, yet she's soft you see on some points. Curious, isn't it, Jack?" "Very curious," Jack said; "I thought I understood Nell as well as I did you or myself, but I begin to think I doant understand her as much as I thought. It comes of her being a lass, of course, but it's queer too," and Jack shook his head over the mysterious nature of lasses. "You can't understand 'em," he went on again, thoughtfully. "Now, if you wanted some clothes, Harry, and you were out of work, I should just buy you a set as a matter of course, and you'd take 'em the same. It would be only natural like friends, wouldn't it?" Harry assented. "Now, I've been wanting to give Nelly a gown, and a jacket, and hat for the last two years. I want her to look nice, and hold her own with the other lasses of the place--she's as good looking as any--but I daren't do it. No, I daren't, downright. I know, as well as if I see it, how she'd flash up, and how angry she'd be." "Why should she?" Harry asked. "That's what I doan't know, lad, but I know she would be. I suppose it comes of her being a lass, but it beats me altogether. Why shouldn't she take it? other lasses take presents from their lads, why shouldn't Nell take one from her friend? But she wouldn't, I'd bet my life she wouldn't, and she wouldn't say, 'No, and thank you,' but she'd treat it as if I'd insulted her. No, it can't be done, lad; but it's a pity, for I should ha' liked to see her look nice for once." Not satisfied with his inability to solve the question Jack took his mother into his confidence. Jane Haden smiled. "Noa, Jack, I don't think as how thou canst give Nell Hardy a dress. She is a good quiet girl and keeps herself respectable, which, taking into account them she comes from, is a credit to her, but I don't think thou could'st gi' her a gown." "But why not, mother?" Jack persisted. "I might gi' her a pair o' earrings or a brooch, I suppose, which would cost as much as the gown." "Yes, thou might'st do that, Jack." "Then if she could take the thing which would be no manner o' use to her, why couldn't she take the thing that would?" "I doant know as I can rightly tell you, Jack, but there's a difference." "But can't you tell me what is the difference?" Jack insisted. "Noa, Jack, I can't, but there be a difference." Jack seized his candle with a cry of despair, and ran upstairs. He had solved many a tough problem, but this was beyond him altogether. He was not, however, accustomed to be baffled, and the next day he renewed the subject, this time to Nelly herself. "Look here, Nell," he said, "I want to ask you a question. It is a supposition, you know, only a supposition, but it bothers me." "What is it, Jack?" she said, looking up from the ground, upon which as was her custom she was sitting with a book while Jack sat on a gate. "If I was to offer you a pair of gold earrings." "I wouldn't take 'em," the girl said rising, "you know I wouldn't, Jack; you know I never take presents from you." "I know, lass, I know. We'll suppose you wouldn't take it, but you wouldn't be angered, would you?" "I should be angered that you had spent money foolishly," the girl said after a pause, "when you knew I shouldn't take it, but I couldn't be angered any other way." "Well, but if I were to buy you a hat and a jacket and a gown." "You dare not," the girl said passionately, her face flushed scarlet; "you dare not, Jack." "No," Jack said consciously, "I know I dare not, though I should like to; but why don't I dare?" "Because it would be an insult, a gross insult, Jack, and you dare not insult me." "No lass, I darena; but why should it be an insult? that's what I canna make out; why wouldn't it be an insult to offer you a gold brooch worth three or four pounds, and yet be an insult to offer you the other things? what's the difference?" Nelly had calmed down now when she saw that the question was a hypothetical one, and that Jack had not, as she at first supposed, bought clothes for her. She thought for some time. "I suppose, Jack, the difference is this. It's the duty of a girl's father and mother to buy fit clothes for her, and if they don't it's either their fault, or it's because they are too poor. So to give clothes is an interference and a sort of reproach. A brooch is not necessary; it's a pretty ornament, and so a lad may give it to his lass wi'out shame." "Yes, I suppose it must be that," Jack said thoughtfully. "I'm glad I've got some sort of answer." CHAPTER XIII. A HEAVY LOSS. "I thought, sir, that you promised to say nothing about that soup-kitchen money," Jack said rather indignantly one evening a fortnight after he had gone to work again. "Here all the women of the place seem to know about it, and as I was coming home from work to-day, there was Mrs. Thompson run out and shook me by the hand and would ha' kissed me if I'd let her, and said I'd saved her children's lives. I ha' been thinking of going away; I can't stand this; and I thought you promised to say nowt about it." "'Nothing,' Jack," corrected Mr. Merton. "It is a long time since I heard you say 'nowt.' No, Jack, I did not promise; you told me to say nothing about it, but I was careful not to promise. Sit down, lad, you're a little hot now, and I am not surprised, but I am sure that you will credit me for having acted for the best." Jack sat down with a little grunt, and with the expression of dissatisfaction on his face in no way mollified. "In the first place, Jack, you will, I know, be sorry to hear that I am going away." "Going away!" Jack exclaimed, leaping to his feet, all thought of his grievance gone at once. "Oh! Mr. Merton." "I told you, you will remember, Jack, when the strike first began, that for the sake of my daughter I should make an effort to obtain a superior position, and I am glad to say that I have done so. I have obtained the post of mathematical master at the Foundation School at Birmingham, with a salary of three hundred a year, and this, Jack, I partly owe to you." "To me!" Jack exclaimed in astonishment; "how could that be, sir?" "Well, Jack, you got me to write that letter to Sir John Butler, that was the means of bringing the troops over from Birmingham. As we know, they arrived too late, for in point of fact the hot water from the Vaughan boiler put an end to the riot and the strike together. However, Sir John Butler mentioned to Mr. Brook, and the other owners whose mines were threatened, that it was I who at some risk to myself sent the message which brought down the troops. I can assure you that I disclaimed any merit in the affair; however, they chose to consider themselves under an obligation, and when I applied for the vacant mastership, sending in, of course, my college testimonials, they were good enough to exert all their influence with the governors in my favour, and I was elected unanimously. The salary is an increasing one, and I am to be allowed to coach private pupils for the university. So, Jack, you may congratulate me." "I do, sir, most heartily, most heartily," Jack said as he grasped the hand which Mr. Merton held out, but his voice quivered a little and tears stood in his eyes. "I am glad, indeed, although I shall miss you so terribly, you have been so good to me," and Jack fairly broke down now, and cried silently. Mr. Merton put his hand on his shoulder: "Jack, my work is nearly done, so far as you are concerned. You have worked nearly as far as can be of any use to you in pure mathematics. For the next few months you may go on; but then you had better turn your attention to the useful application of what you have learned. You want to fit yourself to be an engineer, especially, of course, a mining engineer; still the more general your knowledge the better. You will have, therefore, to devote yourself to the various strains and stresses in iron bridges, and the calculation of the strength of the various forms of these structures. Then all calculations as to the expenditure of heat and force in steam engines will be quite material for you to master. In fact, there is work before you for another four or five years. But for much of this you will not require a master. You will find the practical part easy to you when you have a thorough knowledge of mathematics. At the same time if you will once a week send me your papers, noting all difficulties that you may meet with, I will go through them and answer you, and will also give you papers to work out." "You are very, very kind, sir," Jack said; "but it will not be the same thing as you being here." "No, not quite the same, Jack; still we can hardly help that." "Oh, no, sir!" Jack said eagerly, "and please do not think that I am not glad to hear that you have got a place more worthy of you. It was a blow to me just at first, and I was selfish to think of myself even for a moment." "Well, Jack, and now about this question of the soup dinner?" "Oh! it does not matter, sir. I had forgot all about it." "It matters a little, Jack, because, although I did not promise to keep silence, I should certainly have respected your wish, had it not been that it seemed to be a far more important matter that the truth should be known." "More important, sir?" Jack repeated in a puzzled tone. "More important, Jack. My successor has been chosen. He is just the man for this place--earnest, well trained, a good disciplinarian. He will be no help to you, Jack. He is simply taught and trained as the master of a national school, but he is thoroughly in earnest. I have told him that his most efficient assistant here will be yourself." "I?" Jack exclaimed in extreme astonishment. "You, Jack, not as a teacher, but as an example. You have immense power of doing good, Jack, if you do but choose to exert it." Jack was altogether too surprised to speak for some time. "A power of good," he said at last. "The only good I can do, sir, and that is not much, is to thrash chaps I see bullying smaller boys, but that's nothing." "Well, that's something, Jack; and indeed I fear you are fond of fighting." "I am not fond of it," Jack said. "I don't care about it, one way or the other. It doesn't hurt me; I am as hard as nails, you see, so I don't think more about fighting than I do about eating my dinner." "I don't like fighting, Jack, when it can be avoided, and I don't think that you are quarrelsome though you do get into so many fights." "Indeed I am not quarrelsome, Mr. Merton; I never quarrel with anyone. If any of the big chaps interfere with us and want to fight, of course I am ready, or if chaps from the other pits think that they can knock our chaps about, of course I show them that the Vaughans can fight, or if I see any fellow pitching in to a young one--" "Or, in fact, Jack, on any pretext whatever. Well, if it were anyone else but yourself I should speak very strongly against it; but in your case I avow that I am glad that you have fought, and fought until, as I know, no one anywhere near your age will fight with you, because it now makes you more useful for my purpose." Jack looked astonished again. "You don't want me to thrash anyone, Mr. Merton?" he said; "because if you do--" "No, no, Jack, nothing is further from my thoughts. I want you to get the lads of your own age to join a night-school, and to become a more decent Christian set of young fellows than they are now. It is just because you can fight well, and are looked up to by the lads as their natural leader, that you can do this. Were anyone else to try it he would fail. He would be regarded as a milksop, and be called a girl, and a Molly, and all sorts of names, and no one would join him. Now with you they can't say this, and boys joining would say to those who made fun of them, 'There's Jack Simpson, he's one of us; you go and call him Molly and see what you'll get.' Now you can talk to your comrades, and point out to them the advantages of learning and decent manners. Show that not only will they become happier men, but that in a worldly point of view they will benefit, for that the mine-owners have difficulty in getting men with sufficient education to act as overmen and viewers. Get them to agree to keep from drink and from the foul language which makes the streets horrible to a decent person. You can work a revolution in the place. You won't get them to do all this at present, but the first step is to get them to attend a night-school. I have for the last year been thinking over the matter, and was intending to speak to you about it when the strike began, and everything else was put aside. Now, I have spoken to my successor, and he is willing, and indeed anxious, to open such a school if the young fellows can be induced to come." Jack sat for some time in silence. He was always slow at coming to a conclusion, and liked to think over every side of a question. "How often would it be held, sir?" he asked presently. "Two or three nights a week, Jack. Those who are anxious to get on can do as you did, and work between times." "Two nights would be enough at first," Jack said; "but I think, yes, I think I could get some of them to give that. Harry Shepherd would, I'm sure, and Bill Cummings, and Fred Wood, and I think five or six others. Yes, sir, I think we could start it, and all I can do I will. It would do a sight--I mean a great deal of good. I'll come myself at first, sir, and then if any of them make a noise or play games with the schoolmaster I'll lick 'em next day." "No, Jack, I don't think that would do, but your presence would no doubt aid the master at first. And you'll think of the other things, Jack, the drinking, and the bad language, and so on." "I'll do what I can, Mr. Merton," Jack said, simply, "but it must be bit by bit." "That's right, Jack, I knew that I could rely upon you; and now come in to tea, and there was one thing I wanted to say, I want you once a month to come over to me at Birmingham on Saturday afternoon and stay till Sunday evening. It will be a great pleasure to me; I shall see how you are getting on, and shall hear all the news of Stokebridge." "I am very very much obliged to you, sir," Jack said, colouring with pleasure, "but I am afraid I am not, not fit--" "You are fit to associate with anyone, Jack, and it is good for you that you should occasionally have other association than that of your comrades of the pit. You will associate with people of higher rank than mine, if you live, and it is well that you should become accustomed to it. And now, Jack, I know you will not take it amiss, but clothes do go for something, and I should advise you to go to a good tailor's at Birmingham the first time you come over--I will obtain the address of such a one--and order yourself a suit of well made clothes. As you get on in life you will learn that first impressions go a long way, and that the cut of the clothes have not a little to do with first impressions. I shall introduce you to my friends there, simply as a friend; not that either you or I are ashamed of your working in a pit--indeed, that is your highest credit--but it would spare you the comments and silly questions which would be put to you. Now let us go into the next room, Alice will be expecting us." Jack had taken tea with Mr. Merton more than once since that first evening before the strike, and was now much more at his ease with Miss Merton, who, having heard from her father that it was he who saved the Vaughan pit, viewed him with a constant feeling of astonishment. It seemed so strange to her that this quiet lad, who certainly stood in awe of her, although he was a year her senior, should have done such a daring action; equally wonderful to think that in spite of his well chosen words and the attainments her father thought so highly of, he was yet a pit boy, like the rough noisy lads of the village. A week later Mr. Merton and his daughter left Stokebridge, and upon the following day his successor arrived, and Jack, at Mr. Merton's request, called upon him the same evening. He was a tall man of some forty years old, with a face expressive of quiet power. Jack felt at once that he should like him. He received the lad very kindly. "I have heard so much of you from Mr. Merton," he said, "and I am sure that you will be a great help to me. Harriet," he said to his wife, a bright-looking woman of about thirty-five years old, who came into the room, "this is Mr. Simpson, of whom Mr. Merton spoke so highly to me. My wife is going to have the girls' school, have you heard?" "No, indeed," Jack said; "Mr. Merton did not mention it." "It was only settled yesterday; the managers heard that my wife was a trained mistress, and as they were going to pension off the present mistress they offered it to her." "I am very glad," Jack said, "for Mrs. White has long been past her work, and the girls did pretty well as they liked." "I expect to have some trouble with them at first," Mrs. Dodgson said cheerfully. "I often tell my husband girls are ever so much more troublesome than boys, but I daresay I shall manage; and now, Mr. Simpson, we are just going to have supper, will you join us? It will be our first regular meal in the house." "Thank you very much," Jack said, colouring and hesitating, "but I think, perhaps, you don't know that I am only a lad in the pit." "Stuff and nonsense," Mrs. Dodgson said, "what has that to do with it? Why, Mr. Merton says that you will be John's right hand. Besides, you will be able to tell us all about the people we shall have to do with." In another moment Jack was seated at table, and really enjoyed the meal, lightened, as it was, by the pleasant talk of his hostess, and the grave but not less kindly conversation of her husband. CHAPTER XIV. THE NIGHT-SCHOOL. Jack found that, as he expected, his friends Harry Shepherd, Bill Cummings, and Fred Wood, would be glad to attend a night-school, and to work in earnest; for the example of what Jack had done for himself, even so far as they knew, had excited a strong desire for improvement among them. They, however, were doubtful as to others, and agreed that it would not do to propose it in a straightforward manner, but that a good deal of careful management would be necessary. Jack, it was arranged, should open the subject after leading up to it carefully. Harry should be the first to consent, Bill Cummings was to give in his adhesion when he saw signs of wavering among the others, and Fred Wood to delay his until a moment when his coming forward would be useful. The following Saturday, when many of them were always together, should be the occasion, and Fred Wood was to lead up to the matter by asking Jack some questions as to the relative bigness of the earth and the sun. Saturday came, the lads gathered in a field which belonged to the Vaughan, and upon which a great tip of rubbish and shale was gradually encroaching. Here choosing sides they played at rounders for a couple of hours, and then flung themselves down on the grass. Some of them lighted pipes, and all enjoyed the quiet of the fine autumn evening. Presently Fred Wood artfully fired off the questions he had prepared, which Jack answered. "What a sight o' things thou know'st, Jack!" Bill Cummings said. "I don't know much yet, Bill, but I hopes to know a goodish deal some day." "And thou really lik'st reading, Jack? I hate it," John Jordan said. "I didn't like it ower much at first," Jack answered, "but as I got on I liked it more and more. I wish you chaps had the chances I had. It isn't every one who would take the pains wi' a fellow as Merton took wi' me." "What ud be t' good o't?" John Jordan asked. "I doan't see no good in knowing that t' sun be a hundred thousand times as big as t' world." "There's use in a great deal o' what one gets to know, though," Jack said; "not so much now as some day, maybe. A chap as has some sort o' edication has chances over another o' being chosen as a viewer or an oversman." "Oh! that's what thou be'est looking forward to, Jack, eh? Well there's summat in that, and I shouldna' wonder if we see thee that some day; but we can't all be oversmen." "Not in the Vaughan," Jack said; "but there's plenty o' other pits, and a chap as has got his head screwed on straight, and can write well and figure a bit, and have read up his work, may always look forward to getting a step up wherever he goes. Besides, look at the difference it makes to the pleasures o' life. What has a man got to do who ain't learnt to be fond o' reading? Nowt but to go to t' public to spend his evenings and drink away his earnings. So 'ee goes on, and his woife doan't care about taking pains about a house when t' maister ain't never at home but to his meals, and his children get to look for him coming home drunk and smashing the things, and when he gets old he's just a broken-down drunkard, wi'out a penny saved, and nowt but the poorhouse before him. Now, that's the sort o' life o' a man who can't read, or can't read well enough to take pleasure in it, has before him. That is so, bean't it?" There was a long silence; all the lads knew that the picture was a true one. "Now look at t'other side," Jack went on; "look at Merton. He didn't get moore pay a week than a pitman does; look how he lived, how comfortable everything was! What a home that ud be for a man to go back to after his work was done! Noice furniture, a wife looking forward neat and tidy to your coming hoam for the evening. Your food all comfortable, the kids clean and neat, and delighted to see feyther home." There was again a long silence. "Where be the girls to make the tidy wife a' cooming from, I wonder?" John Jordan said; "not in Stokebridge, I reckon!" "The lasses take mostly after the lads," Jack said. "If we became better they'd be ashamed to lag behind. Mrs. Dodgson, the new schoolmaister's wife, told me t'other day she thought o' opening a sort o' night class for big girls, to teach 'em sewing, and making their own clothes, and summat about cooking, and such like." "That would be summat like," said Harry Shepherd, who saw that his opportunity had come. "I wonder whether t' maister would open a night-school for us; I'd go for one, quick enough. I doan't know as I've rightly thought it over before, but now ye puts it in that way, Jack, there be no doubt i' my moind that I should; it would be a heap better to get some larning, and to live like a decent kind o' chap." "I doan't know," John Jordan said; "it moight be better, but look what a lot o' work one ud have to do." "Well, John, I always finds plenty o' time for play," Jack said. "You could give an hour a day to it, and now the winter's coming on you'd be main glad sometimes as you'd got summat to do. I should ha' to talk to the schoolmaister a bit. I doan't know as he'd be willing to give up his time of an evening two or three evenings a week, say two, when he's been at work all day. It be a good deal to ask a man, that is." "It be, surely," Harry said; "but what a sight o' good it would do, and if his woife be willing to give oop her time to the girls, maybe he would do as much for us." There was a pause again. Several of the lads looked irresolute. "Well," Bill Cummings said, "I be ready for another if some more of 'ee will join't." The example was contagious. Four others agreed to join. "Come," Harry Shepherd said, "it bean't no use if Jack can't tell schoolmaister that a dozen o' us will come in ef he will open a school two nights a week. You'll join, woan't you, Fred Wood?" "Oi allers hated my books," Fred said, "and used to be bottom o' class. It ain't as I doan't believe what Jack Simpson says; there be no doubt as it would be a sight better look-out if one got to be fond o' books, and such loike. I doan't believe as ever I shall be, but I doan't mind giving it a trial for six months, and if at the end o' that time I doan't like it, why I jacks it oop." The adhesion of this seemingly reluctant recruit settled the matter. Even John Jordan yielded upon the same terms, and the whole party, fifteen in number, put down their names, and Jack Simpson undertook to speak to Mr Dodgson. "See how we shall get laughed at," John Jordan said. "Why, we shall get made fun o' by the whole place." "Let 'em laugh," Jack said, "they won't laugh long. I never was laughed at, and why should you be? They canna call us Jennies, for we sixteen will play any sixteen wi'in five miles round, at any game they like, or fight 'em if it comes to that. We has only got to stick together. I sha'n't be one of the night-school, but I am one wi' you, and we'll just stick together. Don't let us mind if they do laugh; if they go on at it, and I doubt they will, just offer to fight anyone your own size, and if he be bigger than you like I'll take him in hand." "That's it," Harry Shepherd said enthusiastically; "we'll stick together, and you see how we'll get on; and look here, I vote we each pay threepence a week, that will get us a room at two bob, and candles. Then we can work a' night wi'out being disturbed." "This be a good idea o' thine, Harry. I'll give my threepence a week as well as the rest, and I'll come in on the nights when you don't go to school and help any that wants it." "Yes," Bill Cummings said, "and we'll send round challenges to the other pits to play football and rounders. I vote we call ourselves the 'Bull-dogs,' and Jack shall be our captain." The proposition was carried with unanimity, and the "Bull-dogs" became a body from that time. Harry was appointed treasurer, and the first week's subscriptions were paid forthwith, and an hour later a room was hired. "Hullo!" Fred Wood said, as they poured in and took possession; "we forgot furniture. We must have a table and some benches." "It is the captain's duty to provide furniture," Jack said. "I will get a big table and some benches on Monday, and then we'll draw up rules and get 'em framed and hung over the fireplace, then we shall be all in order." Nothing could have been more happy than this plan of starting a club; it gave all the members a lively interest in the matter, and united them by a bond which would keep the lazy and careless from hanging back, and it was quite with a sense of excitement that they met on the Monday evening. Jack had got a large table and some benches. Inkstands, slates, paper, and pencils were on the table, and four candles were burning. He took the place of honour at the head of the table, and the others, much pleased with the appearance of the room, took their seats round the table. "In the first place," Jack said, striking the table with his fist to call for order, "I have to report to you that I ha' seen the schoolmaister, and he says that he will willingly give two hours two nights a week to teaching the 'Bull-dogs.'" This announcement was received with great applause, for the lads had all become deeply interested in the matter. "He says Tuesdays and Fridays will suit him, from seven till nine; and I have, in your name, accepted with very many thanks his offer; for, lads, it be no light thing that a man who has been all day teaching, should give up two evenings a week to help us on, and that wi'out charge or payment." "That's so, Jack!" Fred Wood said. "I voate we pass a vote o' thanks to Mr. Dodgson." There was a chorus of approval. "Someone ha' got to second that proposal," Jack said; "we must do things in the proper form." "I second it," John Jordan said. "Very well," Jack said, "are you all agreed?" "All." "Very well, then, I'll write that out neatly in this book I ha' bought to keep the records o' the club, and I'll send a copy to Mr. Dodgson; I'm sure he will be pleased. I had best act as secretary as well as captain at present, till one o' you gets on wi' his writing and can take it off my hands. Now we must draw out our rules. First, we must put down that the following are the original members of the Bull-dog Club. Then, that the objects of the club are to improve ourselves, and to make decent men o' ourselves. Next, to stick together in a body and to play all sorts o' games against any other set. All that's been agreed, ain't it?" There were cries of "Ay, ay," and Jack wrote down the items on the sheet o' paper before him. "Now about new members. Do we mean to keep it to ourselves, or to let in other chaps?" "Keep it to ourselves," shouted several. "Well, I dunno," Harry Shepherd said; "if this is going to do us as much good as we hopes, and think it is, would it be right to keep the chaps o' the place out? O' course we wouldn't go beyond Stokebridge, but we might keep it to that." The point was hotly debated, the majority being in favour of confining the club to its present members; some saying that if it were opened the original members would be swamped by numbers, and that their bond of union would be broken. When all had spoken Jack Simpson said: "I think we might go between both opinions. If we were to limit the club to twenty-four members, this room would just about hold 'em. We would only elect one each week, so as to have time to make a good choice. Any member who broke the rules or made himself unpleasant would be expelled, and so we should see in a while all the young chaps o' t' village wanting to join, and it would get to be looked upon as a feather in a chap's cap to belong to it." This proposal was agreed to unanimously. "Now the next rule I propose," Jack said, "is that this room is to be used from seven to nine for work. No talking to be allowed. Arter nine, books to be put away and pipes to be lit by them as smoke, and to talk till ten. I ha' been talking to the woman o' the house, and she will supply cups o' coffee or tea at a penny a piece between nine and ten." This rule was agreed to without a dissentient voice. "Now," Jack said, "I doan't know as you'll all like the next rule I ha' to propose, but I do think it is a needful one. That is that no swearing or bad language be used in this room. A fine of a penny being inflicted for each time the rule be broken." There was a dead silence. "You see," Jack said, "you will all be fined a few times at first, but this money will go to the club fund, and will help up to get fires i' winter. You'll soon break yourselves of it, it be only a trick. I did. Mr. Merton told me that it was a bad habit and horrible to decent people. I said I could never break myself o't. He said if I fined myself a penny every time I did it, and put it in the poor box o' Sunday, I should soon get out o' t'way. Well, the first day cost me thirteen pence, the next fourpence, and afterwards it was only a penny now and then. First and last it didn't cost me half a crown, and you never hear me swear or use bad language now. Come, Bull-dogs, this will be the first step toward improving yourselves, and when you find how easy it be to do wi'out it here, you will soon do wi'out it outside." The rule was finally agreed to, but during the first week it carried a good deal of heart-burning in the club. One of the members left altogether, but the rest soon found that the fines, which had been so alarming for the first day or two, dwindled down. It cost the Bull-dogs collectively over three pounds to cure themselves of using bad language, and the fines kept them in firing, paper, pens, and ink all the winter. On the evening after the opening of the club-room the whole party accompanied by Jack went to the night-school. They looked rather shamefaced as they tramped in, but Jack introduced them one by one to the master, who with a few cordial words put them at their ease. For the first night he contented himself by finding out how much each knew, how much he remembered of what he had formerly heard. For the last half hour he gave them a short lecture on geography, drawing a map on the black-board, taking a traveller from place to place, and telling them what he saw there. Then he set them each a task to be learned and a few sums to be done by the following Friday, and they returned to the club-room greatly pleased with the first night's lessons. It was not always so light, but the lads were in earnest and really worked hard. Jack visited the room on the off nights, explained questions they did not understand, and after nine o'clock generally read aloud for half an hour while they smoked; that is to say, he read short sentences and then one or other read them after him, Jack correcting mistakes in dialect and pronunciation. Mr. Merton had indeed been a friend to Jack Simpson, but there was another friend to whom, according to his promise, Jack reported his doings, not telling everything, perhaps, for Jack was not very apt to talk or write about himself; but once a year he sent a letter in reply to a long and wise one which he received from his friend the artist, according to their agreement, for Jack had not "given up." Before the end of a month Mr. Dodgson wrote to Mr. Merton, saying that, thanks to Jack, the night-school was a great success, that the lads all behaved extremely well, and were making really surprising efforts to improve themselves. He augured great things for the village from the movement. CHAPTER XV. THE SEWING CLASS. Stokebridge contained altogether a population of some three thousand souls, of whom more than half consisted of the men and boys of the Vaughan mine, and the families dependent upon them. It was a place where, except as to accidents at one or other of the pits, news was scarce, and a small thing therefore created much interest. Thus the news that the new schoolmaster had opened a night school, and that some sixteen or eighteen of the lads belonging to the Vaughan had joined it, created quite an excitement. At first the statement was received with positive disbelief. There was no precedent for such a thing, and in its ways at least Stokebridge was strictly conservative. When the tale was confirmed wonder took the place of unbelief. The women were unanimous in the opinion that if the school only kept the lads from drink it would be a blessing to the place. Drink was indeed the grand test by which they viewed all things. To anything which led lads to avoid this curse of their homes their approval was certain and complete. Whether the acquisition of learning was likely to improve their prospects in life, or to make them better men, was not considered, the great point about the new organization was that it would keep them from the public-houses, the curses of the working men, and still more of the working men's wives and families, of this country. Among the men, who were, however, disposed to view the matter as a boys' fancy which would soon die away, the movement met with slight approval. Newfangled notions were held in but low estimation among the miners of Stokebridge. They had got on wi'out larning, and saw no reason why t' lads could not do as they had done. "They'll be a cocking they noses oop aboove their feythers, joost acause they know moore reading and writing, but what good ul it do they I wonder?" an elderly pitman asked a circle of workmen at the "Chequers;" and a general affirmatory grunt betokened assent with the spirit of his words. Among the young men, those of from eighteen to three or four and twenty, the opposition was still stronger, for here a strong feeling of jealousy was aroused at the thought that their juniors were, as they considered, stealing a march upon them. Gibes and jeers were showered upon the "Bull-dogs," and two of them were ducked in the canal by a party of five or six of their elders. On scrambling out, however, they ran back to the village, and the rest of the party, headed by Jack, at once started on the war-path. Coming up to the band who had assaulted their comrades they fell upon them with fury, and in spite of the latter's superior individual strength, thrashed them soundly, and then gave them a ducking in the canal, similar to that which they had inflicted. After that it came to be understood in Stokebridge that it was best to leave the bull-dogs alone, or at least to be content with verbal assaults, at which indeed the lads were able to hold their own. But it was among the girls of Stokebridge, those of from fourteen to seventeen years old, that this movement upon the part of the boys excited the greatest discussion and the widest divergence of opinion. Up to the time of the strike Jack Simpson had been by no means popular among their class. It was an anomaly in Stokebridge that a lad should have no avowed favourite of his own age among the lasses. These adhesions were not often of a permanent character, although later on sometimes marriages came of them, but for a time, and until the almost inevitable quarrel came, they were regarded as binding. The lad would sometimes buy a ribbon or neckerchief for the lass, and she and two or three others would accompany him as with some of his comrades he strolled in the lanes on Sunday, or would sit by him on a wall or a balk of timber as he smoked and talked with his friends. Jack's rigid seclusion after his hour of play was over, his apparent indifference to the lasses of the place, was felt as a general slight, and resented accordingly; although the girls were not insensible to his prowess in battle and in sports, to his quiet steadiness of character, or to the frankness and good temper of his face. The general opinion, therefore, among the young girls of Stokebridge was that he was "stuck up," although in fact few boys in the place had less of conceit and self-glorification than he had. "Did 'ee ever hear of such a tale," asked one of a group of girls sitting together on a bank, while the little ones, of whom they were supposed to be in charge, played and rolled on the grass, "as for a lot o' boys to go to school again o' their own free-will." "I don't see no good in it," another said, "not for the schooling they'll get. But if it teaches them to keep out o' the publics, it will be good for their wives some day." "It will that," put in another earnestly; "my! how feyther did beat mother last night; he were as drunk as could be, and he went on awful." "I think sometimes men are worse nor beasts," another said. "Do 'ee know I've heard," Sarah Shepherd said, "that the new schoolmistress be a-going to open a night-school for girls, to teach sewing, and cutting out, and summat o' cooking." There was a general exclamation of astonishment, and so strange was the news that it was some time before any one ventured a comment on it. "What dost think o't?" Sarah questioned at last. "Only sewing and cutting out and cooking and such like, and not lessons?" Bess Thompson asked doubtfully. "Not reg'lar lessons I mean. She'll read out while the girls work, and perhaps they will read out by turns; not lessons, you know, but stories and tales, and travels, and that kind o' book. What dost think o't?" "'Twould be a good thing to know how to make dresses," Fanny Jones, who was fond of finery, remarked. "And other things too," put in Peggy Martin, "and to cook too. Mother ain't a good hand at cooking and it puts feyther in such tempers, and sometimes I hardly wonder. I shall go if some others go. But be'est sure it be true, Sally?" "Harry told me," she said, "and I think Jack Simpson told him as the schoolmaster said so." The news was too important to be kept to themselves, and there was soon a general move homewards. There Sally Shepherd's story received confirmation. The schoolmistress had been going from house to house, asking all the women who had daughters between the ages of fifteen and eighteen, to let them attend a working class in the schoolroom two evenings a week, and the answer she almost always received was, "Well, I ha' no objection to my lass going if she be willing; and I think it would be very good for her to know how to make her clothes; I can hardly do a stitch myself." Mrs. Dodgson had also informed the women that any of them who liked to supply the material for undergarments or for children's dresses, could have them for the present made up without charge by the class. "But suppose they spiles 'em?" "They wont spoil them. The work may not be very neat at first, but the things will be well cut out and strongly put together. I will see to that." In a short time the class was opened, and forty girls at once attended. So pleased were these with their teacher, and with the pleasant books that Mr. Dodgson read to them--for his wife was far too much occupied to read, and too wise to give the girls a distaste for the class by asking them to do so--that the number of applicants for admission soon far exceeded the number who could be received. Mr. Brook heard shortly afterwards from Mr. Dodgson of the success of the scheme and the great benefit which was likely to accrue from it, and at once offered to contribute twenty pounds a year to secure the services of a young woman capable of assisting in the girls' school by day and of teaching needlework. Thenceforth the number of class evenings was raised to three a week, and sixty girls in all were admitted. The books chosen for reading were not always tales, but for a portion of each evening books treating on domestic matters, the care of a house, the management of illness, cottage gardening, &c., were read; and these were found greatly to interest the hearers. The book on gardening was a special favourite, and soon the pitmen were astonished to see changes in the tiny plots of ground behind their houses. The men in charge of the pit horses were coaxed for baskets of manure, pennies were saved and devoted to the purchase of seed, and the boys found that the most acceptable present was no longer a gay handkerchief or ribbon, but a pot of flowers. Revolutions are not made in a day, but as month passed after month the change in Stokebridge became marked. The place assumed a smarter and brighter aspect; it was rare to hear bad language from lads or girls in the streets, for the young ones naturally followed the fashion set by their elder brothers and sisters, and as a foul expression not unfrequently cost its utterer a cuff on the head, they soon became rare. The girls became more quiet in demeanour, neater in dress, the boys less noisy and aggressive. The boys' night-school had increased greatly in number. The Bull-dogs, after much deliberation, had declined to increase their numbers, but at Jack Simpson's suggestion it had been agreed that any of them might join other similar associations, in order that these might be conducted on the same lines as their own, and the benefits of which they were conscious be thus distributed more widely. Four other "clubs" were in consequence established, all looking upon the Bull-dogs as their central association. The vicar of the parish aided the efforts of the school master and mistress for the improvement of the rising generation of Stokebridge. Hitherto all efforts that way had failed, but he now got over a magic lantern from Birmingham, hiring sets of slides of scenery in foreign countries, astronomical subjects, &c., and gave lectures once a fortnight. These were well attended, and the quiet attention with which he was listened to by the younger portion of his audience, contrasted so strongly with the indifference or uproar with which a similar attempt had been met some two years before, that he told Mr. Brook something like a miracle was being wrought in the parish. Mr. Brook warmly congratulated Mr. and Mrs. Dodgson on the change, but these frankly said that although they had done their best, the change was in no slight degree due to the influence of one of the pit lads, with whom Mr. Merton had taken great pains, and who was certainly a remarkable lad. "Ah, indeed," Mr. Brook said. "I have a faint recollection of his speaking to me some years ago of one of the boys; and, now I think of it, he is the same boy who behaved so bravely in going down that old shaft to save another boy's life. The men gave him a gold watch; of course, I remember all about it now. I am glad to hear that he is turning out so well. In a few years I must see what I can do for him." Mr. Dodgson would have said much more, but Mr. Merton had impressed upon him that Jack would object, above all things, to be brought forward, and that it was better to let him work his way steadily and bide his time. It was not for some months after the sewing classes had been instituted that those for cooking were established. The difficulty was not as to the necessary outlay for stoves and utensils, for these Mr. Brook at once offered to provide, but as to the food to be cooked. The experiments began on a small scale. At first Mrs. Dodgson sent round to say that in all cases of illness, she would have broths, puddings, and cooling drinks prepared at the schools free of charge, upon the necessary materials being sent to her. This was followed by the plan of buying the materials for food for invalids, which was to be supplied at a price that just paid the cost. Then little steak puddings and pies were made, and these commanded a ready sale; excellent soups from cheap materials were also provided, and for this in winter the demand was greater than they could supply; and so the work was extended until the two stoves were fully occupied for three days a week. Eight girls at a time were instructed in cookery, doing the whole work under the supervision of the mistress. Two fresh hands came as two left each week; thus each received a month's teaching. On the first week the new-comers simply cleaned and washed the utensils, stoves, &c., during the remaining three weeks they learned to make simple soups, puddings, and pies, to cook meat and vegetables. The time was short for the purpose, but the girls were delighted with their lessons, and took the greatest pride in keeping up the reputation of the school kitchens, and learned at any rate sufficient to enable them to assist their mothers at home with such effect, that the pitmen of Stokebridge were astonished at the variety and improvement of their fare. CHAPTER XVI. A NEW LIFE. Jack Simpson did not forget the advice Mr. Merton had given him about clothes, and a fortnight after his master had gone to Birmingham Jack went over on Saturday afternoon, and his kind friend accompanied him to one of the leading tailors there, and he was measured for two suits of clothes. He went to other shops and bought such articles as Mr. Merton recommended--hats, gloves, boots, &c. Mr. Merton smiled to himself at the grave attention which Jack paid to all he said upon the subject; but Jack was always earnest in all he undertook, and he had quite appreciated what his friend had told him as to the advantage of being dressed so as to excite no attention upon the part of those whom he would meet at Mr. Merton's. The following Saturday he went over again, and went again to the tailor's to try his things on. "Do you want a dress suit, sir?" the foreman asked with suppressed merriment. "What is a dress suit?" Jack said simply. "I am ignorant about these matters." "A dress suit," the foreman said, struck with the young fellow's freedom from all sort of pretence or assumption, "is the dress gentlemen wear of an evening at dinner parties or other gatherings. This is it," and he showed Jack an engraving. Jack looked at it--he had never seen anyone so attired. "He looks very affected," he said. "Oh, that is the fault of the artist," the foreman answered. "Gentlemen look just as natural in these clothes as in any other. They are quite simple, you see--all black, with open vest, white shirt, white tie and gloves, and patent leather boots." A quiet smile stole over Jack's face. Humour was by no means a strong point in his character, but he was not altogether deficient in it. "I had better have them," he said; "it would look strange, I suppose, not to be dressed so when others are?" "It would be a little marked in the event of a dinner or evening party," the foreman answered, and so Jack gave the order. It was two weeks later before he paid his first visit to Mr. Merton; for the pretty little house which the latter had taken a mile out of the town had been in the hands of the workmen and furnishers, Mr. Merton having drawn on his little capital to decorate and fit up the house, so as to be a pretty home for his daughter. It was, indeed, a larger house than, from the mere salary attached to his post, he could be able to afford, but he reckoned upon considerably increasing this by preparing young men for the university, and he was wise enough to know that a good establishment and a liberal table go very far in establishing and widening a connection, and in rendering people sensible to a man's merits, either in business or otherwise. As Mr. Merton, M.A., late of St. John's, Cambridge, and third wrangler of his year, he had already been received with great cordiality by his colleagues, and at their houses had made the acquaintance of many of the best, if not the wealthiest men in Birmingham, for at Birmingham the terms were by no means more synonymous than they are elsewhere. Jack had ordered his clothes to be sent to a small hotel near the railway station, and had arranged with the landlord that his portmanteau should be kept there, and a room be placed at his service on Saturday afternoon and Monday morning once a month for him to change his things. He had walked with Mr. Merton and seen the house, and had determined that he would always change before going there on a Saturday, in order to avoid comments by servants and others who might be visiting them. In thus acting Jack had no personal thoughts in the matter; much as he always shrank from being put forward as being in any way different from others, he had otherwise no self-consciousness whatever. No lad on the pits thought less of his personal appearance or attire, and his friend Nelly had many times taken him to task for his indifference in this respect. Mr. Merton perceived advantages in Jack's position in life not being generally known, and Jack at once fell into the arrangement, and carried it out, as described, to the best of his ability. But even he could not help seeing, when he had attired himself for his first visit to Mr. Merton's house, how complete had been the change in his appearance. "Who would have thought that just a little difference in the make of a coat would have made such an alteration in one's look?" he said to himself. "I feel different altogether; but that is nonsense, except that these boots are so much lighter than mine, that it seems as if I were in my stockings. Well, I suppose I shall soon be accustomed to it." Packing a black coat and a few other articles in a hand-bag, and locking up the clothes he had taken off in his portmanteau, Jack started for Mr. Merton's. He was dressed in a well-fitting suit of dark tweed, with a claret-coloured neckerchief with plain gold scarf-ring. Jack's life of exercise had given him the free use of his limbs--he walked erect, and his head was well set back on his shoulders; altogether, with his crisp short waving hair, his good-humoured but resolute face, and his steadfast look, he was, although not handsome, yet a very pleasant-looking young fellow. He soon forgot the fact of his new clothes, except that he was conscious of walking with a lightness and elasticity strange to him, and in half an hour rang at the visitors' bell of Mr. Merton's villa. "A visitor, papa," said Alice, who was sitting near the window of the drawing-room. "How tiresome, just as we were expecting Jack Simpson. It is a gentleman. Why, papa!" and she clapped her hands, "it is Jack himself. I did not know him at first, he looks like a gentleman." "He is a gentleman," Mr. Merton said; "a true gentleman in thought, feeling, and speech, and will soon adapt himself to the society he will meet here. Do not remark upon his dress unless he says something about it himself." "Oh, papa, I should not think of such a thing. I am not so thoughtless as that." The door was opened and Jack was shown in. "How are you, Jack? I am glad to see you." "Thank you, sir, I am always well," Jack said. Then turning to Miss Merton he asked her how she liked Birmingham. He had seen her often since the time when he first met her at the commencement of the strike, as he had helped them in their preparations for removing from Stokebridge, and had entirely got over the embarrassment which he had felt on the first evening spent there. After talking for a few minutes, Jack said gravely to Mr. Merton, "I hope that these clothes will do, Mr. Merton?" "Excellently well, Jack," he answered smiling; "they have made just the difference I expected; my daughter hardly knew you when you rang at the bell." "I hardly knew myself when I saw myself in a glass," Jack said. "Now, on what principle do you explain the fact that a slight alteration in the cutting and sewing together of pieces of cloth should make such a difference?" "I do not know that I ever gave the philosophy of the question a moment's thought, Jack," said Mr. Merton smiling. "I can only explain it by the remark that the better cut clothes set off the natural curve of the neck, shoulders, and figure generally, and in the second place, being associated in our minds with the peculiar garb worn by gentlemen, they give what, for want of a better word, I may call style. A high black hat is the ugliest, most shapeless, and most unnatural article ever invented, but still a high hat, good and of the shape in vogue, certainly has a more gentlemanly effect, to use a word I hate, than any other. And now, my boy, you I know dined early, so did we. We shall have tea at seven, so we have three hours for work, and there are nearly six weeks' arrears, so do not let us waste any more time." After this first visit Jack went out regularly once every four weeks. He fell very naturally into the ways of the house, and although his manner often amused Alice Merton greatly, and caused even her father to smile, he was never awkward or boorish. As Alice came to know him more thoroughly, and their conversations ceased to be of a formal character, she surprised and sometimes quite puzzled him. The girl was full of fun and had a keen sense of humour, and her playful attacks upon his earnestness, her light way of parrying the problems which Jack, ever on the alert for information, was constantly putting, and the cheerful tone which her talk imparted to the general conversation when she was present, were all wholly new to the lad. Often he did not know whether she was in earnest or not, and was sometimes so overwhelmed by her light attacks as to be unable to answer. Mr. Merton looked on, amused at their wordy conflicts; he knew that nothing does a boy so much good and so softens his manner as friendly intercourse with a well-read girl of about his own age, and undoubtedly Alice did almost as much towards preparing Jack's manner for his future career as her father had done towards preparing his mind. As time went on Jack often met Mr. Merton's colleagues, and other gentlemen who came in in the evening. He was always introduced as "my young friend Simpson," with the aside, "a remarkably clever young fellow," and most of those who met him supposed him to be a pupil of the professor's. Mr. Merton had, within a few months of his arrival at Birmingham, five or six young men to prepare for Cambridge. None of them resided in the house, but after Jack had become thoroughly accustomed to the position, Mr. Merton invited them, as well as a party of ladies and gentlemen, to the house on one of Jack's Saturday evenings. Jack, upon hearing that a number of friends were coming in the evening, made an excuse to go into the town, and took his black bag with him. Alice had already wondered over the matter. "They will all be in dress, papa. Jack will feel awkward among them." "He is only eighteen, my dear, and it will not matter his not being in evening dress. Jack will not feel awkward." Alice, was, however, very pleased as well as surprised when, upon coming down dressed into the drawing-room, she found him in full evening dress chatting quietly with her father and two newly arrived guests. Jack would not have been awkward, but he would certainly have been uncomfortable had he not been dressed as were the others, for of all things he hated being different to other people. He looked at Alice in a pretty pink muslin dress of fashionable make with a surprise as great as that with which she had glanced at him, for he had never before seen a lady in full evening dress. Presently he said to her quietly, "I know I never say the right thing, Miss Merton, and I daresay it is quite wrong for me to express any personal opinions, but you do look--" "No, Jack; that is quite the wrong thing to say. You may say, Miss Merton, your dress is a most becoming one, although even that you could not be allowed to say except to some one with whom you are very intimate. There are as many various shades of compliment as there are of intimacy. A brother may say to a sister, You look stunning to-night--that is a very slang word, Jack--and she will like it. A stranger or a new acquaintance may not say a word which would show that he observes a lady is not attired in a black walking dress." "And what is the exact degree of intimacy in which one may say as you denoted, 'Miss Merton, your dress is a most becoming one?'" "I should say," the girl said gravely, "it might be used by a cousin or by an old gentleman, a friend of the family." Then with a laugh she went off to receive the guests, now beginning to arrive in earnest. After this Mr. Merton made a point of having an "at home" every fourth Saturday, and these soon became known as among the most pleasant and sociable gatherings in the literary and scientific world of Birmingham. So young Jack Simpson led a dual life, spending twenty-six days of each month as a pit lad, speaking a dialect nearly as broad as that of his fellows, and two as a quiet and unobtrusive young student in the pleasant home of Mr. Merton. Before a year had passed the one life seemed as natural to him as the other. Even with his friends he kept them separate, seldom speaking of Stokebridge when at Birmingham, save to answer Mr. Merton's questions as to old pupils; and giving accounts, which to Nelly Hardy appeared ridiculously meagre, of his Birmingham experience to his friends at home. This was not from any desire to be reticent, but simply because the details appeared to him to be altogether uninteresting to his friends. "You need not trouble to tell me any more, Jack," Nelly Hardy said indignantly. "I know it all by heart. You worked three hours with Mr. Merton; dinner at six; some people came at eight, no one in particular; they talked, and there was some playing on the piano; they went away at twelve. Next morning after breakfast you went to church, had dinner at two, took a walk afterwards, had tea at half-past six, supper at nine, then to bed. I won't ask you any more questions, Jack; if anything out of the way takes place you will tell me, no doubt." CHAPTER XVII. THE DOG FIGHT. Saturday afternoon walks, when there were no special games on hand, became an institution among what may be called Jack Simpson's set at Stokebridge. The young fellows had followed his lead with all seriousness, and a stranger passing would have been astonished at the talk, so grave and serious was it. In colliery villages, as at school, the lad who is alike the head of the school and the champion at all games, is looked up to and admired and imitated, and his power for good or for evil is almost unlimited among his fellows. Thus the Saturday afternoon walks became supplements to the evening classes, and questions of all kinds were propounded to Jack, whose attainments they regarded as prodigious. On such an afternoon, as Jack was giving his friends a brief sketch of the sun and its satellites, and of the wonders of the telescope, they heard bursts of applause by many voices, and a low, deep growling of dogs. "It is a dog fight," one of the lads exclaimed. "It is a brutal sport," Jack said. "Let us go another way." One of the young fellows had, however, climbed a gate to see what was going on beyond the hedge. "Jack," he exclaimed, "there is Bill Haden fighting his old bitch Flora against Tom Walker's Jess, and I think the pup is a-killing the old dorg." With a bound Jack Simpson sprang into the field, where some twenty or thirty men were standing looking at a dog fight. One dog had got the other down and was evidently killing it. "Throw up the sponge, Bill," the miners shouted. "The old dorg's no good agin the purp." Jack dashed into the ring, with a kick he sent the young dog flying across the ring, and picked up Flora, who, game to the last, struggled to get at her foe. A burst of indignation and anger broke from the men. "Let un be." "Put her down." "Dang thee, how dare'st meddle here?" "I'll knock thee head off," and other shouts sounded loudly and threateningly. "For shame!" Jack said indignantly. "Be ye men! For shame, Bill Haden, to match thy old dog, twelve year old, wi' a young un. She's been a good dorg, and hast brought thee many a ten-pun note. If be'est tired of her, gi' her poison, but I woant stand by and see her mangled." "How dare 'ee kick my dorg?" a miner said coming angrily forward; "how dare 'ee come here and hinder sport?" "Sport!" Jack said indignantly, "there be no sport in it. It is brutal cruelty." "The match be got to be fought out," another said, "unless Bill Haden throws up the sponge for his dog." "Come," Tom Walker said putting his hand on Jack's shoulder, "get out o' this; if it warn't for Bill Haden I'd knock thee head off. We be coom to see spoort, and we mean to see it." "Spoort!" Jack said passionately. "If it's spoort thee want'st I'll give it thee. Flora sha'n't go into the ring agin, but oi ull. I'll fight the best man among ye, be he which he will." A chorus of wonder broke from the colliers. "Then thou'st get to fight me," Tom Walker said. "I b'liev'," he went on looking round, "there bean't no man here ull question that. Thou'st wanted a leathering for soom time, Jack Simpson, wi' thy larning and thy ways, and I'm not sorry to be the man to gi' it thee." "No, no," Bill Haden said, and the men round for the most part echoed his words. "'Taint fair for thee to take t' lad at his word. He be roight. I hadn't ought to ha' matched Flora no more. She ha' been a good bitch in her time, but she be past it, and I'll own up that thy pup ha' beaten her, and pay thee the two pounds I lay on her, if ee'll let this matter be." "Noa," Tom Walker said, "the young 'un ha' challenged the best man here, and I be a-goaing to lick him if he doant draw back." "I shall not draw back," Jack said divesting himself of his coat, waistcoat, and shirt. "Flora got licked a'cause she was too old, maybe I'll be licked a'cause I be too young; but she made a good foight, and so'll oi. No, dad, I won't ha' you to back me. Harry here shall do that." The ring was formed again. The lads stood on one side, the men on the other. It was understood now that there was to be a fight, and no one had another word to say. "I'll lay a fi'-pound note to a shilling on the old un," a miner said. "I'll take 'ee," Bill Haden answered. "It hain't a great risk to run, and Jack is as game as Flora." Several other bets were made at similar odds, the lads, although they deemed the conflict hopeless, yet supporting their champion. Tom Walker stood but little taller than Jack, who was about five feet six, and would probably grow two inches more; but he was three stone heavier, Jack being a pound or two only over ten while the pitman reached thirteen. The latter was the acknowledged champion of the Vaughan pits, as Jack was incontestably the leader among the lads. The disproportion in weight and muscle was enormous; but Jack had not a spare ounce of flesh on his bones, while the pitman was fleshy and out of condition. It is not necessary to give the details of the fight, which lasted over an hour. In the earlier portion Jack was knocked down again and again, and was several times barely able to come up to the call of time; but his bull-dog strain, as he called it, gradually told, while intemperate habits and want of condition did so as surely upon his opponent. The derisive shouts with which the men had hailed every knock-down blow early in the fight soon subsided, and exclamations of admiration at the pluck with which Jack, reeling and confused, came up time after time took their place. "It be a foight arter all," one of them said at the end of the first ten minutes. "I wouldn't lay more nor ten to one now." "I'll take as many tens to one as any o' ye like to lay," Bill Haden said, but no one cared to lay even these odds. At the end of half an hour the betting was only two to one. Jack, who had always "given his head," that is, had always ducked so as to receive the blows on the top of his head, where they were supposed to do less harm, was as strong as he was after the first five minutes. Tom Walker was panting with fatigue, wild and furious at his want of success over an adversary he had despised. The cheers of the lads, silent at first, rose louder with each round, and culminated in a yell of triumph when, at the end of fifty-five minutes, Tom Walker, having for the third time in succession been knocked down, was absolutely unable to rise at the call of "time" to renew the fight. [Illustration: JACK IS VICTORIOUS.] Never had an event created such a sensation in Stokebridge. At first the news was received with absolute incredulity, but when it became thoroughly understood that Bill Haden's boy, Jack Simpson, had licked Tom Walker, the wonder knew no bounds. So struck were some of the men with Jack's courage and endurance, that the offer was made to him that, if he liked to go to Birmingham and put himself under that noted pugilist the "Chicken," his expenses would be paid, and £50 be forthcoming for his first match. Jack, knowing that this offer was made in good faith and with good intentions, and was in accordance with the custom of mining villages, declined it courteously and thankfully, but firmly, to the surprise and disappointment of his would-be backers, who had flattered themselves that Stokebridge was going to produce a champion middle-weight. He had not come unscathed from the fight, for it proved that one of his ribs had been broken by a heavy body hit; and he was for some weeks in the hands of the doctor, and was longer still before he could again take his place in the pit. Bill Haden's pride in him was unbounded, and during his illness poor old Flora, who seemed to recognize in him her champion, lay on his bed with her black muzzle in the hand not occupied with a book. The victory which Jack had won gave the finishing stroke to his popularity and influence among his companions, and silenced definitely and for ever the sneers of the minority who had held out against the change which he had brought about. He himself felt no elation at his victory, and objected to the subject even being alluded to. "It was just a question of wind and last," he said. "I was nigh being done for at the end o' the first three rounds. I just managed to hold on, and then it was a certainty. If Tom Walker had been in condition he would have finished me in ten minutes. If he had come on working as a getter, I should ha' been nowhere; he's a weigher now and makes fat, and his muscles are flabby. The best dorg can't fight when he's out o' condition." But in spite of that, the lads knew that it was only bull-dog courage that had enabled Jack to hold out over these bad ten minutes. As for Jane Haden, her reproaches to her husband for in the first place matching Flora against a young dog, and in the second for allowing Jack to fight so noted a man as Tom Walker, were so fierce and vehement, that until Jack was able to leave his bed and take his place by the fire, Bill was but little at home; spending all his time, even at meals, in that place of refuge from his wife's tongue,--"the Chequers." CHAPTER XVIII. STOKEBRIDGE FEAST. Even among the mining villages of the Black Country Stokebridge had a reputation for roughness; and hardened topers of the place would boast that in no village in the county was there so much beer drunk per head. Stokebridge feast was frequented by the dwellers of the mining villages for miles round, and the place was for the day a scene of disgraceful drunkenness and riot. Crowds of young men and women came in, the public-houses were crowded, there was a shouting of songs and a scraping of fiddles from each tap-room, and dancing went on in temporary booths. One of these feasts had taken place just after the establishment of the night classes, and had been marked by even greater drunkenness and more riotous scenes than usual. For years the vicar in the church and the dissenting ministers in their meeting-houses had preached in vain against the evil. Their congregations were small, and in this respect their words fell upon ears closed to exhortation. During the year which had elapsed, however, there was a perceptible change in Stokebridge, a change from which those interested in it hoped for great results. The Bull-dogs and their kindred societies had set the fashion, and the demeanour and bearing of the young men and boys was quiet and orderly. In every match which they had played at rounders, football, and quoits, with the surrounding villages Stokebridge had won easily, and never were the games entered into with more zest than now. The absence of bad language in the streets was surprising. The habit of restraint upon the tongue acquired in the club-rooms had spread, and two months after Jack's first proposal had been so coldly received, the proposition to extend the fines to swearing outside the walls as well as in was unanimously agreed to. The change in the demeanour of the girls was even greater. Besides the influence of Mrs. Dodgson and her assistant, aided perhaps by the desire to stand well in the eyes of lads of the place, their boisterous habits had been toned down, dark neatly made dresses took the place of bright-coloured and flimsy ones; hair, faces, and hands showed more care and self-respect. The example of the young people had not been without its influence upon the elders. Not indeed upon the regular drinking set, but upon those who only occasionally gave way. The tidier and more comfortable homes, the better cooked meals, all had their effect; and all but brutalized men shrank from becoming objects of shame to their children. As to the women of Stokebridge they were for the most part delighted with the change. Some indeed grumbled at the new-fangled ways, and complained that their daughters were getting above them, but as the lesson taught in the night-classes was that the first duty of a girl or woman was to make her home bright and happy, to bear patiently the tempers of others, to be a peacemaker and a help, to bear with children, and to respect elders, even the grumblers gave way at last. The very appearance of the village was changing. Pots of bright flowers stood in the windows, creepers and roses climbed over the walls, patches full of straggling weeds were now well-kept gardens; in fact, as Mr. Brook said one day to the vicar, one would hardly know the place. "There has indeed been a strange movement for good," the clergyman said, "and I cannot take any share of it to myself. It has been going on for some time invisibly, and the night schools and classes for girls have given it an extraordinary impulse. It is a changed place altogether. I am sorry that the feast is at hand. It always does an immense deal of mischief, and is a time of quarrel, drunkenness, and license. I wish that something could be done to counteract its influence." "So do I," Mr. Brook said. "Can you advise anything?" "I cannot," the vicar said; "but I will put on my hat and walk with you down to the schoolhouse. To Dodgson and his wife is due the real credit of the change; they are indefatigable, and their influence is very great. Let us put the question to them." The schoolmaster had his evening class in; Mrs. Dodgson had ten girls working and reading in her parlour, as she invited that number of the neatest and most quiet of her pupils to tea on each evening that her husband was engaged with his night-school. These evenings were greatly enjoyed by the girls, and the hope of being included among the list of invited had done much towards producing a change of manners. It was a fine evening, and the schoolmaster and his wife joined Mr. Brook out of doors, and apologizing for the room being full asked them to sit down in the rose-covered arbour at the end of the garden. The vicar explained the object of the visit. "My wife and I have been talking the matter over, Mr. Brook," the schoolmaster said, "and we deplore these feasts, which are the bane of the place. They demoralize the village; all sorts of good resolutions give way under temptation, and then those who have given way are ashamed to rejoin their better companions. It cannot be put down, I suppose?" "No," Mr. Brook said. "It is held in a field belonging to "The Chequers," and even did I succeed in getting it closed--which of course would be out of the question--they would find some other site for the booths." "Would you be prepared to go to some expense to neutralize the bad effects of this feast, Mr. Brook?" "Certainly; any expense in reason." "What I was thinking, sir, is that if upon the afternoon of the feast you could give a fête in your grounds, beginning with say a cricket-match, followed by a tea, with conjuring or some such amusement afterwards--for I do not think that they would care for dancing--winding up with sandwiches and cakes, and would invite the girls of my wife's sewing-classes with any other girls they may choose to bring with them, and the lads of my evening class, with similar permission to bring friends, we should keep all those who are really the moving spirits of the improvement which has taken place here out of reach of temptation." "Your idea is excellent," Mr. Brook said. "I will get the band of the regiment at Birmingham over, and we will wind up with a display of fireworks, and any other attraction which, after thinking the matter over, you can suggest, shall be adopted. I have greatly at heart the interests of my pitmen, and the fact that last year they were led away to play me a scurvy trick is all forgotten now. A good work has been set on foot here, and if we can foster it and keep it going, Stokebridge will in future years be a very different place to what it has been." Mr. Dodgson consulted Jack Simpson the next day as to the amusements likely to be most popular; but Jack suggested that Fred Wood and Bill Cummings should be called into consultation, for, as he said, he knew nothing of girls' ways, and his opinions were worth nothing. His two friends were sent for and soon arrived. They agreed that a cricket-match would be the greatest attraction, and that the band of the soldiers would delight the girls. It was arranged that a challenge should be sent to Batterbury, which lay thirteen miles off, and would therefore know nothing of the feast. The Stokebridge team had visited them the summer before and beaten them, therefore they would no doubt come to Stokebridge. They thought that a good conjuror would be an immense attraction, as such a thing had never been seen in Stokebridge, and that the fireworks would be a splendid wind up. Mr. Brook had proposed that a dinner for the contending cricket teams should be served in a marquee, but to this the lads objected, as not only would the girls be left out, but also the lads not engaged in the match. It would be better, they thought, for there to be a table with sandwiches, buns, lemonade, and tea, from which all could help themselves. The arrangements were all made privately, as it was possible that the publicans might, were they aware of the intended counter attraction, change the day of the feast, although this was unlikely, seeing that it had from time immemorial taken place on the 3rd of September except only when that day fell on a Sunday; still it was better to run no risk. A meeting of the "Bull-dogs" was called for the 27th of August, and at this Jack announced the invitation which had been received from Mr. Brook. A few were inclined to demur at giving up the jollity of the feast, but by this time the majority of the lads had gone heart and soul into the movement for improvement. The progress made had already been so great, the difficulties at first met had been so easily overcome, that they were eager to carry on the work. One or two of those most doubtful as to their own resolution were the most ready to accept the invitation of their employer, for it was morally certain that everyone would be drunk on the night of the feast, and it was an inexorable law of the "Bull-dogs" that any of the members getting drunk were expelled from that body. The invitation was at last accepted without a dissenting voice, the challenge to Batterbury written, and then the members went off to the associated clubs of which they were members to obtain the adhesion of these also to the fête at Mr. Brook's. Mrs. Dodgson had harder work with the sewing-class. The attraction of the dancing and display of finery at the feast was greater to many of the girls than to the boys. Many eagerly accepted the invitation; but it was not until Mr. Dodgson came in late in the evening and announced in an audible tone to his wife that he was glad to say that the whole of the young fellows of the night-school had accepted the invitation, that the girls all gave way and agreed to go to the fête. Accordingly on the 3rd of September, just as the people from the pit villages round were flocking in to Stokebridge, a hundred and fifty of the young people of that place, with a score or two of young married couples and steady men and women, set out in their Sunday suits for Mr. Brook's. It was a glorious day. The cricket-match was a great success, the military band was delightful, and Mr. Brook had placed it on the lawn, so that those of the young people who chose could dance to the inspiring strains. Piles of sandwiches disappeared during the afternoon, and the tea, coffee, and lemonade were pronounced excellent. There was, too, a plentiful supply of beer for such of the lads as preferred it; as Mr. Brook thought that it would look like a want of confidence in his visitors did he not provide them with beer. Batterbury was beaten soundly; and when it was dark the party assembled in a large marquee. There a conjuror first performed, and after giving all the usual wonders, produced from an inexhaustible box such pretty presents in the way of well-furnished work-bags and other useful articles for the girls that these were delighted. But the surprise of the evening was yet to come. It was not nine o'clock when the conjuror finished, and Mr. Dodgson was thinking anxiously that the party would be back in Stokebridge long before the feast was over. Suddenly a great pair of curtains across the end of the tent drew aside and a regular stage was seen. Mr. Brook had obtained the services of five or six actors and actresses from the Birmingham theatre, together with scenery and all accessories; and for two hours and a half the audience was kept in a roar of laughter by some well-acted farces. When the curtain fell at last, Mr. Brook himself came in front of it. So long and hearty was the cheering that it was a long time before he could obtain a hearing. At last silence was restored. "I am very glad, my friends," he said, "that you have had a happy afternoon and evening, and I hope that another year I shall see you all here again. I should like to say a few words before we separate. You young men, lads and lasses, will in a few years have a paramount influence in Stokebridge; upon you it depends whether that place is to be, as it used to be, like other colliery villages in Staffordshire, or to be a place inhabited by decent and civilized people. I am delighted to observe that a great change has lately come over it, due in a great measure to your good and kind friends Mr. and Mrs. Dodgson, who have devoted their whole time and efforts to your welfare." The cheering at this point was as great as that which had greeted Mr. Brook himself, but was even surpassed by that which burst out when a young fellow shouted out, "and Jack Simpson." During this Jack Simpson savagely made his way out of the tent, and remained outside, muttering threats about punching heads, till the proceedings were over. "And Jack Simpson," Mr. Brook went on, smiling, after the cheering had subsided. "I feel sure that the improvement will be maintained. When you see the comfort of homes in which the wives are cleanly, tidy, and intelligent, able to make the dresses of themselves and their children, and to serve their husbands with decently cooked food; and in which the husbands spend their evenings and their wages at home, treating their wives as rational beings, reading aloud, or engaged in cheerful conversation, and compare their homes with those of the drunkard and the slattern, it would seem impossible for any reasonable human being to hesitate in his or her choice between them. It is in your power, my friends, each and all, which of these homes shall be yours. I have thought that some active amusement is necessary, and have arranged, after consultation with your vicar and with Mr. and Mrs. Dodgson, that a choir-master from Birmingham shall come over twice a week, to train such of you as may wish and may have voices, in choir-singing. As the lads of Stokebridge can beat those of any of the surrounding villages at cricket, so I hope in time the choir of the lads and lasses of this place will be able to hold its own against any other." Again the speaker had to pause, for the cheering was enthusiastic. "And now, good-night; and may I say that I hope and trust that when the fireworks, which will now be displayed, are over, you will all go home and straight to bed, without being tempted to join in the doings at the feast. If so, it will be a satisfaction to me to think that for the first time since the feast was first inaugurated, neither lad nor lass of Stokebridge will have cause to look back upon the feast-day with regret or shame." CHAPTER XIX. THE GREAT RIOT. Stokebridge feast had not gone off with its usual spirit. The number of young pitmen and lads from the surrounding villages were as large as ever, and there was no lack of lasses in gay bonnets and bright dresses. The fact, however, that almost the whole of the lads and girls of Stokebridge between the ages of fifteen and eighteen had left the village and gone to a rival fête elsewhere, cast a damper on the proceedings. There were plenty of young women and young men in Stokebridge who were as ready as ever to dance and to drink, and who were, perhaps, even gaudier in attire and more boisterous in manner than usual, as a protest against the recession of their juniors; for Stokebridge was divided into two very hostile camps, and, as was perhaps not unnatural, those over the age of the girls and lads at the night-schools resented the changes which had been made, and rebelled against the, as they asserted, airs of superiority of younger sisters and brothers. In some cases no doubt there was ground for the feeling. The girls and lads, eager to introduce the new lessons of order and neatness which they had learned, may have gone too fast and acted with too much zeal, although their teacher had specially warned them against so doing. Hence the feeling of hostility to the movement was strong among a small section of Stokebridge, and the feeling was heightened by the secession in a body of the young people from the feast. As the day went on the public-houses were as full as ever, indeed it was said that never before had so much liquor been consumed; the fiddles played and the dancing and boisterous romping went on as usual, but there was less real fun and enjoyment. As evening came on the young fellows talked together in angry groups. Whether the proposal emanated from some of the Stokebridge men or from the visitors from other villages was afterwards a matter of much dispute, but it gradually became whispered about among the dancing booths and public-houses that there was an intention to give the party from Brook's a warm reception when they arrived. Volleys of mud and earth were prepared, and some of the overdressed young women tossed their heads, and said that a spattering with mud would do the stuck-up girls no harm. The older pitmen, who would have certainly opposed any such design being carried out, were kept in ignorance of what was intended; the greater portion were indeed drunk long before the time came when the party would be returning from the fête. At a quarter before twelve Jane Haden, who had been sitting quietly at home, went up to the "Chequers" to look after her husband, and to see about his being brought home should he be incapable of walking. The music was still playing in the dancing booths, but the dancing was kept up without spirit, for a number of young men and lads were gathered outside. As she passed she caught a few words which were sufficient to inform her of what was going on. "Get some sticks oot o' hedges." "Fill your pockets oop wi' stones." "We'll larn 'em to spoil the feast." Jane saw that an attack was going to be made upon the party, and hesitated for a moment what to do. The rockets were going up in Mr. Brook's grounds, and she knew she had a few minutes yet. First she ran to the house of James Shepherd. The pitman, who was a sturdy man, had been asleep for the last three hours. She knocked at the door, unlocked it, and went in. "Jim," she called in a loud voice. "Aye, what be't?" said a sleepy voice upstairs; "be't thou, Harry and Sally?" "No, it be I, Jane Haden; get up quickly, Jim; quick, man, there be bad doings, and thy lad and lass are like to have their heads broke if no worse." Alarmed by the words and the urgent manner of his neighbour, Jim and his wife slipped on a few clothes and came down. Jane at once told them what she had heard. "There be between two and three hundred of 'em," she said, "as far as I could see the wust lot out o' Stokebridge, and a lot o' roughs from t' other villages. Quick, Jim, do you and Ann go round quick to the houses o' all the old hands who ha' kept away from the feast or who went home drunk early, they may ha' slept 't off by this, and get 'un together. Let 'em take pick-helves, and if there's only twenty of ye and ye fall upon this crowd ye'll drive 'em. If ye doan't it will go bad wi' all our lads and lasses. I'll go an' warn 'em, and tell 'em to stop a few minutes on t' road to give 'ee time to coom up. My Jack and the lads will foight, no fear o' that, but they can't make head agin so many armed wi' sticks and stones too; but if ye come up behind and fall on 'em when it begins ye'll do, even though they be stronger." Fully awake now to the danger which threatened the young people, for the pitman and his wife knew that when blows were exchanged and blood heated things would go much further than was at first intended, they hurried off to get a few men together, while Jane Haden started for the hall. Already the riotous crowd had gone on and she had to make a detour, but she regained the road, and burst breathless and panting into the midst of the throng of young people coming along the lane chatting gaily of the scenes of the evening. "Stop, stop!" she cried; "don't go a foot further--where be my Jack?" "It's Mrs. Haden," Nelly Hardy said. "Jack, it's your mother." "What is it?" Jack said in astonishment. "Anything wrong wi' dad?" "Stop!" Mrs. Haden gasped again; "there's three hundred and more young chaps and boys wi' sticks and stones joost awaiting on this side t'village, awaiting to pay you all oot." Ejaculations of alarm were heard all round, and several of the girls began to whimper. "Hush!" Mr. Dodgson said, coming forward. "Let all keep silence, there may be no occasion for alarm; let us hear all about it, Mrs. Haden." Mrs. Haden repeated her story, and said that Harry's father and mother were getting a body of pitmen to help them. "I think, Mr. Dodgson," said Jack, "the girls had best go back to Mr. Brook's as quickly as possible; we will come and fetch them when it's all over." "I think so too," said Mr. Dodgson, "they might be injured by stones. My dear, do you lead the girls back to Mr. Brook's. The house will hardly be shut up yet, and even if it is, Mr. Brook will gladly receive you. There is no chance of any of the ruffians pursuing them, do you think, Jack, when they find they have only us to deal with?" "I don't know, sir. If three or four of us were to put on their cloaks, something light to show in the dark, they will think the girls are among us." "Quick! here they come," Mr. Dodgson said, "go back silently, girls, not a word." Two or three cloaks and shawls were hastily borrowed and the lads then turned up the road, where the sound of suppressed laughter and coarse oaths could be heard, while the young women went off at a rapid pace towards the hall. "There are four of the clubs, nigh twenty in each," Jack said; "let each club keep together and go right at 'em. Stick together whatever ye do." "I'll take my place by you, Jack," Mr. Dodgson said; "you are our captain now." Talking in a careless voice the party went forward. The road here was only divided from the fields on either side by a newly planted hedge of a foot or so in height. Jack had arranged that he, with the few married pitmen, Mr. Dodgson, and the eight Bull-dogs who did not belong to the other associations, should hold the road; that two of the other clubs should go on each side, fight their way as far as they could, and then close in on the road to take the assailants there on both flanks. The spirit of association did wonders; many of the lads were but fourteen or fifteen, yet all gathered under their respective leaders and prepared for what they felt would be a desperate struggle. Presently they saw a dark mass gathered in the road. As soon as the light shawls were seen there was a cry of "Here they be, give it 'em well, lads;" and a volley of what were, in the majority of cases, clods of earth, but among which were many stones, was poured in. Without an instant's pause the party attacked separated, two bands leapt into the field on either side, and then the whole rushed at the assailants. No such charge as this had been anticipated. The cowardly ruffians had expected to give a complete surprise, to hear the shrieks of the girls, and perhaps some slight resistance from a few of the older lads; the suddenness of this attack astonished them. In an instant Jack and his supporters were in their midst, and the fury which animated them at this cowardly attack, and the unity of their action, bore all before them; and in spite of their sticks the leaders of the assailants were beaten to the ground. Then the sheer weight of the mass behind stopped the advance and the conflict became a general one. In the crowd and confusion it was difficult to distinguish friend from foe, and this prevented the assailants from making full use of their stakes, rails, and other implements with which they were armed. They were, however, getting the best of it, Mr. Dodgson had been knocked down with a heavy stake and several others were badly hurt, when the strong bands in the field who had driven back the scattered assailants there, fell upon the flanks of the main body in the road. For five minutes the fight was a desperate one, and then, just as numbers and weapons were telling, there was a shout in the rear, and fifteen pitmen, headed by Jim Shepherd and armed with pick handles, as formidable weapons as could be desired in the hands of strong men, fell upon the rear of the assailants. Yells, shouts, and heavy crashing blows told the tale to those engaged in front; and at once the assailants broke and scattered in flight. "Catch 'em and bring 'em down," Jack shouted; "they shall pay for this night's work." Such of the lads as were not disabled started off, and being fleet of foot, those of the assailants nearest to them had little chance of escape. Two or three lads together sprung upon one and pulled him down, and so when the pursuit ended twenty-nine of the assailants had fallen into their hands. In addition to this a score of them lay or sat by the road with broken heads and bones, the work of the pitmen's weapons. Of the lads the greater part had been badly knocked about, and some lay insensible in the road. The prisoners were brought together, five of the pitmen with twenty of the lads marched with those able to walk, to the village, where they shut them up in the school-room. The other pitmen remained in charge of the wounded of both sides, and the rest of the party were sent back to Mr. Brook's to fetch the women and girls. Near the house they met Mr. Brook, accompanied by his two men-servants and gardener, armed with spades, hurrying forward; and he expressed his delight at the issue of the conflict, but shook his head at the number of serious injuries on both sides. In a shed near the house were a number of hurdles, and twenty of these were at once sent forward with the men to carry those unable to walk into the village. Mrs. Dodgson turned pale as her husband, his face covered with blood, entered the dining-room, where, huddled together, the frightened girls were standing; Mrs. Dodgson, aided by Nelly Hardy, having done her utmost to allay their fears. "I am not hurt," Mr. Dodgson said heartily, "at least not seriously; but I fear that some are. It is all over now, and those ruffians have fled. Jack Simpson and a party are outside to escort you home. We don't know who are hurt yet, but they will be carried to the girls' school-room and attended there. Harry Shepherd has gone on to get the doctor up, and Mr. Brook is sending off a man on horseback to Birmingham for some more medical aid and a body of police to take charge of the fellows we have captured; they will be in by the early train." Everything was quiet in Stokebridge when the party with the prisoners arrived. The pitmen, before starting, had gone into the public-house to get any sober enough to walk to join them; and the few who had kept up the dancing, alarmed at the serious nature of the affair, of which they had tacitly approved, scattered to their homes. The news of the conflict, however, quickly circulated, lights appeared in windows, and the women who had sons or daughters at the fête flocked out into the streets to hear the news. Many other pitmen, whom there had not been time enough to summon, soon joined them, and deep indeed was the wrath with which the news of the assault was received. Most of the men at once hurried away to the scene of conflict to see who were hurt, and to assist to carry them in; and the sole ground for satisfaction was that the women and girls had all escaped injury. CHAPTER XX. THE ARM OF THE LAW. That was a sad night at Stokebridge. Seven of the lads were terribly injured, and in two cases the doctors gave no hope of recovery. Thirteen of the other party were also grievously hurt by the blows of the pitmen's helves, some had limbs broken, and three lay unconscious all night. Most of the boys had scalp wounds, inflicted by stones or sticks, which required dressing. Worst of all was the news that among the twenty-five uninjured prisoners were eight who belonged to Stokebridge, besides five among the wounded. Very few in the village closed an eye that night. Mothers went down and implored the pitmen on guard to release their sons, but the pitmen were firm; moreover Mr. Brook as a magistrate had placed the two constables of the place at the door, with the strictest order to allow none of the prisoners to escape. The six o'clock train brought twenty policemen from Birmingham, and these at once took charge of the schoolhouse, and relieved the pitmen of their charge. The working of the mine was suspended for the day, and large numbers of visitors poured into the place. So desperate a riot had never occurred in that neighbourhood before, for even the attack upon the machinery of the mine was considered a less serious affair than this. Not only did curiosity to learn the facts of the case attract a crowd of visitors, but there were many people who came from the pit villages near to inquire after missing husbands and sons, and loud were the wailings of women when it was found that these were either prisoners or were lying injured in the temporary hospital. Strangers entering the village would have supposed that a great explosion had taken place in some neighbouring pit. Blinds were down, women stood at the doors with their aprons to their eyes, children went about in an awed and silent way, as if afraid of the sound of their own voice, many of the young men and lads had their heads enveloped in surgical bandages, and a strange and unnatural calm pervaded the village. The "Chequers" and other public-houses, however, did a roaring trade, for the sight-seer in the black country is the thirstiest of men. It was soon known that the magistrates would sit at Mr. Brook's at one o'clock, and a policeman went round the village with a list of names given him by Mr. Dodgson, to summon witnesses to attend. Jack Simpson had strongly urged that his name might not be included, in the first place because above all things he hated being put forward, and in the second, as he pointed out to the schoolmaster, it might excite a feeling against him, and hinder his power for good, if he, the leader of the young men, was to appear as a witness against the elders, especially as among the prisoners was Tom Walker, with whom he had fought. As Jack could give no more testimony than his companions, and as generally it was considered an important and responsible privilege to appear as witness, Mr. Dodgson omitted Jack's name from the list. There was some groaning in the crowd when the uninjured prisoners were marched out under escort of the police, for the attack upon young women was so contrary to all the traditions of the country that the liveliest indignation prevailed against all concerned in it. The marquee used the night before for the theatricals had been hastily converted into a justice room. At a table sat Mr. Brook with four other magistrates, with a clerk to take notes; the prisoners were ranged in a space railed off for the purpose, and the general public filled the rest of the space. Jane Haden was the first witness called. She gave her evidence clearly, but with an evident wish to screen some of the accused, and was once or twice sharply reproved by the bench. She could not say who were among the men she saw gathered, nor recognize any of those who had used the threatening expressions which had so alarmed her that she went round to arouse the elder men, and then ran off to warn the returning party. "Mrs. Haden," Sir John Butler, who was the chairman of the magistrates, said, "very great praise is due to you for your quickness and decision; had it not been for this there can be no doubt that the riot would have led to results even more disastrous than those which have taken place. At the same time it is the feeling of the court that you are now trying to screen the accused, for it can hardly be, that passing so close you could fail to recognize some of those whom you heard speak." Mr. Dodgson then gave his evidence, as did several of the lads, who proved the share that the accused had taken in the fray, and that they were captured on the spot; while two of the pitmen proved that when they arrived upon the spot a desperate riot was going on, and that they joined in the fray to assist the party attacked. The examination lasted for four hours, at the end of which the whole of the prisoners were remanded to prison, the case being adjourned for two days. Before these were passed, both the lads whose cases had been thought hopeless from the first, died, and the matter assumed even a more serious appearance. Before the next hearing several of the prisoners offered to turn king's evidence, and stated that they had been incited by the young women at the feast. Great excitement was caused in the village when ten or twelve young women were served with warrants to appear on the following day. They were placed in the dock with the other prisoners, but no direct evidence was taken against them. The number of the accused were further swelled by two men belonging to other villages, who had been arrested on the sworn evidence of some of the lads that they had been active in the fray. At the conclusion of the case the whole of the male prisoners were committed for trial on the charges of manslaughter and riot. After these had been removed in custody, Sir John Butler addressed a severe admonition to the women. It had, he said, been decided not to press the charge against them of inciting to riot, but that they had used expressions calculated to stir the men up to their foul and dastardly attack upon a number of young women and girls there could be no doubt. The magistrates, however, had decided to discharge them, and hoped that the inward reproach which they could not but feel at having a hand in this disgraceful and fatal outrage would be a lesson to them through life. Trembling and abashed, the women made their way home, many of the crowd hissing them as they passed along. When, six weeks later, the assizes were held, four of the prisoners, including Tom Walker, who was proved to be the leader, were sentenced to seven years penal servitude. Ten men had terms of imprisonment varying from two to five years, and the rest were let off with sentences of from six to eighteen months. Very long did the remembrance of "The Black Feast," as it came to be called, linger in the memories of the people of Stokebridge and the surrounding district. Great as was the grief and suffering caused alike to the friends of those injured and of those upon whom fell punishment and disgrace, the ultimate effect of the riot was, however, most beneficial to Stokebridge. Many of the young men who had most strongly opposed and derided the efforts of their juniors to improve themselves, were now removed, for in addition to those captured and sentenced, several of those who had taken part in the riot hastily left the place upon the following day, fearing arrest and punishment for their share in the night's proceedings. Few of them returned after the conclusion of the trial, nor did the prisoners after the termination of their sentences, for the feeling against them in the district was so strong that they preferred obtaining work in distant parts of the country. A similar effect was produced upon the young women. The narrow escape which they had had of being sent to prison, the disgrace of being arrested and publicly censured, the averted looks of their neighbours, and the removal from the place of the young men with whom they had been used to associate, combined to produce a great effect upon them. Some profited by the lesson and adapted themselves to the altered ways of the place; others, after trying to brave it out, left Stokebridge and obtained employment in the factories of Birmingham; while others again, previously engaged to some of the young men who had left the village, were sooner or later married to them, and were heard of no more in Stokebridge. This removal by one means or another of some forty or fifty of the young men and women of the place most opposed to the spirit of improvement, produced an excellent effect. Other miners came of course to the village to take the places of those who had left, but as Mr. Brook instructed his manager to fill up the vacant stalls as far as possible with middle-aged men with families, and not with young men, the new-comers were not an element of disturbance. The price of coal was at this time high, and Mr. Brook informed the clergyman that, as he was drawing a larger income than usual from the mines, he was willing to give a sum for any purpose which he might recommend as generally useful to the families of his work-people. The vicar as usual consulted his valued assistants the Dodgsons, and after much deliberation it was agreed that if a building were to be erected the lower story of which should be fitted up as a laundry and wash-house upon the plan which was then being introduced in some large towns, it would be an immense boon to the place. The upper story was to be furnished as a reading-room with a few papers and a small library of useful and entertaining books for reading upon the spot or lending. Plans were obtained and estimates given, and Mr. Brook expressed his willingness to contribute the sum of eighteen hundred pounds for which a contractor offered to complete the work. CHAPTER XXI. A KNOTTY QUESTION. It has not been mentioned that at the fête at Mr. Brook's on the memorable occasion of the Black Feast, Mr. Merton and his daughter were staying as guests with Mr. Brook. Mr. Merton was much struck with the extraordinary improvement which had taken place in the bearing and appearance of the young people. "Yes," Mr. Dodgson, whom he congratulated upon the change, said; "it is entirely due to the suggestion which you made upon my arrival here. The night-schools for lads and the sewing and cooking classes for the girls have done wonders, and I have found in the lad you recommended to my attention, Jack Simpson, an invaluable ally. Without him, indeed, I think that our plan would have been a failure. He is a singular young fellow, so quiet yet so determined; the influence he has over the lads of his own age is immense." "He is more than singular," Mr. Merton said warmly; "he is extraordinary. You only see one side of his character, I see both. As a scholar he is altogether remarkable. He could carry off any open scholarship at Cambridge, and could take away the highest honours; he could pass high up among the wranglers even now, and has a broad and solid knowledge of other subjects." "Indeed!" Mr. Dodgson said, surprised; "this is quite new to me. I know that he studies hard privately, and that he went over to see you once a month, but I had no idea that his acquirements were anything exceptional, and, indeed, although his speech is often superior to that of the other young fellows, he often makes mistakes in grammar and pronunciation." Mr. Merton laughed. "That is one of his peculiarities; he does not wish to be thought above his fellows: look at his dress, now! But if you saw him with me, and heard him talking with the first men of education and science in Birmingham you would share the astonishment they often express to me, and would take him not only for a young gentleman, but for one of singular and exceptionally cultured mind." Jack's attire, indeed--it was after the conclusion of the cricket-match, and he had changed his clothes--was that of the ordinary pitman in his Sunday suit. A black cutaway coat, badly fitting, and made by the village tailor, a black waistcoat and trousers, with thick high-low shoes. His appearance had attracted the attention of Miss Merton, who, as he approached her, held out her hand. "How are you, Jack? What on earth have you been doing to yourself? You look a complete guy in these clothes. I was half tempted to cut you downright." Jack laughed. "This is my Sunday suit, Miss Merton, it is just the same as other people's." "Perhaps it is," the girl said, laughing, and looking round with just a little curl of her lip; "but you know better, Jack: why should you make such a figure of yourself?" "I dress here like what I am," Jack said simply, "a pitman. At your house I dress as one of your father's guests." "I suppose you please yourself, and that you always do, Mr. Jack Simpson; you are the most obstinate, incorrigible--" "Ruffian," Jack put in laughing. "Well, I don't know about ruffian," the girl said, laughing too; "but, Jack, who is that girl watching us, the quiet-looking girl in a dark brown dress and straw bonnet?" "That is my friend Nelly Hardy," Jack said seriously. "Yes, you have often spoken to me about her and I have wanted to see her; what a nice face she has, and handsome too, with her great dark eyes! Jack, you must introduce me to her, I should like to know her." "Certainly," Jack said with a pleased look; and accompanied by Alice he walked across the lawn towards her. Nelly turned the instant that they moved, and walking away joined some other girls. Jack, however, followed. "Nelly," he said, when he reached her, "this is Miss Merton, who wants to know you. Miss Merton, this is my friend Nelly Hardy." Nelly bent her head silently, but Alice held out her hand frankly. "Jack has told me so much about you," she said, "that I wanted, above all things, to see you." Nelly looked steadily up into her face. It was a face any one might look at with pleasure, frank, joyous, and kindly. It was an earnest face too, less marked and earnest than that now looking at her, but with lines of character and firmness. Nelly's expression softened as she gazed. "You are very good, Miss Merton; I have often heard of you too, and wanted to see you as much as you could have done to see me." "I hope you like me now you do see me," Miss Merton laughed; "you won't be angry when I say that I like you, though you did turn away when you saw us coming. "You are accustomed to meet people and be introduced," Nelly said quietly; "I am not, you see." "I don't think you are shy," Miss Merton said smiling, "but you had a reason; perhaps some day when we know each other better you will tell me. I have been scolding Jack for making such a figure of himself. You are his friend and should not let him do it." Jack laughed, while Nelly looked in surprise at him. "What is the matter with him?" she asked; "I don't see that there is anything wrong." "Not wrong," Miss Merton said, "only singular to me. He has got on clothes just like all the rest, which don't fit him at all, and look as if they had been made to put on to a wooden figure in a shop window, while when we see him he is always properly dressed." Nelly flashed a quiet look of inquiry at Jack. "You never told me, Jack," she said, with an aggrieved ring in her voice, "that you dressed differently at Birmingham to what you do here." "There was nothing to tell really," he said quietly. "I told you that I had had some clothes made there, and always wore them at Mr. Merton's; but I don't know," and he smiled, "that I did enter into any particulars about their cut, indeed I never thought of this myself." "I don't suppose you did, Jack," the girl said gently, for she knew how absolutely truthful he was; "but you ought to have told me. But see, they are getting ready to go into the tent, and I must help look after the young ones." "What a fine face she has!" Alice said; "but I don't think she quite likes me, Jack." "Not like you!" Jack said astonished, "what makes you think that? she was sure to like you; why, even if nobody else liked you Nelly would, because you have been so kind to me." * * * * * For the next few days the serious events of the night absorbed all thought; indeed, it was not until the following Sunday afternoon that Jack and Nelly Hardy met. Harry Shepherd, who generally accompanied them in their walks upon this day, was still suffering from the effects of the injuries he had received in the riot. Jack and his companion talked over that event until they turned to come back. Then after a pause the girl asked suddenly, "How do you like Alice Merton, Jack?" Jack was in no way taken by surprise, but, ignorant that the black eyes were keenly watching him, he replied: "Oh, I like her very much, I have often told you so, Nelly." "Do you like her better than me, Jack?" Jack looked surprised this time. "What should put such a thought in your head, lass? You know I like you and Harry better than any one in the world. We are like three brothers. It is not likely I should like Alice Merton, whom I only see once a month, better than you. She is very kind, very pleasant, very bright. She treats me as an equal and I would do anything for her, but she couldn't be the same as you are, no one can. Perhaps," he said, "years on--for you know that I have always said that I should not marry till I'm thirty, that's what my good friend told me more than ten years ago--I shall find some one I shall like as well as you, but that will be in a different way, and you will be married years and years before that. Let me think, you are nearly seventeen, Nelly?" The girl nodded, her face was turned the other way. "Yes, you are above a year younger than I am. Some girls marry by seventeen; I wonder no one has been after you already, Nelly; there is no girl in the village to compare with you." But Nelly, without a word, darted away at full speed up the lane towards home, leaving Jack speechless with astonishment. "She hasn't done that for years," he said; "it's just the way she used to do when we were first friends. If she got in a temper about anything she would rush away and hide herself and cry for hours. What could I have said to vex her, about her marrying, or having some one courting her; there couldn't be anything in that to vex her." Jack thought for some time, sitting upon a stile the better to give his mind to it. Finally he gave up the problem in despair, grumbling to himself, "One never gets to understand girls; here I've known Nelly for the last seven years like a sister, and there she flies away crying--I am sure she was crying, because she always used to cry when she ran away--and what it is about I have not the least idea. Now I mustn't say anything about it when I meet her next, I know that of old, unless she does first, but as likely as not she will never allude to it." In fact no allusion ever was made to the circumstance, for before the following Sunday came round John Hardy had died. He had been sinking for months, and his death had been looked for for some time. It was not a blow to his daughter, and could hardly be a great grief, for he had been a drunken, worthless man, caring nothing for his child, and frequently brutally assaulting her in his drunken fits. She had attended him patiently and assiduously for months, but no word of thanks had ever issued from his lip. His character was so well known that no one regarded his death as an event for which his daughter should be pitied. It would, however, effect a change in her circumstances. Hardy had, ever since the attack upon the Vaughan, received an allowance from the union, as well as from the sick club to which he belonged, but this would now cease; and it was conjectured by the neighbours that "th' old ooman would have to go into the house, and Nelly would go into a factory at Birmingham or Wolverhampton, or would go into service." Nelly's mother was a broken woman; years of intemperance had prematurely aged her, and her enforced temperance during the last few months had apparently broken her spirit altogether, and the coarse, violent woman had almost sunk into quiet imbecility. CHAPTER XXII. THE SOLUTION. Among others who talked over Nelly Hardy's future were Mr. and Mrs. Dodgson. They were very fond of her, for from the first she had been the steadiest and most industrious of the young girls of the place, and by diligent study had raised herself far in advance of the rest. She had too been always so willing and ready to oblige and help that she was a great favourite with both. "I have been thinking," Mrs. Dodgson said to her husband on the evening of the day of John Hardy's death, "whether, as Miss Bolton, the assistant mistress, is going to leave at the end of the month, to be married, Nelly Hardy would not make an excellent successor for her. There is no doubt she is fully capable of filling the situation; her manners are all that could be wished, and she has great influence with the younger children. The only drawback was her disreputable old father. It would hardly have done for my assistant to appear in school in the morning with a black eye, and for all the children to know that her drunken father had been beating her. Now he is gone that objection is at an end. She and her mother, who has been as bad as the father, but is now, I believe, almost imbecile, could live in the little cottage Miss Bolton occupies." "I think it would be an excellent plan, my dear, excellent; we could have no one we should like better, or who could be a more trustworthy and helpful assistant to you. By all means let it be Nelly Hardy. I will go up and speak to Mr. Brook to-morrow. As he is our patron I must consult him, but he will agree to anything we propose. Let us say nothing about it until you tell her yourself after the funeral." Mrs. Dodgson saw Nelly Hardy several times in the next few days, and went in and sat with her as she worked at her mourning; but it was not until John Hardy was laid in the churchyard that she opened the subject. "Come up in the morning, my dear," she had said that day; "I want to have a talk with you." On the following morning Nelly, in her neatly-fitting black mourning dress, made her appearance at the school-house, after breakfast, a quarter of an hour before school began. "Sit down, my dear," Mrs. Dodgson said, "I have some news to give you which will, I think, please you. Of course you have been thinking what to do?" "Yes, 'm; I have made up my mind to try and get work in a factory." "Indeed! Nelly," Mrs. Dodgson said, surprised; "I should have thought that was the last thing that you would like." "It is not what I like," Nelly said quietly, "but what is best. I would rather go into service, and as I am fond of children and used to them, I might, with your kind recommendation, get a comfortable situation; but in that case mother must go to the house, and I could not bear to think of her there. She is very helpless, and of late she has come to look to me, and would be miserable among strangers. I could earn enough at a factory to keep us both, living very closely." "Well, Nelly, your decision does you honour, but I think my plan is better. Have you heard that Miss Bolton is going to leave us?" "I have heard she was engaged to be married some day, 'm, but I did not know the time was fixed." "She leaves at the end of this month, that is in a fortnight, and her place has already been filled up. Upon the recommendation of myself and Mr. Dodgson, Mr. Brook has appointed Miss Nelly Hardy as her successor." "Me!" exclaimed Nelly, rising with a bewildered air. "Oh, Mrs. Dodgson, you cannot mean it?" "I do, indeed, Nelly. Your conduct here has been most satisfactory in every way, you have a great influence with the children, and your attainments and knowledge are amply sufficient for the post of my assistant. You will, of course, have Miss Bolton's cottage, and can watch over your mother. You will have opportunities for studying to fit yourself to take another step upwards, and become a head-mistress some day." Mrs. Dodgson had continued talking, for she saw that Nelly was too much agitated and overcome to speak. "Oh, Mrs. Dodgson," she sobbed, "how can I thank you enough?" "There are no thanks due, my dear. Of course I want the best assistant I can get, and I know of no one upon whom I can rely more thoroughly than yourself. You have no one but yourself to thank, for it is your good conduct and industry alone which have made you what you are, and that under circumstances of the most unfavourable kind. But there is the bell ringing for school. I suppose I may tell Mr. Brook that you accept the situation; the pay, thirty pounds a year and the cottage, is not larger, perhaps, than you might earn at a factory, but I think--" "Oh, Mrs. Dodgson," Nelly said, smiling through her tears, "I accept, I accept. I would rather live on a crust of bread here than work in a factory, and if I had had the choice of everything I should prefer this." Mr. Dodgson here came in, shook Nelly's hand and congratulated her, and with a happy heart the girl took her way home. Jack, upon his return from the pit, found Nelly awaiting him at the corner where for years she had stood. He had seen her once since her father's death, and had pressed her hand warmly to express his sympathy, but he was too honest to condole with her on a loss which was, he knew, a relief. He and Harry had in the intervening time talked much of Nelly's prospects. Jack was averse in the extreme to her going into service, still more averse to her going into a factory, but could suggest no alternative plan. "If she were a boy," he said, "it would be easy enough. I am getting eighteen shillings a week now, and could let her have five easily, and she might take in dressmaking. There are plenty of people in the villages round would be glad to get their dresses made; but she would have to live till she got known a bit, and you know she wouldn't take my five shillings. I wouldn't dare offer it to her. Now if it was you there would be no trouble at all; you would take it, of course, just as I should take it of you, but she wouldn't, because she's a lass--it beats me altogether. I might get mother to offer her the money, but Nelly would know it was me sharp enough, and it would be all the same." "I really think that Nelly might do well wi' dressmaking," Harry said after a pause. "Here all the lasses ha' learnt to work, but, as you say, in the other villages they know no more than we did here three years back; if we got some bills printed and sent 'em round, I should say she might do. There are other things you don't seem to ha' thought on, Jack," he said hesitatingly. "You're only eighteen yet, but you are earning near a pound a week, and in another two or three years will be getting man's pay, and you are sure to rise. Have you never thought of marrying Nelly?" Jack jumped as if he had trodden on a snake. "I marry Nelly!" he said in astonishment. "What! I marry Nelly! are you mad, Harry? You know I have made up my mind not to marry for years, not till I'm thirty and have made my way; and as to Nelly, why I never thought of her, nor of any other lass in that way; her least of all; why, she is like my sister. What ever put such a ridiculous idea in your head? Why, at eighteen boys haven't left school and are looking forward to going to college; those boy and girl marriages among our class are the cause of half our troubles. Thirty is quite time enough to marry. How Nelly would laugh if she knew what you'd said!" "I should advise you not to tell her," Harry said dryly; "I greatly mistake if she would regard it as a laughing matter at all." "No, lasses are strange things," Jack meditated again. "But, Harry, you are as old as I am, and are earning the same wage; why don't you marry her?" "I would," Harry said earnestly, "to-morrow if she'd have me." "You would!" Jack exclaimed, as much astonished as by his friend's first proposition. "To think of that now! Why, you have always been with her just as I have. You have never shown that you cared for her, never given her presents, nor walked with her, nor anything. And do you really care for her, Harry?" "Aye," Harry said shortly, "I have cared for her for years." "And to think that I have never seen that!" Jack said. "Why didn't you tell me? Why, you are as difficult to understand as she is, and I thought I knew you so well!" "What would have been the use?" Harry said. "Nelly likes me as a friend, that's all." "That's it," Jack said. "Of course when people are friends they don't think of each other in any other way. Still, Harry, she may get to in time. Nelly's pretty well a woman, she's seventeen now, but she has no one else after her that I know of." "Well, Jack, I fancy she could have plenty after her, for she's the prettiest and best girl o' the place; but you see, you are always about wi' her, and I think that most people think it will be a match some day." "People are fools," Jack burst out wrathfully. "Who says so? just tell me who says so?" "People say so, Jack. When a young chap and a lass walk together people suppose there is something in it, and you and Nelly ha' been walking together for the last five years." "Walking together!" Jack repeated angrily; "we have been going about together of course, and you have generally been with us, and often enough half-a-dozen others; that is not like walking together. Nelly knew, and every one knew, that we agreed to be friends from the day we stood on the edge of the old shaft when you were in the water below, and we have never changed since." "I know you have never changed, Jack, never thought of Nelly but as a true friend. I did not know whether now you might think differently. I wanted to hear from your own lips. Now I know you don't, that you have no thought of ever being more than a true friend to her, I shall try if I cannot win her." "Do," Jack said, shaking his friend's hand. "I am sure I wish you success. Nothing in the world would please me so much as to see my two friends marry, and though I do think, yes, I really do, Harry, that young marriages are bad, yet I am quite sure that you and Nelly would be happy together anyhow. And when do you mean to ask her?" "What an impatient fellow you are, Jack!" Harry said smiling. "Nelly has no more idea that I care for her than you had, and I am not going to tell her so all at once. I don't think," he said gravely, "mark me, Jack, I don't think Nelly will ever have me, but if patience and love can win her I shall succeed in the end." Jack looked greatly surprised again. "Don't say any more about it, Jack," Harry went on. "It 'ull be a long job o' work, but I can bide my time; but above all, if you wish me well, do not even breathe a word to Nelly of what I have said." From this interview Jack departed much mystified. "It seems to me," he muttered to himself, "lads when they're in love get to be like lasses, there's no understanding them. I know nowt of love myself, and what I've read in books didn't seem natural, but I suppose it must be true, for even Harry, who I thought I knew as well as myself, turned as mysterious as--well as a ghost. What does he mean by he's got to be patient, and to wait, and it will be a long job. If he likes Nelly and Nelly likes him--and why shouldn't she?--I don't know why they shouldn't marry in a year or two, though I do hate young marriages. Anyhow I'll talk to her about the dressmaking idea. If Harry's got to make love to her, it will be far better for him to do it here than to have to go walking her out o' Sundays at Birmingham. If she would but let me help her a bit till she's got into business it would be as easy as possible." Jack, however, soon had the opportunity of laying his scheme fully before Nelly Hardy, and when she had turned off from the road with him she broke out: "Oh, Jack, I have such a piece of news; but perhaps you know it, do you?" she asked jealously. "No, I don't know any particular piece of news." "Not anything likely to interest me, Jack?" "No," Jack said puzzled. "Honour, you haven't the least idea what it is?" "Honour, I haven't," Jack said. "I'm going to be a schoolmistress in place of Miss Bolton." [Illustration: THE NEW SCHOOLMISTRESS.] "No!" Jack shouted delightedly; "I am glad, Nelly, I am glad. Why, it is just the thing for you; Harry and I have been puzzling our heads all the week as to what you should do!" "And what did your united wisdom arrive at?" Nelly laughed. "We thought you might do here at dressmaking," Jack said, "after a bit, you know." "The thought was not a bad one," she said; "it never occurred to me, and had this great good fortune not have come to me I might perhaps have tried. It was good of you to think of it. And so you never heard a whisper about the schoolmistress? I thought you might perhaps have suggested it somehow, you know you always do suggest things here." "No, indeed, Nelly, I did not hear Miss Bolton was going." "I am glad," the girl said. "Are you?" Jack replied in surprise. "Why, Nelly, wouldn't you have liked me to have helped you?" "Yes and no, Jack; but no more than yes. I do owe everything to you. It was you who made me your friend, you who taught me, you who urged me on, you who have made me what I am. No, Jack, dear," she said, seeing that Jack looked pained at her thanks; "I have never thanked you before, and I must do it now. I owe everything to you, and in one way I should have been pleased to owe this to you also, but in another way I am pleased not to do so because my gaining it by, if I may say so, my own merits, show that I have done my best to prove worthy of your kindness and friendship." Tears of earnestness stood in her eyes, and Jack felt that disclaimer would be ungracious. "I am glad," he said again after a pause. "And now, Miss Hardy," and he touched his hat laughing, "that you have risen in the world, I hope you are not going to take airs upon yourself." Nelly laughed. "It is strange," she said, "that I should be the first to take a step upwards, for Mrs. Dodgson is going to help me to go in and qualify for a head-schoolmistress-ship some day; but, Jack, it is only for a little time. You laugh and call me Miss Hardy to-day, but the time will come when I shall say 'sir' to you; you are longer beginning, but you will rise far higher; but we shall always be friends; shall we not, Jack?" "Always, Nelly," Jack said earnestly. "Wherever or whatever Jack Simpson may be, he will ever be your true and faithful friend, and nothing which may ever happen to me, no rise I may ever make, will give me the pleasure which this good fortune which has befallen you has done. If I ever rise it will make me happy to help Harry, but I know you would never have let me help you, and this thought would have marred my life. Now that I see you in a position in which I am sure you will be successful, and which is an honourable and pleasant one, I shall the more enjoy my rise when it comes.--Does any one else know of it?" he asked as they went on their way. "No one," she said. "Who should know it before you?" "Harry will be as glad as I am," he said, remembering his friend's late assertion. "Yes, Harry will be very glad too," Nelly said; but Jack felt that Harry's opinion was of comparatively little importance in her eyes. "He is a good honest fellow is Harry, and I am sure he will be pleased, and so I hope will everyone." Jack felt that the present moment was not a propitious one for putting in a word for his friend. * * * * * Harry Shepherd carried out his purpose. For two years he waited, and then told his love to Nelly Hardy, one bright Sunday afternoon when they were walking in the lane. "No, Harry, no," she said humbly and sadly; "it can never be, do not ask me, I am so, so sorry." "Can it never be?" Harry asked. "Never," the girl said; "you know yourself, Harry, it can never be. I have seen this coming on for two years now, and it has grieved me so; but you know, I am sure you know, why it cannot be." "I know," the young fellow said. "I have always known that you cared for Jack a thousand times more than for me, and it's quite natural, for he is worth a thousand of me; but then, then--" and he hesitated. "But then," she went on. "Jack does not love me, and you do. That is so, Harry; but since I was a child I have loved him. I know, none better, that he never thought of me except as a friend, that he scarcely considered me as a girl. I have never thought that it would be otherwise. I could hardly wish that it were. Jack will rise to be a great man, and must marry a lady, but," she said steadfastly, "I can go on loving him till I die." "I have not hoped much, Nelly, but remember always, that I have always cared for you. Since you first became Jack's friend I have cared for you. If he had loved you I could even stand aside and be glad to see you both happy, but I have known always that this could never be. Jack's mind was ever so much given up to study, he is not like us, and does not dream of a house and love till he has made his mark in the world. Remember only that I love you as you love Jack, and shall love as faithfully. Some day, perhaps, long hence," he added as Nelly shook her head, "you may not think differently, but may come to see that it is better to make one man's life happy than to cling for ever to the remembrance of another. At any rate you will always think of me as your true friend, Nelly, always trust me?" "Always, Harry, in the future more than lately, for I have seen this coming. Now that we understand each other we can be quite friends again." CHAPTER XXIII. THE EXPLOSION AT THE VAUGHAN. At twelve o'clock on a bright summer day Mr. Brook drove up in his dog-cart, with two gentlemen, to the Vaughan mine. One was the government inspector of the district; the other, a newly-appointed deputy inspector, whom he was taking his rounds with him, to instruct in his duties. "I am very sorry that Thompson, my manager, is away to-day," Mr. Brook said as they alighted. "Had I known you were coming I would of course have had him in readiness to go round with you. Is Williams, the underground manager, in the pit?" he asked the bankman, whose duty it was to look after the ascending and descending cage. "No, sir; he came up about half an hour ago. Watkins, the viewer, is below." "He must do, then," Mr. Brook said, "but I wish Mr. Thompson had been here. Perhaps you would like to look at the plan of the pit before you go down? Is Williams's office open?" "Yes, sir," the bankman answered. Mr. Brook led the way into the office. "Hullo!" he said, seeing a young man at work making a copy of a mining plan; "who are you?" The young man rose-- "Jack Simpson, sir. I work below, but when it's my night-shift Mr. Williams allows me to help him here by day." "Ah! I remember you now," Mr. Brook said. "Let me see what you are doing. That's a creditable piece of work for a working collier, is it not?" he said, holding up a beautifully executed plan. Mr. Hardinge looked with surprise at the draughtsman, a young man of some one or two-and-twenty, with a frank, open, pleasant face. "Why, you don't look or talk like a miner," he said. "Mr. Merton, the schoolmaster here, was kind enough to take a great deal of pains with me, sir." "Have you been doing this sort of work long?" Mr. Hardinge asked, pointing to the plan. "About three or four years," Mr. Brook said promptly. Jack looked immensely surprised. Mr. Brook smiled. "I noticed an extraordinary change in Williams's reports, both in the handwriting and expression. Now I understand it. You work the same stall as Haden, do you not?" "Yes, sir, but not the same shift; he had a mate he has worked with ever since my father was killed, so I work the other shift with Harvey." "Now let us look at the plans of the pit," Mr. Hardinge said. The two inspectors bent over the table and examined the plans, asking a question of Mr. Brook now and then. Jack had turned to leave when his employer ceased to speak to him, but Mr. Brook made a motion to him to stay. "What is the size of your furnace, Mr. Brook?" asked Mr. Hardinge. "It's an eight-foot furnace," Mr. Brook replied. "Do you know how many thousand cubic feet of air a minute you pass?" Mr. Brook shook his head: he left the management of the mine entirely in the hands of his manager. Mr. Hardinge had happened to look at Jack as he spoke; and the latter, thinking the question was addressed to him, answered: "About eight thousand feet a minute, sir." "How do you know?" Mr. Hardinge asked. "By taking the velocity of the air, sir, and the area of the downcast shaft." "How would you measure the velocity, theoretically?" Mr. Hardinge asked, curious to see how much the young collier knew. "I should require to know the temperature of the shafts respectively, and the height of the upcast shaft." "How could you do it then?" "The formula, sir, is M = h(t'-t)/480+x, h being the height of the upcast, t' its temperature, t the temperature of the exterior air, and x = t'-32 degrees." "You are a strange young fellow," Mr. Hardinge said. "May I ask you a question or two?" "Certainly, sir." "Could you work out the cube-root of say 999,888,777?" Jack closed his eyes for a minute and then gave the correct answer to five places of decimals. The three gentlemen gave an exclamation of surprise. "How on earth did you do that?" Mr. Hardinge exclaimed. "It would take me ten minutes to work it out on paper." "I accustomed myself to calculate while I was in the dark, or working," Jack said quietly. "Why, you would rival Bidder himself," Mr. Hardinge said; "and how far have you worked up in figures?" "I did the differential calculus, sir, and then Mr. Merton said that I had better stick to the mechanical application of mathematics instead of going on any farther; that was two years ago." The surprise of the three gentlemen at this simple avowal from a young pitman was unbounded. Then Mr. Hardinge said: "We must talk of this again later on. Now let us go down the pit; this young man will do excellently well for a guide. But I am afraid, Mr. Brook, that I shall have to trouble you a good deal. As far as I can see from the plan the mine is very badly laid out, and the ventilation altogether defective. What is your opinion?" he asked, turning abruptly to Jack, and wishing to see whether his practical knowledge at all corresponded with his theoretical acquirements. "I would rather not say, sir," Jack said. "It is not for me to express an opinion as to Mr. Thompson's plan." "Let us have your ideas," Mr. Brook said. "Just tell us frankly what you would do if you were manager of the Vaughan?" Jack turned to the plan. "I should widen the airways, and split the current; that would raise the number of cubic feet of air to about twelve thousand a minute. It is too far for a single current to travel, especially as the airways are not wide; the friction is altogether too great. I should put a split in here, take a current round through the old workings to keep them clear, widen these passages, split the current again here, and then make a cut through this new ground so as to take a strong current to sweep the face of the main workings, and carry it off straight to the upcast. But that current ought not to pass through the furnace, but be let in above, for the gas comes off very thick sometimes, and might not be diluted enough with air, going straight to the furnaces." "Your ideas are very good," Mr. Hardinge said quietly. "Now we will get into our clothes and go below." So saying, he opened a bag and took out two mining suits of clothes, which, first taking off their coats, he and his companion proceeded to put on over their other garments. Mr. Brook went into his office, and similarly prepared himself; while Jack, who was not dressed for mining, went to the closet where a few suits were hung up for the use of visitors and others, and prepared to go down. Then he went to the lamp-room and fetched four Davy-lamps. While he was away Mr. Brook joined the inspectors. "That young pitman is as steady as he is clever," he said; "he has come several times under my attention. In the first place, the schoolmaster has spoken to me of the lad's efforts to educate himself. Then he saved another boy's life at the risk of his own, and of late years his steadiness and good conduct have given him a great influence over his comrades of the same age, and have effected great things for the place. The vicar and schoolmaster now are never tired of praising him." "He is clearly an extraordinary young fellow," Mr Hardinge said. "Do you know his suggestions are exactly what I had intended to offer to you myself? You will have some terrible explosion here unless you make some radical changes." That evening the inspectors stayed for the night at Mr. Brook's, and the next day that gentleman went over with them to Birmingham, where he had some business. His principal object, however, was to take them to see Mr. Merton, to question him farther with regard to Jack Simpson. Mr. Merton related to his visitors the history of Jack's efforts to educate himself, and gave them the opinion he had given the lad himself, that he might, had he chosen, have taken a scholarship and then the highest mathematical honours. "He has been working lately at engineering, and calculating the strains and stresses of iron bridges," he said. "And now, Mr. Brook, I will tell you--and I am sure that you and these gentlemen will give me your promise of secrecy upon the subject--what I have never yet told to a soul. It was that lad who brought me word of the intended attack on the engines, and got me to write the letter to Sir John Butler. But that is not all, sir. It was that boy--for he was but seventeen then--who defended your engine-house against the mob of five hundred men!" "Bless my heart, Merton, why did you not tell me before? Why, I've puzzled over that ever since. And to think that it was one of my own pit-boys who did that gallant action, and I have done nothing for him!" "He would not have it told, sir. He wanted to go on as a working miner, and learn his business from the bottom. Besides, his life wouldn't have been safe in this district for a day if it had been known. But I think you ought to be told of it now. The lad is as modest as he is brave and clever, and would go to his grave without ever letting out that he saved the Vaughan, and indeed all the pits in the district. But now that he is a man, it is right you should know; but pray do not let him imagine that you are aware of it. He is very young yet, and will rise on his own merits, and would dislike nothing so much as thinking that he owed anything to what he did that night. I may tell you too that he is able to mix as a gentleman with gentlemen. Ever since I have been over here he has come over once a month to stay with me from Saturday to Monday, he has mixed with what I may call the best society in the town here, and has won the liking and esteem of all my friends, not one of whom has so much as a suspicion that he is not of the same rank of life as themselves." "What am I to do, Mr. Hardinge?" Mr. Brook asked in perplexity. "What would you advise?" "I should give him his first lift at once," Mr. Hardinge said decidedly. "It will be many months before you have carried out the new scheme for the ventilation of the mine; and, believe me, it will not be safe, if there come a sudden influx of gas, till the alterations are made. Make this young fellow deputy viewer, with special charge to look after the ventilation. In that way he will not have to give instruction to the men as to their work, but will confine his attention to the ventilation, the state of the air, the doors, and so on. Even then his position will for a time be difficult; but the lad has plenty of self-control, and will be able to tide over it, and the men will get to see that he really understands his business. You will of course order the underground manager and viewers to give him every support. The underground manager, at any rate, must be perfectly aware of his capabilities, as he seems to have done all his paper work for some time." Never were a body of men more astonished than were the pitmen of the Vaughan when they heard that young Jack Simpson was appointed a deputy viewer, with the special charge of the ventilation of the mine. A deputy viewer is not a position of great honour; the pay is scarcely more than that which a getter will earn, and the rank is scarcely higher. This kind of post, indeed, is generally given to a miner of experience, getting past his work--as care, attention, and knowledge are required, rather than hard work. That a young man should be appointed was an anomaly which simply astonished the colliers of the Vaughan. The affair was first known on the surface, and as the men came up in the cages the news was told them, and the majority, instead of at once hurrying home, stopped to talk it over. "It be the rummest start I ever heard on," one said. "Ah! here comes Bill Haden. Hast heard t' news, Bill?" "What news?" "Why, your Jack's made a deputy. What dost think o' that, right over heads o' us all? Did'st e'er hear tell o' such a thing?" "No, I didn't," Bill Haden said emphatically. "It's t' first time as e'er I heard o' t' right man being picked out wi'out a question o' age. I know him, and I tell 'ee, he mayn't know t' best place for putting in a prop, or of timbering in loose ground, as well as us as is old enough to be his fathers; but he knows as much about t' book learning of a mine as one of the government inspector chaps. You mightn't think it pleasant for me, as has stood in t' place o' his father, to see him put over my head, but I know how t' boy has worked, and I know what he is, and I tell 'ee I'll work under him willing. Jack Simpson will go far; you as live will see it." Bill Haden was an authority in the Vaughan pit, and his dictum reconciled many who might otherwise have resented the appointment of such a lad. The enthusiastic approval of Harry Shepherd and of the rest of the other young hands in the mine who had grown up with Jack Simpson, and knew something of how hard he had worked, and who had acknowledged his leadership in all things, also had its effect; and the new deputy entered upon his duties without anything like the discontent which might have been looked for, being excited. The most important part of Jack's duties consisted in going round the pit before the men went down in the morning, to see that there was no accumulation of gas in the night, and that the ventilation was going on properly. The deputy usually takes a helper with him, and Jack had chosen his friend Harry for the post--as in the event of finding gas, it has to be dispersed by beating it with an empty sack, so as to cause a disturbance of the air, or, if the accumulation be important, by putting up a temporary bratticing, or partition, formed of cotton cloth stretched on a framework, in such a way as to turn a strong current of air across the spot where the gas is accumulating, or from which it is issuing. The gas is visible to the eye as a sort of dull fog or smoke. If the accumulation is serious, the main body of miners are not allowed to descend into the mine until the viewer has, with assistance, succeeded in completely dispersing it. "It's a lonesome feeling," Harry said the first morning that he entered upon his duties with Jack Simpson, "to think that we be the only two down here." "It's no more lonesome than sitting in the dark waiting for the tubs to come along, Harry, and it's far safer. There is not the slightest risk of an explosion now, for there are only our safety-lamps down here, while in the day the men will open their lamps to light their pipes; make what regulations the master may, the men will break them to get a smoke." Upon the receipt of Mr. Hardinge's official report, strongly condemning the arrangements in the Vaughan, Mr. Brook at once appointed a new manager in the place of Mr. Thompson, and upon his arrival he made him acquainted with the extent of Jack's knowledge and ability, and requested him to keep his eye specially upon him, and to employ him, as far as possible, as his right-hand man in carrying out his orders. "I wish that main wind drift were through," Jack said one day, six months after his appointment, as he was sitting over his tea with Bill Haden. "The gas is coming in very bad in the new workings." "Wuss nor I ever knew't, Jack. It's a main good job that the furnace was made bigger, and some o' th' airways widened, for it does come out sharp surely. In th' old part where I be, a' don't notice it; but when I went down yesterday where Peter Jones be working, the gas were just whistling out of a blower close by." "Another fortnight, and the airway will be through, dad; and that will make a great change. I shall be very glad, for the pit's in a bad state now." "Ah! thou think'st a good deal of it, Jack, because thou'st got part of the 'sponsibility of it. It don't fret me." "I wish the men wouldn't smoke, dad; I don't want to get a bad name for reporting them, but it's just playing with their lives." Bill Haden was silent; he was given to indulge in a quiet smoke himself, as Jack, working with him for five years, well knew. "Well, Jack, thou know'st there's a craving for a draw or two of bacca." "So there is for a great many other things that we have to do without," Jack said. "If it were only a question of a man blowing himself to pieces I should say nought about it; but it is whether he is willing to make five hundred widows and two thousand orphans rather than go for a few hours without smoking. What is the use of Davy-lamps? what is the use of all our care as to the ventilation, if at any moment the gas may be fired at a lamp opened for lighting a pipe? I like my pipe, but if I thought there was ever any chance of its becoming my master I would never touch tobacco again." Three days later, when Jack came up from his rounds at ten o'clock, to eat his breakfast and write up his journal of the state of the mine, he saw Mr. Brook and the manager draw up to the pit mouth. Jack shrank back from the little window of the office where he was writing, and did not look out again until he knew that they had descended the mine, as he did not wish to have any appearance of thrusting himself forward. For another hour he wrote; and then the window of the office flew in pieces, the chairs danced, and the walls rocked, while a dull heavy roar, like distant thunder, burst upon his ears. He leaped to his feet and rushed to the door. Black smoke was pouring up from the pit's mouth, sticks and pieces of wood and coal were falling in a shower in the yard; and Jack saw that his worst anticipation had been realized, and that a terrible explosion had taken place in the Vaughan pit. CHAPTER XXIV. IN DEADLY PERIL. For a moment Jack stood stunned by the calamity. There were, he knew, over three hundred men and boys in the pit, and he turned faint and sick as the thought of their fate came across him. Then he ran towards the top of the shaft. The bankman lay insensible at a distance of some yards from the pit, where he had been thrown by the force of the explosion. Two or three men came running up with white scared faces. The smoke had nearly ceased already; the damage was done, and a deadly stillness seemed to reign. Jack ran into the engine-house. The engine-man was leaning against a wall, scared and almost fainting. "Are you hurt, John?" "No!" "Pull yourself round, man. The first thing is to see if the lift is all right. I see one of the cages is at bank, and the force of the explosion is in the upcast shaft. Just give a turn or two to the engine and see if the winding gear's all right. Slowly." The engineman turned on the steam; there was a slight movement, and then the engine stopped. "A little more steam," Jack said. "The cage has caught, but it may come." There was a jerk, and then the engine began to work. "That is all right," Jack said, "whether the lower cage is on or not. Stop now, and wind it back, and get the cage up again. Does the bell act, I wonder?" Jack pulled the wire which, when in order, struck a bell at the bottom of the shaft, and then looked at a bell hanging over his head for the answer. None came. "I expect the wire's broke," Jack said, and went out to the pit's mouth again. The surface-men were all gathered round now, the tip-men, and the yard-men, and those from the coke-ovens, all looking wild and pale. "I am going down," Jack said; "we may find some poor fellows near the bottom, and can't wait till some headman comes on the ground. Who will go with me? I don't want any married men, for you know, lads, there may be another blow at any moment." "I will go with you," one of the yard-men said, stepping forward; "there's no one dependent on me." "I, too," said another; "it's no odds to any one but myself whether I come up again or not. Here's with you, whatever comes of it." [Illustration: AFTER THE FIRST EXPLOSION--THE SEARCH PARTY.] Jack brought three safety-lamps from the lamp-room, and took his place in the cage with the two volunteers. "Lower away," he shouted, "but go very slow when we get near the bottom, and look out for our signal." It was but three minutes from the moment that the cage began to sink to that when it touched the bottom of the shaft, but it seemed an age to those in it. They knew that at any moment a second explosion might come, and that they might be driven far up into the air above the top of the shaft, mere scorched fragments of flesh. Not a word was spoken during the descent, and there was a general exclamation of "Thank God!" when they felt the cage touch the bottom. Jack, as an official of the mine, and by virtue of superior energy, at once took the lead. "Now," he said, "let us push straight up the main road." Just as they stepped out they came across the bodies of two men, and stooped over them with their lamps. "Both dead," Jack said; "we can do nought for them." A little way on, and in a heap, were some waggons, thrown together and broken up, the body of a pony, and that of the lad, his driver. Then they came to the first door--a door no longer, not a fragment of it remaining. In the door-boy's niche the lad lay in a heap. They bent over him. "He is alive," Jack said. "Will you two carry him to the cage? I will look round and see if there is any one else about here; beyond, this way, there is no hope. Make haste! Look how the gas is catching inside the lamps, the place is full of fire-damp." The men took up the lad, and turned to go to the bottom of the shaft. Jack looked a few yards down a cross-road, and then followed them. He was in the act of turning into the next road to glance at that also, when he felt a suck of air. "Down on your faces!" he shouted, and, springing a couple of paces farther up the cross-road, threw himself on his face. CHAPTER XXV. THE IMPRISONED MINERS. There was a mighty roar--a thundering sound, as of an express train--a blinding light, and a scorching heat. Jack felt himself lifted from the ground by the force of the blast, and dashed down again. Then he knew it was over, and staggered to his feet. The force of the explosion had passed along the main road, and so up the shaft, and he owed his life to the fact that he had been in the road off the course. He returned into the main road, but near the bottom of the shaft he was brought to a standstill. The roof had fallen, and the passage was blocked with fragments of rock and broken waggons. He knew that the bottom of the shaft must be partly filled up, that his comrades were killed, and that there was no hope of escape in that direction. For a moment he paused to consider; then, turning up the side road to the left, he ran at full speed from the shaft. He knew that the danger now was not so much from the fire-damp--the explosive gas--as from the even more dreaded choke-damp, which surely follows after an explosion and the cessation of ventilation. Many more miners are killed by this choke-damp, as they hasten to the bottom of the shaft after an explosion, than by the fire itself. Choke-damp, which is carbonic acid gas, is heavier than ordinary air, and thus the lowest parts of a colliery become first filled with it, as they would with water. In all coal-mines there is a slight, sometimes a considerable, inclination, or "dip" as it is called, of the otherwise flat bed of coal. The shaft is almost always sunk at the lower end of the area owned by the proprietors of the mine, as by this means the whole pit naturally drains to the "sump," or well, at the bottom of the shaft, whence it is pumped up by the engine above; the loaded waggons, too, are run down from the workings to the bottom of the shaft with comparative ease. The explosion had, as Jack well knew, destroyed all the doors which direct the currents of the air, and the ventilation had entirely ceased. The lower part of the mine, where the explosion had been strongest, would soon be filled with choke-damp, the product of the explosion, and Jack was making for the old workings, near the upper boundary line of the pit. There the air would remain pure long after it had been vitiated elsewhere. It was in this quarter of the mine that Bill Haden and some twenty other colliers worked. Presently Jack saw lights ahead, and heard a clattering of steps. It was clear that, as he had hoped, the miners working there had escaped the force of the explosion, which had, without doubt, played awful havoc in the parts of the mine where the greater part of the men were at work. "Stop! stop!" Jack shouted, as they came up to him. "Is it fire, Jack?" Bill Haden, who was one of the first, asked. "Yes, Bill; didn't you feel it?" "Some of us thought we felt a suck of air a quarter hour since, but we weren't sure; and then came another, which blew out the lights. Come along, lad; there is no time for talking." "It's of no use going on," Jack said; "the shaft's choked up. I came down after the first blow, and I fear there's no living soul in the new workings. By this time they must be full of the choke-damp." The men looked at each other with blank faces. "Hast seen Brook?" Jack asked eagerly. "Ay, he passed our stall with Johnstone ten minutes ago, just before the blast came." "We may catch him in time to stop him yet," Jack said, "if he has gone round to look at the walling of the old goafs. There are three men at work there." "I'll go with you, Jack," Bill Haden said. "Our best place is my stall, lads," he went on, turning to the others; "that is pretty well the highest ground in the pit, and the air will keep good there as long as anywhere--may be till help comes. You come along of us, mate," he said, turning to the man who worked with him in his stall. As they hurried along, Jack, in a few words, told what had taken place, as far as he knew it. Five minutes' run brought them to the place where the masons were at work walling up the entrance to some old workings. They looked astonished at the new-comers. "Have you seen the gaffers?" "Ay, they ha' just gone on. There, don't you see their lights down the heading? No; well I saw 'em a moment since." "Come along," Jack said. "Quick! I expect they've met it." At full speed they hurried along. Presently they all stopped short; the lights burnt low, and a choking sensation came on them. "Back, Jack, for your life!" gasped Bill Haden; but at that moment Jack's feet struck something, which he knew was a body. "Down at my feet; help!" he cried. He stooped and tried to raise the body. Then the last gleam of his light went out--his lungs seemed to cease acting, and he saw no more. When he came to himself again he was being carried on Bill Haden's shoulder. "All right, dad," he said. "I am coming round now; put me down." "That's a good job, Jack. I thought thou'd'st scarce come round again." "Have you got either of the others?" "We've got Brook; you'd your arm round him so tight that Ned and I lifted you together. He's on ahead; the masons are carrying him, and Ned's showing the way. Canst walk now?" "Yes, I'm better now. How did you manage to breathe, dad?" "We didn't breathe, Jack; we're too old hands for that. When we saw you fall we just drew back, took a breath, and then shut our mouths, and went down for you just the same as if we'd been a groping for you under water. We got hold of you both, lifted you up, and carried you along as far as we could before we drew a breath again. You're sharp, Jack, but you don't know everything yet." And Bill Haden chuckled to find that for once his practical experience taught him something that Jack had not learned from his books. Jack now hurried along after Bill Haden, and in a few minutes reached the place fixed upon. Here the miners were engaged in restoring consciousness to Mr. Brook, who, under the influence of water dashed on his face and artificial respiration set up by alternately pressing upon the chest and allowing it to rise again, was just beginning to show signs of life. Their interest in their employment was so great that it was not until Mr. Brook was able to sit up that they began to talk about the future. Jack's account of the state of things near the shaft was listened to gravely. The fact that the whole of the system of ventilation had been deranged, and the proof given by the second explosion that the mine was somewhere on fire, needed no comment to these experienced men. It sounded their death-knell. Gallant and unceasing as would be the efforts made under any other circumstance to rescue them, the fact that the pit was on fire, and that fresh explosions might at any moment take place, would render it an act of simple madness for their friends above to endeavour to clear the shaft and headings, and to restore the ventilation. The fact was further impressed upon them by a sudden and simultaneous flicker of the lamps, and a faint shake, followed by a distant rumble. "Another blast," Bill Haden said. "That settles us, lads. We may as well turn out all the lamps but two, so as to have light as long as we last out." "Is there no hope?" Mr. Brook asked presently, coming forward after he had heard from Haden's mate the manner in which he had been so far saved. "Not a scrap, master," said Bill Haden. "We are like rats in a trap; and it would ha' been kinder of us if we'd a let you lay as you was." "Your intention was equally kind," Mr. Brook said. "But is there nothing that we can do?" "Nowt," Bill Haden said. "We have got our dinners wi' us, and might make 'em last, a mouthful at a time, to keep life in us for a week or more. But what 'ud be th' use of it? It may be weeks--ay, or months--before they can stifle the fire and make their way here." "Can you suggest nothing, Jack?" Mr. Brook asked. "You are the only officer of the pit left now," he added with a faint smile. Jack had not spoken since he reached the stall, but had sat down on a block of coal, with his elbows on his knees and his chin on his hands--a favourite attitude of his when thinking deeply. The other colliers had thrown themselves down on the ground; some sobbed occasionally as they thought of their loved ones above, some lay in silence. Jack answered the appeal by rising to his feet. "Yes, sir, I think we may do something." The men raised themselves in surprise. "In the first place, sir, I should send men in each direction to see how near the choke-damp has got. There are four roads by which it could come up. I would shut the doors on this side of the place it has got to, roll blocks of coal and rubbish to keep 'em tight, and stop up the chinks with wet mud. That will keep the gas from coming up, and there is air enough in the stalls and headings to last us a long time." "But that would only prolong our lives for a few hours, Jack, and I don't know that that would be any advantage. Better to be choked by the gas than to die of starvation," Mr. Brook said, and a murmur from the men showed that they agreed with him. "I vote for lighting our pipes," one of the miners said. "If there is fiery gas here, it would be better to finish with it at once." There was a general expression of approval. "Wait!" Jack said authoritatively; "wait till I have done. You know, Mr. Brook, we are close to our north boundary here, in some places within a very few yards. Now the 'Logan,' which lies next to us, has been worked out years ago. Of course it is full of water, and it was from fear of tapping that water that the works were stopped here. A good deal comes in through the crevices in No. 15 stall, which I expect is nearest to it. Now if we could work into the 'Logan,' the water would rush down into our workings, and as our pit is a good deal bigger than the 'Logan' ever was it will fill the lower workings and put out the fire, but won't reach here. Then we can get up through the 'Logan,' where the air is sure to be all right, as the water will bring good air down with it. We may not do it in time, but it is a chance. What do you say, sir?" "It is worth trying, at any rate," Mr. Brook said. "Bravo, my lad! your clear head may save us yet." "By gum, Jack! but you're a good un!" Bill Haden said, bringing down his hand upon Jack's shoulder with a force that almost knocked him down; while the men, with revived hope, leaped to their feet, and crowding round, shook Jack's hands with exclamations of approval and delight. "Now, lads," Mr. Brook said, "Jack Simpson is master now, and we will all work under his orders. But before we begin, boys, let us say a prayer. We are in God's hands; let us ask his protection." Every head was bared, and the men stood reverently while, in a few words, Mr. Brook prayed for strength and protection, and rescue from their danger. "Now, Jack," he said, when he had finished, "give your orders." Jack at once sent off two men along each of the roads to find how near the choke-damp had approached, and to block up and seal the doors. It was necessary to strike a light to relight some of the lamps, but this was a danger that could not be avoided. The rest of the men were sent round to all the places where work had been going on to bring in the tools and dinners to No. 15 stall, to which Jack himself, Bill Haden, and Mr. Brook proceeded at once. No work had been done there for years. The floor was covered with a black mud, and a close examination of the face showed tiny streamlets of water trickling down in several places. An examination of the stalls, or working places, on either side, showed similar appearances, but in a less marked degree. It was therefore determined to begin work in No. 15. "You don't mean to use powder, Jack?" Bill Haden asked. "No, dad; without any ventilation we should be choked with the smoke, and there would be the danger from the gas. When we think we are getting near the water we will put in a big shot, so as to blow in the face." When the men returned with the tools and the dinners, the latter done up in handkerchiefs, Jack asked Mr. Brook to take charge of the food. "There are just twenty of us, sir, without you, and nineteen dinners. So if you divide among us four dinners a day, it will last for five days, and by that time I hope we shall be free." Four men only could work at the face of the stall together, and Jack divided the twenty into five sets. "We will work in quarter-of-an-hour shifts at first," he said; "that will give an hour's rest to a quarter of an hour's work, and a man can work well, we know, for a quarter of an hour. When we get done up, we will have half-hour shifts, which will give two hours for a sleep in between." The men of the first shift, stripped as usual to the waist, set to work without an instant's delay; and the vigour and swiftness with which the blows fell upon the face of the rock would have told experienced miners that the men who struck them were working for life or death. Those unemployed, Jack took into the adjacent stalls and set them to work to clear a narrow strip of the floor next to the upper wall, then to cut a little groove in the rocky floor to intercept the water as it slowly trickled in, and lead it to small hollows which they were to make in the solid rock. The water coming through the two stalls would, thus collected, be ample for their wants. Jack then started to see how the men at work at the doors were getting on. These had already nearly finished their tasks. On the road leading to the main workings choke-damp had been met with at a distance of fifty yards from the stall; but upon the upper road it was several hundred yards before it was found. On the other two roads it was over a hundred yards. The men had torn strips off their flannel jackets and had thrust them into the crevices of the doors, and had then plastered mud from the roadway on thickly, and there was no reason to fear any irruption of choke-damp, unless, indeed, an explosion should take place so violent as to blow in the doors. This, however, was unlikely, as, with a fire burning, the gas would ignite as it came out; and although there might be many minor explosions, there would scarcely be one so serious as the first two which had taken place. The work at the doors and the water being over, the men all gathered in the stall. Then Jack insisted on an equal division of the tobacco, of which almost all the miners possessed some--for colliers, forbidden to smoke, often chew tobacco, and the tobacco might therefore be regarded both as a luxury, and as being very valuable in assisting the men to keep down the pangs of hunger. This had to be divided only into twenty shares, as Mr. Brook said that he could not use it in that way, and that he had, moreover, a couple of cigars in his pocket, which he could suck if hard driven to it. Now that they were together again, all the lamps were extinguished save the two required by the men employed. With work to be done, and a hope of ultimate release, the men's spirits rose, and between their spells they talked, and now and then even a laugh was heard. Mr. Brook, although unable to do a share of the work, was very valuable in aiding to keep up their spirits, by his hopeful talk, and by anecdotes of people who had been in great danger in many ways in different parts of the world, but who had finally escaped. Sometimes one or other of the men would propose a hymn--for among miners, as among sailors, there is at heart a deep religious feeling, consequent upon a life which may at any moment be cut short--and then their deep voices would rise together, while the blows of the sledges and picks would keep time to the swing of the tune. On the advice of Mr. Brook the men divided their portions of food, small as they were, into two parts, to be eaten twelve hours apart; for as the work would proceed without interruption night and day, it was better to eat, however little, every twelve hours, than to go twenty-four without food. The first twenty-four hours over, the stall--or rather the heading, for it was now driven as narrow as it was possible for four men to work simultaneously--had greatly advanced; indeed it would have been difficult even for a miner to believe that so much work had been done in the time. There was, however, no change in the appearances; the water still trickled in, but they could not perceive that it came faster than before. As fast as the coal fell--for fortunately the seam was over four feet thick, so that they did not have to work upon the rock--it was removed by the set of men who were next for work, so that there was not a minute lost from this cause. During the next twenty-four hours almost as much work was done as during the first; but upon the third there was a decided falling off. The scanty food was telling upon them now. The shifts were lengthened to an hour to allow longer time for sleep between each spell of work, and each set of men, when relieved, threw themselves down exhausted, and slept for three hours, until it was their turn to wake up and remove the coal as the set at work got it down. At the end of seventy-two hours the water was coming through the face much faster than at first, and the old miners, accustomed to judge by sound, were of opinion that the wall in front sounded less solid, and that they were approaching the old workings of the Logan pit. In the three days and nights they had driven the heading nearly fifteen yards from the point where they had begun. Upon the fourth day they worked cautiously, driving a borer three feet ahead of them into the coal, as in case of the water bursting through suddenly they would be all drowned. At the end of ninety hours from the time of striking the first blow the drill which, Jack holding it, Bill Haden was just driving in deeper with a sledge, suddenly went forward, and as suddenly flew out as if shot from a gun, followed by a jet of water driven with tremendous force. A plug, which had been prepared in readiness, was with difficulty driven into the hole; two men who had been knocked down by the force of the water were picked up, much bruised and hurt; and with thankful hearts that the end of their labour was at hand all prepared for the last and most critical portion of their task. CHAPTER XXVI. A CRITICAL MOMENT. After an earnest thanksgiving by Mr. Brook for their success thus far, the whole party partook of what was a heartier meal than usual, consisting of the whole of the remaining food. Then choosing the largest of the drills, a hole was driven in the coal two feet in depth, and in this an unusually heavy charge was placed. "We're done for after all," Bill Haden suddenly exclaimed. "Look at the lamp." Every one present felt his heart sink at what he saw. A light flame seemed to fill the whole interior of the lamp. To strike a match to light the fuse would be to cause an instant explosion of the gas. The place where they were working being the highest part of the mine, the fiery gas, which made its way out of the coal at all points above the closed doors, had, being lighter than air, mounted there. "Put the lamps out," Jack said quickly, "the gauze is nearly red hot." In a moment they were in darkness. "What is to be done now?" Mr. Brook asked after a pause. There was silence for a while--the case seemed desperate. "Mr. Brook," Jack said after a time, "it is agreed, is it not, that all here will obey my orders?" "Yes, certainly, Jack," Mr. Brook answered. "Whatever they are?" "Yes, whatever they are." "Very well," Jack said, "you will all take your coats off and soak them in water, then all set to work to beat the gas out of this heading as far as possible. When that is done as far as can be done, all go into the next stall, and lie down at the upper end, you will be out of the way of the explosion there. Cover your heads with your wet coats, and, Bill, wrap something wet round those cans of powder." "What then, Jack?" "That's all," Jack said; "I will fire the train. If the gas explodes at the match it will light the fuse, so that the wall will blow in anyhow." "No, no," a chorus of voices said; "you will be killed." "I will light it, Jack," Bill Haden said; "I am getting on now, it's no great odds about me." "No, Dad," Jack said, "I am in charge, and it is for me to do it. You have all promised to obey orders, so set about it at once. Bill, take Mr. Brook up first into the other stall; he won't be able to find his way about in the dark." Without a word Bill did as he was told, Mr. Brook giving one hearty squeeze to the lad's hand as he was led away. The others, accustomed to the darkness from boyhood, proceeded at once to carry out Jack's instructions, wetting their flannel jackets and then beating the roof with them towards the entrance to the stall; for five minutes they continued this, and then Jack said: "Now, lads, off to the stall as quick as you can; cover your heads well over; lie down. I will be with you in a minute, or--" or, as Jack knew well, he would be dashed to pieces by the explosion of the gas. He listened until the sound of the last footstep died away--waited a couple of minutes, to allow them to get safely in position at the other end of the next stall--and then, holding the end of the fuse in one hand and the match in the other, he murmured a prayer, and, stooping to the ground, struck the match. No explosion followed; he applied it to the fuse, and ran for his life, down the narrow heading, down the stall, along the horse road, and up the next stall. "It's alight," he said as he rushed in. A cheer of congratulation and gladness burst from the men. "Cover your heads close," Jack said as he threw himself down; "the explosion is nigh sure to fire the gas." For a minute a silence as of death reigned in the mine; then there was a sharp cracking explosion, followed--or rather, prolonged--by another like thunder, and, while a flash of fire seemed to surround them, filling the air, firing their clothes, and scorching their limbs, the whole mine shook with a deep continuous roaring. The men knew that the danger was at an end, threw off the covering from their heads, and struck out the fire from their garments. Some were badly burned about the legs, but any word or cry they may have uttered was drowned in the tremendous roar which continued. It was the water from the Logan pit rushing into the Vaughan. For five minutes the noise was like thunder, then, as the pressure from behind decreased, the sound gradually diminished, until, in another five minutes, all was quiet. Then the party rose to their feet. The air in the next stall was clear and fresh, for as the Logan pit had emptied of water, fresh air had of course come down from the surface to take its place. "We can light our lamps again safely now," Bill Haden said. "We shall want our tools, lads, and the powder; there may be some heavy falls in our way, and we may have hard work yet before we get to the shaft, but the roof rock is strong, so I believe we shall win our way." "It lies to our right," Jack said. "Like our own, it is at the lower end of the pit, so, as long as we don't mount, we are going right for it." There were, as Haden had anticipated, many heavy falls of the roof, but the water had swept passages in them, and it was found easier to get along than the colliers had expected. Still it was hard work for men weakened by famine; and it took them five hours of labour clearing away masses of rock, and floundering through black mud, often three feet deep, before they made their way to the bottom of the Logan shaft, and saw the light far above them--the light that at one time they had never expected to see again. "What o'clock is it now, sir?" Bill Haden asked Mr. Brook, who had from the beginning been the timekeeper of the party. "Twelve o'clock exactly," he replied. "It is four days and an hour since the pit fired." "What day is it, sir? for I've lost all count of time." "Sunday," Mr. Brook said after a moment's thought. "It could not be better," Bill Haden said; "for there will be thousands of people from all round to visit the mine." "How much powder have you, Bill?" Jack asked. "Four twenty-pound cans." "Let us let off ten pounds at a time," Jack said. "Just damp it enough to prevent it from flashing off too suddenly; break up fine some of this damp wood and mix with it, it will add to the smoke." In a few minutes the "devil" was ready, and a light applied; it blazed furiously for half a minute, sending volumes of light smoke up the shaft. "Flash off a couple of pounds of dry powder," Bill Haden said; "there is very little draught up the shaft, and it will drive the air up." For twenty minutes they continued letting off "devils" and flashing powder. Then they determined to stop, and allow the shaft to clear altogether of the smoke. Presently a small stone fell among them--another--and another, and they knew that some one had noticed the smoke. CHAPTER XXVII. RESCUED. A stranger arriving at Stokebridge on that Sunday morning might have thought that a fair or some similar festivity was going on, so great was the number of people who passed out of the station as each train came in. For the day Stokebridge was the great point of attraction for excursionists from all parts of Staffordshire. Not that there was anything to see. The Vaughan mine looked still and deserted; no smoke issued from its chimneys; and a strong body of police kept all, except those who had business there, from approaching within a certain distance of the shaft. Still less was there to see in Stokebridge itself. Every blind was down--for scarce a house but had lost at least one of its members; and in the darkened room women sat, silently weeping for the dead far below. For the last four days work had been entirely suspended through the district; and the men of the other collieries, as well as those of the Vaughan who, belonging to the other shift, had escaped, hung about the pit yard, in the vague hope of being able in some way to be useful. Within an hour of the explosion the managers of the surrounding pits had assembled; and in spite of the fact that the three volunteers who had first descended were, without doubt, killed, plenty of other brave fellows volunteered their services, and would have gone down if permitted. But the repeated explosions, and the fact that the lower part of the shaft was now blocked up, decided the experienced men who had assembled that such a course would be madness--an opinion which was thoroughly endorsed by Mr. Hardinge and other government inspectors and mining authorities, who arrived within a few hours of the accident. It was unanimously agreed that the pit was on fire, for a light smoke curled up from the pit mouth, and some already began to whisper that it would have to be closed up. There are few things more painful than to come to the conclusion that nothing can be done, when women, half mad with sorrow and anxiety, are imploring men to make an effort to save those below. Jane Haden, quiet and tearless, sat gazing at the fatal shaft, when she was touched on the shoulder. She looked up, and saw Harry. "Thou art not down with them then, Harry?" "No; I almost wish I was," Harry said. "I came up with Jack, and hurried away to get breakfast. When I heard the blow I ran up, and found Jack had just gone down. If I had only been near I might have gone with him;" and the young man spoke in regret at not having shared his friend's fate rather than in gladness at his own escape. "Dost think there's any hope, Harry?" "It's no use lying, and there's no hope for Jack, mother," Harry said; "but if any one's saved it's like to be your Bill. He was up in the old workings, a long way off from the part where the strength of the blow would come." "It's no use telling me, Harry; I ask, but I know how it is. There ain't a chance--not a chance at all. If the pit's afire they'll have to flood it, and then it will be weeks before they pump it out again; and when they bring Jack and Bill up I sha'n't know 'em. That's what I feel, I sha'n't even know 'em." "Don't wait here, Mrs. Haden; nought can be done now; the inspectors and managers will meet this evening, and consult what is best to be done." "Is your father down, Harry? I can't think of aught but my own, or I'd have asked afore." "No; he is in the other shift. My brother Willy is down. Come, mother, let me take you home." But Mrs. Haden would not move, but sat with scores of other women, watching the mouth of the pit, and the smoke curling up, till night fell. The news spread round Stokebridge late in the evening that the managers had determined to shut up the mouth of the pit, if there was still smoke in the morning. Then, as is always the case when such a determination is arrived at, there was a cry of grief and anger throughout the village, and all who had friends below protested that it would be nothing short of murder to cut off the supply of air. Women went down to the inn where the meeting was held, and raved like wild creatures; but the miners of the district could not but own the step was necessary, for that the only chance to extinguish the fire was by cutting off the air, unless the dreadful alternative of drowning the pit was resorted to. In the morning the smoke still curled up, and the pit's mouth was closed. Boards were placed over both the shafts, and earth was heaped upon them, so as to cut off altogether the supply of air, and so stifle the fire. This was on Thursday morning. Nothing was done on Friday; and on Saturday afternoon the mining authorities met again in council. There were experts there now from all parts of the kingdom--for the extent of the catastrophe had sent a thrill of horror through the land. It was agreed that the earth and staging should be removed next morning early, and that if smoke still came up, water should be turned in from the canal. At six in the morning a number of the leading authorities met at the mine. Men had during the night removed the greater part of the earth, and the rest was now taken off, and the planks withdrawn. At once a volume of smoke poured out. This was in any case expected; and it was not for another half-hour, when the accumulated smoke had cleared off, and a straight but unbroken column began to rise as before, that the conviction that the pit was still on fire seized all present. "I fear that there is no alternative," Mr. Hardinge said; "the pit must be flooded." There was not a dissentient voice; and the party moved towards the canal to see what would be the best method of letting in the water, when a cry from the men standing round caused them to turn, and they saw a dense white column rise from the shaft. "Steam!" every one cried in astonishment. A low rumbling sound came from the pit. "What can have happened?" Mr. Hardinge exclaimed, in surprise. "This is most extraordinary!" All crowded round the pit mouth, and could distinctly hear a distant roaring sound. Presently this died away. Gradually the steam ceased to rise, and the air above the pit mouth was clear. "There is no smoke rising," one of the inspectors said. "What on earth can have happened? Let us lower a light down." Hoisting gear and rope had been prepared on the first day, in case it should be necessary to lower any one, for the wire rope had snapped when the attempt had been made to draw up the cage after the second explosion, and the sudden release from the strain had caused the engine to fly round, breaking some gear, and for the time disabling it from further work. A hundred and forty fathoms of rope, the depth of the shaft being a hundred and twenty, had been prepared, and was in readiness to be passed over a pulley suspended above the shaft. A lighted candle in a candlestick was placed on a sort of tray, which was fastened to the rope, and then it was lowered gradually down. Eagerly those above watched it as it descended--down--down, till it became a mere speck below. Then it suddenly disappeared. "Stop," Mr. Hardinge, who was directing the operations, said. "There are six more fathoms yet, sir--nigh seven--before it gets to the hundred-and-twenty fathom mark." "Draw up carefully, lads. What can have put the light out forty feet from the bottom of the shaft? Choke-damp, I suppose; but it's very singular." When the candle came up to the surface there was a cry of astonishment; the tray and the candle were wet! The whole of those present were astounded, and Mr. Hardinge at once determined to descend himself and verify this extraordinary occurrence. There was no fear of an explosion now. Taking a miner's lamp, he took his seat in a sling, and was lowered down. Just before the rope had run out to the point at which the light was extinguished he gave the signal to stop by jerking a thin rope which he held in his hands. There was a pause, and in a minute or two came two jerks, the signal to haul up. "It is so," he said, when he gained the surface; "there are forty feet of water in the shaft, but where it came from is more than I can tell." Much astonished at this singular occurrence, the group of mining engineers walked back to breakfast at Stokebridge, where the population were greatly excited at the news that the pit was flooded. To the miners it was a subject of the greatest surprise, while the friends of those in the pit received the news as the death-blow of their last hopes. It was now impossible that any one could be alive in the pit. At ten o'clock the mining authorities went again to discuss the curious phenomenon. All agreed that it was out of the question that so large a quantity of water had accumulated in any old workings, for the plan of the pit had been repeatedly inspected by them all. Some inclined to the belief that there must have been some immense natural cavern above the workings, and that when the fire in the pit burned away the pillars left to support the roof, this must have fallen in, and let the water in the cavern into the mine; others pointed out that there was no example whatever of a cavern of such dimensions as this must have been, being found in the coal formation, and pointed to the worked-out Logan pit, which was known to be full of water, as the probable source of supply. During the previous four days the plan had been discussed of cutting through from the Logan, which was known to have been worked nearly up to the Vaughan boundary. This would enable them to enter the pit and rescue any miners who might be alive, but the fact that to erect pumping gear and get out the water would be an affair of many weeks, if not months, had caused the idea to be abandoned as soon as broached. To those who argued that the water had come from the Logan, it was pointed out that there were certainly several yards of solid coal between the Vaughan and the Logan still standing, and that as the force of the explosion was evidently near the Vaughan shaft it was incredible that this barrier between the pits should have been shattered. However, it was decided to solve the question one way or the other by an immediate visit to the top of the old Logan shaft. They were just starting when they heard a movement in the street, and men setting off to run. A moment later a miner entered the room hurriedly. "There be a big smoke coming up from the old Logan shaft; it be too light for coal smoke, and I don't think it be steam either." With exclamations of surprise the whole party seized their hats and hurried off. It was twenty minutes' sharp walking to the shaft, where, by the time they reached it, a large crowd of miners and others were already assembled. As they approached, eager men ran forward to meet them. "It be gunpowder smoke, sir!" There was indeed no mistaking the sulphurous smell. "It's one of two things," Mr. Hardinge said; "either the fire has spread to the upper workings, some powder bags have exploded, and the shock has brought down the dividing wall, in which case the powder smoke might possibly find its way out when the water from the Logan drained in; or else, in some miraculous way some of the men have made their escape, and are letting off powder to call our attention. At any rate let us drop a small stone or two down. If any one be below he will know he is noticed." Then he turned to the miners standing round: "I want the pulley and rope that we were using at the Vaughan, and that small cage that was put together to work with it. I want two or three strong poles, to form a tripod over the pit here, and a few long planks to make a stage." Fifty willing men hurried off to fetch the required materials. "The smoke is getting thinner, a good deal," one of the managers said. "Now if you'll hold me, I will give a shout down." The mouth of the pit was surrounded by a wooden fencing, to prevent any one from falling down it. The speaker got over this and lay down on his face, working nearer to the edge, which sloped dangerously down, while others, following in the same way, held his legs, and were in their turn held by others. When his head and shoulders were fairly over the pit he gave a loud shout. There was a death-like silence on the part of the crowd standing round, and all of those close could hear a faint murmur come from below. Then arose a cheer, echoed again and again, and then half-a-dozen fleet-footed boys started for Stokebridge with the news that some of the imprisoned pitmen were still alive. Mr. Hardinge wrote on a piece of paper, "Keep up your courage; in an hour's time the cage will come down;" wrapped it round a stone, and dropped it down. A messenger was despatched to the Vaughan, for the police force stationed there to come up at once to keep back the excited crowd, and with orders that the stretchers and blankets in readiness should be brought on; while another went into Stokebridge for a surgeon, and for a supply of wine, brandy, and food, and two or three vehicles. No sooner were the men sent off than Mr. Hardinge said, in a loud tone: "Every moment must be of consequence; they must be starving. Will any one here who has food give it for them?" The word was passed through the crowd, and a score of picnic baskets were at once offered. Filling one of them full with sandwiches from the rest, Mr. Hardinge tied the lid securely on, and threw it down the shaft. "There is no fear of their standing under the shaft," he said; "they will know we shall be working here, and that stones might fall." In less than an hour, thanks to the willing work of many hands, a platform was constructed across the mouth of the Logan shaft, and a tripod of strong poles fixed in its place. The police kept the crowd, by this time very many thousands strong, back in a wide circle round the shaft, none being allowed inside save those who had near relatives in the Vaughan. These were for the most part women, who had rushed wildly up without bonnets or shawls--just as they stood when the report reached them that there were yet some survivors of the explosion. At full speed they had hurried along the road--some pale and still despairing, refusing to allow hope to rise again, but unable to stay away from the fatal pit; others crying as they ran; some even laughing in hysterical excitement. Most excited, because most hopeful, were those whose husbands had stalls in the old workings, for it had from the first been believed that while all in the main workings were probably killed at once by the first explosion, those in the old workings might have survived for days. Jane Haden walked steadily along the road, accompanied by Harry Shepherd, who had brought her the news, and by Nelly Hardy. "I will go," she said, "but it is of no use; they are both gone, and I shall never see them again." Then she had put on her bonnet and shawl, deliberately and slowly, and had started at her ordinary pace, protesting all along against its being supposed that she entertained the slightest hope; but when she neared the spot, her quivering lips and twitching fingers belied her words. Nelly remained outside the crowd, but Harry made a way for Jane Haden through the outside circle of spectators. A smaller circle, of some thirty yards in diameter, was kept round the shaft, and within this only those directing the operations were allowed to enter. Mr. Hardinge and one of the local managers took their places in the cage. The rope was held by twenty men, who at first stood at its full length from the shaft, and then advanced at a walk towards it, thus allowing the cage to descend steadily and easily, without jerks. As they came close to the shaft the signal rope was shaken; another step or two, slowly and carefully taken, and the rope was seen to sway slightly. The cage was at the bottom of the shaft. Three minutes' pause, the signal rope shook, and the men with the end of the rope, started again to walk from the shaft. As they increased their distance, the excitement in the great crowd grew; and when the cage showed above the surface, and it was seen that it contained three miners, a hoarse cheer arose. The men were assisted from the cage, and surrounded for a moment by those in authority; and one of the head men raised his hand for silence, and then shouted: "Mr. Brook and twenty others are saved!" An announcement which was received with another and even more hearty cheer. [Illustration: SAVED!] Passing on, the rescued men moved forward to where the women stood, anxiously gazing. Blackened as they were with coal-dust, they were recognizable, and with wild screams of joy three women burst from the rest and threw themselves in their arms. But only for a moment could they indulge in this burst of happiness, for the other women crowded round. "Who is alive? For God's sake tell us! who is alive?" Then one by one the names were told, each greeted with cries of joy, till the last name was spoken; and then came a burst of wailing and lamentation from those who had listened in vain for the names of those they loved. Jane Haden had not risen from the seat she had taken on a block of broken brickwork. "No, no!" she said to Harry; "I will not hope! I will not hope!" and while Harry moved closer to the group, to hear the names of the saved, she sat with her face buried in her hands. The very first names given were those of Jack Simpson and Bill Haden, and with a shout of joy he rushed back. The step told its tale, and Jane Haden looked up, rose as if with a hidden spring, and looked at him. "Both saved!" he exclaimed; and with a strange cry Jane Haden swayed, and fell insensible. An hour later, and the last survivor of those who were below in the Vaughan pit stood on the surface, the last cage load being Mr. Brook, Jack Simpson, and Mr. Hardinge. By this time the mourners had left the scene, and there was nothing to check the delight felt at the recovery from the tomb, as it was considered, of so many of those deemed lost. When Mr. Brook--who was a popular employer, and whose popularity was now increased by his having, although involuntarily, shared the dangers of his men--stepped from the cage, the enthusiasm was tremendous. The crowd broke the cordon of police and rushed forward, cheering loudly. Mr. Hardinge, after a minute or two, held up his hand for silence, and helped Mr. Brook on to a heap of stones. Although Mr. Brook, as well as the rest, had already recovered much, thanks to the basket of food thrown down to them, and to the supply of weak brandy and water, and of soup, which those who had first descended had carried with them, he was yet so weakened by his long fast that he was unable to speak. He could only wave his hand in token of his thanks, and sobs of emotion choked his words. Mr. Hardinge, however, who had, during the hour below, learned all that had taken place, and had spoken for some time apart with Mr. Brook, now stood up beside him. "My friends," he said, in a loud clear voice, which was heard over the whole crowd, "Mr. Brook is too much shaken by what he has gone through to speak, but he desires me to thank you most heartily in his name for your kind greeting. He wishes to say that, under God, his life, and the lives of those with him, have been saved by the skill, courage, and science of his under-viewer, Jack Simpson. Mr. Brook has consulted me on the subject, and I thoroughly agree with what he intends to do, and can certify to Jack Simpson's ability, young as he is, to fill any post to which he may be appointed. In a short time I hope that the Vaughan pit will be pumped out and at work again, and when it is, Mr. Jack Simpson will be its manager!" The story of the escape from death had already been told briefly by the miners as they came to the surface, and had passed from mouth to mouth among the crowd, and Mr. Hardinge's announcement was greeted with a storm of enthusiasm. Jack was seized by a score of sturdy pitmen, and would have been carried in triumph, were it not that the startling announcement, coming after such a long and intense strain, proved too much for him, and he fainted in the arms of his admirers. CHAPTER XXVIII. CHANGES. Beyond the body of the crowd, outside the ring kept by the police, stood Nelly Hardy, watching, without a vestige of colour in her face, for the news from below. She had given a gasping sigh of relief as the names, passed from mouth to mouth by the crowd, met her ear, and had leaned for support against the wall behind her. So great was her faith in Jack's resources and in Jack's destiny that she had all along hoped, and the assertion that those who had first gone down to rescue the pitmen must have fallen victims to the second explosion had fallen dead upon her ears. The school had been closed from the date of the accident, and had it not been so, she felt that she could not have performed her duties. Hour after hour she had sat in her cottage alone--for her mother had died a year before--except when Mrs. Dodgson, who had long suspected her secret, came to sit awhile with her, or Harry brought the latest news. During this time she had not shed a tear, and, save for her white face and hard unnatural voice, none could have told how she suffered. Harry had brought her the news of the smoke being seen from the shaft of the Logan pit before he carried it to Mrs. Haden, and she had at once thrown on her bonnet and jacket and joined them as they started from the village. When she reached the pit she had not attempted to approach, but had taken her place at a distance. Several of her pupils, with whom she was a great favourite, had come up to speak to her, but her hoarse, "Not now, dear; please go away," had sufficed to send them off. But deeply agitated as she was, she was hopeful; and deep as was her joy at the news of Jack's safety she was hardly surprised. Dropping her veil to hide the tears of joy which streamed down her cheeks, she turned to go home; but she was more shaken than she had thought, and she had to grasp at the wall for support. So she waited until the last of the miners arrived at the surface, and heard the speech of the government inspector. Then when she heard Jack's elevation announced, the news shook her even more than that of his safety had done, and she fainted. When she recovered the crowd was gone, and Harry only stood beside her. He had felt that she would rather stand and watch alone, and had avoided going near her, but when Jack was driven off he had hastened to her side. He knew how she would object to her emotion becoming known, and had contented himself with lifting her veil, untying her bonnet strings, putting her in a sitting attitude against the wall, and waiting patiently till she came round. "Are you better now?" he inquired anxiously when she opened her eyes. "Yes, I am well now," she said, glancing hastily round to see if others beside himself had noticed her situation; "I am quite well." "Don't try to get up; sit still a few minutes longer," he said. "Don't try to talk." "He has got his rise at last," she said smiling faintly and looking up; "he has gone right away from us at a bound." "I am glad," Harry said simply. "He has earned it. He is a grand, a glorious fellow, is Jack. Of course I shall never be to him now what I have been, but I know that he will be as true a friend as ever, though I may not see so much of him." "You are more unselfish than I, Harry; but as he was to rise, it was better that it should be at a bound far above me. Now I am better; let me go home." Jack Simpson's fainting fit had been but of short duration. His sturdy organization soon recovered from the shock which the fresh air and Mr. Hardinge's announcement had made upon a frame exhausted by privation, fatigue, and excitement. None the less was he astonished and indignant with himself at what he considered a girlish weakness. His thoughts were, however, speedily diverted from himself by a pitman telling him that Jane Haden was in a second faint close by. Mr. Brook's carriage had been sent for in readiness, immediately the possibility of his being found alive had appeared; and that gentleman insisted upon Mrs. Haden being lifted into it, and upon Jack taking his seat beside her to support her. He then followed, and, amidst the cheers of the crowd, started for Stokebridge. Mrs. Haden recovered before reaching the village; and leaving her and Jack at their home, with an intimation that the carriage would come at an early hour next morning to fetch the latter up to the hall, Mr. Brook drove off alone. That afternoon was a proud day for Bill Haden and his wife, but a trying one for Jack. Every one in the place who had the slightest knowledge of him called to shake his hand and congratulate him on his promotion, his friends of boyhood first among them. Harry was one of the earliest comers, and tears fell down the cheeks of both as they clasped hands in silent joy at their reunion. Not a word was spoken or needed. "Go round to Nelly," Jack said in an undertone as other visitors arrived; "tell her I will come in and see her at seven o'clock. Come again yourself before that, let us three meet together again." So quickly did the callers press in that the little room could not hold them; and Jack had to go to the front door, there to shake hands and say a word to all who wanted to see him. It was quite a levée, and it was only the fact that the gloom of a terrible calamity hung over Stokebridge that prevented the demonstration being noisy as well as enthusiastic. By six o'clock all his friends had seen him, and Jack sat down with Bill Haden and his wife. Then Jane Haden's feelings relieved themselves by a copious flood of tears; and Bill himself, though he reproached her for crying on such an occasion, did so in a husky voice. "Thou art going to leave us, Jack," Jane Haden said; "and though we shall miss thee sorely, thou mustn't go to think that Bill or me be sorry at the good fortune that be come upon you. Thou hast been a son, and a good son to us, and ha' never given so much as a day's trouble. I know'd as how you'd leave us sooner or later. There was sure to be a time when all the larning thou hast worked so hard to get would bring thee to fortune, but I didn't think 'twould come so soon." Bill Haden removed from his lips the pipe--which, in his endeavour to make up for loss of time, he had smoked without ceasing from the moment of his rescue--and grunted an acquiescence with his wife's speech. "My dear mother and dad," Jack said, "there must be no talk of parting between us. As yet, of course, it is too soon to form plans for the future; but be assured that there will be no parting. You took me when I was a helpless baby; but for you I should have been a workhouse child, and might now be coming out of my apprenticeship to a tinker or a tailor. I owe all I have, all I am, to you; and whatever fortune befall me you will still be dad and mother. For a short time I must go to the hall, as Mr. Brook has invited me; and we shall have much to arrange and talk over. Afterwards I suppose I shall have to go to the manager's house, but, of course, arrangements will have to be made as to Mr. Fletcher's widow and children; and when I go there, of course you will come too." "Thee'st a good un, lad," Bill Haden said, for Mrs. Haden's tears prevented her speech; "but I doubt what thou say'st can be; but we needn't talk that over now. But t' old 'ooman and I be none the less glad o' thy words, Jack; though the bit and sup that thou had'st here till you went into th' pit and began to pay your way ain't worth the speaking o'. Thou beats me a'together, Jack. When un see's a good pup un looks to his breed, and un finds it pure; but where thou get'st thy points from beats me a'together. Thy mother were a schoolmaster's daughter, but she had not the name o' being fond o' larning, and was a'ways weak and ailing; thy dad, my mate Jack Simpson, was as true a mate as ever man had; but he were in no ways uncommon. The old 'ooman and I ha' reared ye; but, arter all, pups don't follow their foster-mother, for the best bull pup ain't noways injured by having a half-bred un, or for the matter o' that one wi' no breed at all, as a foster-mother; besides the old 'ooman and me has no points at all, 'cept on my part, such as are bad uns; so it beats me fairly. It downright shakes un's faith in breeding." Here Harry's tap was heard at the door, and Jack, leaving Bill Haden to ponder over his egregious failure in proving true to blood, joined his friend outside. Scarce a word was spoken between the two young men as they walked across to Nelly Hardy's little cottage by the schoolhouse. The candles were already lighted, and Nelly rose as they entered. "My dear Nelly." "My dear Jack," she said, throwing her arms round his neck as a sister might have done, and kissing him, for the first time in her life; and crying, "My dear Jack, thank God you are restored alive to us." "Thank God indeed," Jack said reverently; "it has been almost a miracle, Nelly, and I am indeed thankful. We prayed nearly as hard as we worked, and God was with us; otherwise assuredly we had never passed through such danger uninjured. I thought many a time of you and Harry, and what you would be doing and thinking. "I never gave up hope, did I, Harry?" she said; "I thought that somehow such a useful life as yours would be spared." "Many other useful lives have been lost, Nelly," Jack said sadly; "but it was not my time." "And now," Nelly said changing her tone, "there are other things to talk of. Will you please take a chair, sir," and she dropped a curtsy. "Didn't I tell you, Jack," she said, laughing at the astonishment in Jack's face, "that when you congratulated me on getting my post here and called me Miss Hardy, that the time would come when I should say, Sir to you. It has come, Jack, sooner than we expected, but I knew it would come." Then changing her tone again, as they sat looking at the fire, she went on, "You know we are glad, Jack, Harry and I, more glad than we can say, that needs no telling between us, does it?" "None," Jack said. "We are one, we three, and no need to say we are glad at each other's success." "We have had happy days," Nelly said, "but they will never be quite the same again. We shall always be friends, Jack, always--true and dear friends, but we cannot be all in all to each other. I know, dear Jack," she said as she saw he was about to speak vehemently, "that you will be as much our friend in one way as ever, but you cannot be our companion. It is impossible, Jack. We have trod the same path together, but your path leaves ours here. We shall be within sound of each other's voices, we shall never lose sight of each other, but we are no longer together." "I have not thought it over yet," Jack said quietly. "It is all too new and too strange to me to see yet how things will work; but it is true, Nelly, and it is the one drawback to my good fortune, that there must be some little change between us. But in the friendship which began when you stood by me at the old shaft and helped me to save Harry, there will be no change. I have risen as I always had determined to rise; I have worked for this from the day when Mr. Pastor, my artist friend, told me it was possible I might reach it, but I never dreamed it would come so soon; and I have always hoped and thought that I should keep you both with me. How things will turn out we do not know, but, dear friends," and he held out a hand to each, "believe me, that I shall always be as I am now, and that I shall care little for my good fortune unless I can retain you both as my dearest friends." CHAPTER XXIX. THE NEW MANAGER. The next day preparations for pumping out the Vaughan commenced; but it took weeks to get rid of the water which had flowed in in five minutes. Then the work of clearing the mine and bringing up the bodies commenced. This was a sad business. A number of coffins, equal to that of the men known to be below at the time of the explosion, were in readiness in a shed near the pit mouth. These were sent down, and the bodies as they were found were placed in them to be carried above. In scarcely any instances could the dead be identified by the relatives, six weeks in the water having changed them beyond all recognition; only by the clothes could a clue be obtained. Then the funerals began. A great grave a hundred feet long by twelve wide had been dug in the churchyard, and in this the coffins were laid two deep. Some days ten, some fifteen, some twenty bodies were laid there, and at each funeral the whole village attended. Who could know whether those dearest to them were not among the shapeless forms each day consigned to their last resting-place? At last the tale was complete; the last of the victims of the great explosion at the Vaughan was laid to rest, the blinds were drawn up, and save that the whole of the people seemed to be in mourning, Stokebridge assumed its usual aspect. Upon the day before the renewal of regular work, Jack Simpson, accompanied by Mr. Brook appeared upon the ground, and signified that none were to descend until he had spoken to them. He had already won their respect by his indefatigable attention to the work of clearing the mine, and by the care he had evinced for the recovery of the bodies. Few, however, of the hands had spoken to him since his accession to his new dignity; now they had time to observe him, and all wondered at the change which had been wrought in his appearance. Clothes do not make a man, but they greatly alter his appearance, and there was not one but felt that Jack looked every inch a gentleman. When he began to speak their wonder increased. Except to Mr. Dodgson, Harry, Nelly Hardy, and some of his young comrades, Jack had always spoken in the dialect of the place, and the surprise of the colliers when he spoke in perfect English without a trace of accent or dialect was great indeed. Standing up in the gig in which he had driven up with Mr. Brook he spoke in a loud, clear voice heard easily throughout the yard. "My friends," he said, "my position here is a new and difficult one, so difficult that did I not feel sure that you would help me to make it as easy as possible I should shrink from undertaking it. I am a very young man. I have grown up among you, and of you, and now in a strange way, due in a great measure to the kindness of your employers, and in a small degree to my own exertions to improve myself, I have come to be put over you. Now it is only by your helping me that I can maintain this position here. You will find in me a true friend. I know your difficulties and your wants, and I will do all in my power to render your lives comfortable. Those among you who were my friends from boyhood can believe this, the rest of you will find it to be so. Any of you who are in trouble or in difficulty will, if you come to me, obtain advice and assistance. But while I will try to be your friend, and will do all in my power for your welfare, it is absolutely necessary that you should treat me with the respect due to Mr. Brook's manager. Without proper discipline proper work is impossible. A captain must be captain of his own ship though many of his men know the work as well as he does. And I am glad to be able to tell you that Mr. Brook has given me full power to make such regulations and to carry out such improvements as may be conducive to your comfort and welfare. He wants, and I want, the Vaughan to be a model mine and Stokebridge a model village, and we will do all in our power to carry out our wishes. We hope that no dispute will ever again arise here on the question of wages. There was one occasion when the miners of the Vaughan were led away by strangers and paid dearly for it. We hope that such a thing will never occur again. Mr. Brook expects a fair return, and no more than a fair return, for the capital he has sunk in the mine. When times are good you will share his prosperity, when times are bad you, like he, must submit to sacrifices. If disputes arise elsewhere, they need not affect us here, for you may be sure that your wages will never be below those paid elsewhere. And now I have said my say. Let us conclude by trusting that we shall be as warm friends as ever although our relations towards each other are necessarily changed." Three rousing cheers greeted the conclusion of Jack's speech, after which he drove off with Mr. Brook. As the men gathered round the top of the shaft, an old miner exclaimed: "Dang it all, I ha' it now. I was wondering all the time he was speaking where I had heard his voice before. I know now. As sure as I'm a living man it was Jack Simpson as beat us back from that there engine-house when we were going to stop the pumps in the strike." Now that the clue was given a dozen others of those who had been present agreed with the speaker. The event was now an old one, and all bitterness had passed. Had it been known at the time, or within a few months afterwards, Jack's life would probably have paid the penalty, but now the predominant feeling was one of admiration. Those who had, during the last few weeks, wearily watched the pumping out of the Vaughan, felt how fatal would have been the delay had it occurred when the strike ended and they were penniless and without resources, and no feeling of ill-will remained. "He be a game 'un; to think o' that boy standing alone agin' us a', and not a soul as much as suspected it! Did'st know o't, Bill Haden?" "Noa," Bill said, "never so much as dream't o't, but now I thinks it over, it be loikely enoo'. I often thought what wonderful luck it were as he gave me that 'ere bottle o' old Tom, and made me as drunk as a loord joost at th' roight time, and I ha' thought it were curious too, seeing as never before or since has he giv'd me a bottle o' liquor, but now it all comes natural enough. Well, to be sure, and to think that lad should ha' done all that by hisself, and ne'er a soul the wiser! You may be sure the gaffer didn't know no more than we, or he'd a done summat for the lad at the time. He offered rewards, too, for the finding out who 't were as had done it, and to think 'twas my Jack! Well, well, he be a good plucked un too, they didn't ca' him Bull-dog for nowt, for it would ha' gone hard wi' him had 't been found out. I'm main proud o' that lad." And so the discovery that Jack had so wished to avoid, when it was at last made, added much to the respect with which he was held in the Vaughan pit. If when a boy he would dare to carry out such a scheme as this, it was clear that as a man he was not to be trifled with. The reputation which he had gained by his courage in descending into the mine, in his battle with Tom Walker, and by the clear-headedness and quickness of decision which had saved the lives of the survivors of the explosion, was immensely increased; and any who had before felt sore at the thought of so young a hand being placed above them in command of the pit, felt that in all that constitutes a man, in energy, courage, and ability, Jack Simpson was worthy the post of manager of the Vaughan mine. Bill Haden was astonished upon his return home that night to find that his wife had all along known that it was Jack who had defended the Vaughan, and was inclined to feel greatly aggrieved at having been kept in the dark. "Did ye think as I wasn't to be trusted not to split on my own lad?" he exclaimed indignantly. "We knew well enough that thou mightest be trusted when thou wer't sober, Bill," his wife said gently; "but as about four nights a week at that time thou wast drunk, and might ha' blabbed it out, and had known nowt in the morning o' what thou'dst said, Jack and I were of a mind that less said soonest mended." "May be you were right," Bill Haden said after a pause; "a man has got a loose tongue when he's in drink, and I should never ha' forgiven myself had I harmed t' lad." CHAPTER XXX. RISEN. It was not until the pit was cleared of water and about to go to work again, that the question of Bill Haden and his wife removing from their cottage came forward for decision. Jack had been staying with Mr. Brook, who had ordered that the house in which the late manager had lived should be put in good order and furnished from top to bottom, and had arranged for his widow and children to remove at once to friends living at a distance. Feeling as he did that he owed his life to the young man, he was eager to do everything in his power to promote his comfort and prosperity, and as he was, apart from the colliery, a wealthy man and a bachelor, he did not care to what expense he went. The house, "the great house on the hill," as Jack had described it when speaking to his artist friend Pastor years before, was a far larger and more important building than the houses of managers of mines in general. It had, indeed, been originally the residence of a family owning a good deal of land in the neighbourhood, but they, when coal was discovered and work began, sold this property and went to live in London, and as none cared to take a house so close to the coal-pits and village of Stokebridge, it was sold for a nominal sum to the owner of the Vaughan, and was by him used as a residence for his manager. Now, with the garden nicely laid out, redecorated and repaired outside and in, and handsomely furnished, it resumed its former appearance of a gentleman's country seat. Mr. Brook begged Jack as a favour not to go near the house until the place was put in order, and although the young man heard that a Birmingham contractor had taken it in hand, and that a large number of men were at work there, he had no idea of the extensive changes which were taking place. A few days before work began again at the Vaughan Jack went down as usual to the Hadens', for he had looked in every day to say a few words to them on his way back from the pit-mouth. "Now, dad," he said, "we must not put the matter off any longer. I am to go into the manager's house in a fortnight's time. I hear they have been painting and cleaning it up, and Mr. Brook tells me he has put new furniture in, and that I shall only have to go in and hang up my hat. Now I want for you to arrange to come up on the same day." "We ha' been talking the matter over in every mortal way, the old woman and me, Jack, and I'll tell 'ee what we've aboot concluded. On one side thou really wan't t' have us oop wi' 'ee." "Yes, indeed, dad," Jack said earnestly. "I know thou dost, lad; me and Jane both feels that. Well that's an argiment that way. Then there's the argiment that naturally thou would'st not like the man who hast brought thee oop to be working in the pit o' which thou wast manager. That's two reasons that way; on the other side there be two, and the old 'ooman and me think they are stronger than t'others. First, we should be out o' place at the house oop there. Thou wilt be getting to know all kinds o' people, and whatever thou may'st say, Jack, your mother and me would be oot o' place. That's one argiment. The next argiment is that we shouldn't like it, Jack, we should feel we were out o' place and that our ways were out o' place; and we should be joost miserable. Instead o' doing us a kindness you'd joost make our lives a burden, and I know 'ee don't want to do that. We's getting on in loife and be too old to change our ways, and nothing thou could'st say could persuade us to live a'ways dressed up in our Sunday clothes in your house." "Well, dad, I might put you both in a comfortable cottage, without work to do." "What should I do wi'out my work, Jack? noa, lad, I must work as long as I can, or I should die o' pure idleness. But I needn't work at a stall. I'm fifty now, and although I ha' got another fifteen years' work in me, I hope, my bones bean't as liss as they was. Thou might give me the job as underground viewer. I can put in a prop or see to the firing o' a shot wi' any man. Oi've told my mates you want to have me and the old woman oop at th' house, and they'll know that if I stop underground it be o' my own choice. I know, lad, it wouldn't be roight for me to be a getting droonk at the "Chequers" and thou manager; but I ha' told t' old 'ooman that I will swear off liquor altogether." "No, no, dad!" Jack said, affected at this proof of Bill Haden's desire to do what he could towards maintaining his dignity. "I wouldn't think o't. If you and mother feel that you'd be more happy and comfortable here--and maybe you are right, I didn't think over the matter from thy side as well as my own, as I ought to have done--of course you shall stay here; and, of course, you shall have a berth as under-viewer. As for swearing off drink altogether, I wouldn't ask it of you, though I do wish you could resolve never to drink too much again. You ha' been used to go to the "Chequers" every night for nigh forty years, and you couldn't give it up now. You would pine away without somewhere to go to. However, this must be understood, whenever you like to come up to me I shall be glad to see you, and I shall expect you on Sundays to dinner if on no other day; and whenever the time shall come when you feel, dad, that you'd rather give up work, there will be a cottage for you and mother somewhere handy to me, and enough to live comfortably and free from care." "That's a bargain, lad, and I'm roight glad it be off my mind, for I ha' been bothering over't ever since thee spoke to me last." The same evening Jack had a long talk with Harry. His friend, although healthy, was by no means physically strong, and found the work of a miner almost beyond him. He had never taken to the life as Jack had done, and his friend knew that for the last year or two he had been turning his thoughts in other directions, and that of all things he would like to be a schoolmaster. He had for years read and studied a good deal, and Mr. Dodgson said that with a year in a training college he would be able to pass. He had often talked the matter over with Jack, and the latter told him now that he had entered his name in St. Mark's College, Chelsea, had paid his fees six months in advance, his savings amply sufficing for this without drawing upon his salary, and that he was to present himself there in a week's time. The announcement took away Harry's breath, but as soon as he recovered himself he accepted Jack's offer as frankly as it was made. It had always been natural for Jack to lend him a hand, and it seemed to him, as to Jack, natural that it should be so now. "Have you told Nelly?" "No, I left it for you to tell, Harry. I know, of course, one reason why you want to be a schoolmaster, and she will know it too. She is a strange girl, is Nelly; I never did quite understand her, and I never shall; why on earth she should refuse you I can't make out. She's had lots o' other offers these last four years, but it's all the same. There's no one she cares for, why shouldn't she take you?" "I can wait," Harry said quietly, "there's plenty of time; perhaps some day I shall win her, and I think--yes, I think now--that I shall." "Well," Jack said cheerfully, "as you say there's plenty of time; I've always said thirty was the right age to marry, and you want eight years of that, and Nelly won't get old faster than you do, so if she don't fall in love with any one else it must come right; she has stood out for nearly four years, and though I don't pretend to know anything of women, I should think no woman could go on saying no for twelve years." Harry, although not given to loud mirth, laughed heartily at Jack's views over love-making, and the two then walked across to Nelly Hardy's cottage. Jack told her what Bill Haden and his wife had decided, and she approved their determination. Then Harry said what Jack had arranged for him. Nelly shook her head as if in answer to her own thoughts while Harry was speaking, but when he ceased she congratulated him warmly. "You were never fit for pit-work, Harry, and a schoolmaster's life will suit you well. It is curious that Jack's two friends should both have taken to the same life." Jack's surprise was unbounded when, a month after the reopening of the Vaughan, Mr. Brook took him over to his new abode. His bewilderment at the size and completeness of the house and its fittings was even greater than his pleasure. "But what am I to do alone in this great place, Mr. Brook?" he asked; "I shall be lost here. I am indeed deeply grateful to you, but it is much too big for me altogether." "It is no bigger now than it has always been," Mr. Brook said, "and you will never be lost as long as you have your study there," and he pointed to a room snugly fitted up as a library and study. "You will be no more lonely than I or other men without wives and families; besides you know these may come some day." "Ah! but that will be many years on," Jack said; "I always made up my mind not to marry till I was thirty, because a wife prevents you making your way." "Yes; but now that you have made your way so far, Jack, a wife will aid rather than hinder you. But it will be time to think of that in another three or four years. You will not find it so dull as you imagine, Jack. There is your work, which will occupy the greater part of your day. There is your study for the evening. You will speedily know all the people worth knowing round here; I have already introduced you to a good many, and they will be sure to call as soon as you are settled here. In the stable, my dear boy, you will find a couple of horses, and a saddle, and a dog-cart, so that you will be able to take exercise and call about. I shall keep the horses. I consider them necessary for my manager. My men will keep the garden in order, and I think that you will find that your salary of £350 a year to begin with ample for your other expenses." Jack was completely overpowered by the kindness of his employer, but the latter would not hear of thanks. "Why, man, I owe you my life," he said; "what are these little things in comparison?" Jack found fewer difficulties than he had anticipated in his new position. His speech at the opening of the mine added to the favour with which he was held for his conduct at the time of the explosion, and further heightened the respect due to him for his defence of the Vaughan. As he went through the mine he had ever a cheery "Good morning, Bob," "Good morning, Jack," for his old comrades, and the word "sir" was now universally added to the answered "Good morning," a concession not always made by colliers to their employers. The miners soon felt the advantages of the new manager's energy, backed as he was in every respect by the owner. The work as laid down by the government inspector was carried out, and Mr. Brook having bought up for a small sum the disused Logan mine, in which several of the lower seams of coal were still unworked, the opening between the pits was made permanent, and the Logan shaft became the upcast to the Vaughan, thus greatly simplifying the work of ventilation, lessening the danger of explosion, and giving a means of escape for the miners should such a catastrophe recur in spite of all precautions. As nearly half the old workers at the pit had perished in the explosion, an equal number of new hands had to be taken on. Jack, sharing the anxiety of the vicar and Mr. Dodgson, that all the good work should not be checked by the ingress of a fresh population, directed that all vacancies should be filled up by such colliers of good character as resided at Stokebridge, working for other pits in the neighbourhood. As the Vaughan promised to be the most comfortable and well-worked pit in the country, these were only too glad to change service, and more names were given in than vacancies could be found for. As all the inhabitants of Stokebridge had participated in the benefits of the night schools and classes, and in the improvements which had taken place, the advance of the village suffered no serious check from the catastrophe at the Vaughan. CHAPTER XXXI. CONCLUSION. Three years more of progress and Stokebridge had become the model village of the Black Country. The chief employer of labour, his manager, the vicar, and schoolmaster all worked together for this end. The library had been a great success, and it was rare, indeed, for a drunken man to be seen in the streets even of a Saturday night. Many of the public-houses had closed their doors altogether; and in addition to the library a large and comfortable club-house had been built. The men of an evening could smoke their pipes, play at bagatelle, chess, draughts, or cards, and take such beer as they required, any man getting drunk or even noisy to be expelled the club. This, however, was a rule never requiring to be called into force. The building was conducted on the principle of a regimental canteen. The beer was good and cheap but not strong, no spirits were sold, but excellent tea, coffee, and chocolate could be had at the lowest prices. The building was closed during the day, but beer was sent out both for dinners and suppers to those who required it. There was a comfortable room where women could sew, knit, and talk as they pleased, or they could, if they liked, sit in the general room with their husbands. Entertainments and lectures were of frequent occurrence, and the establishment, supplemented by the library and wash-house, did wonders for Stokebridge. The promise made by Mr. Brook at the fête had been carried out. A choir-master came over twice a week from Birmingham, and the young people entered into the scheme with such zest that the choir had carried away the prize three years in succession at Birmingham. The night-school was now carried on on a larger scale than ever, and the school for cooking and sewing was so well attended that Mrs. Dodgson had now a second assistant. To encourage the children and young people an annual show was held at which many prizes were given for gardening, needlework, dressmaking, carpentering, and a variety of other subjects. It was seldom, indeed, that an untidy dress was to be seen, still more uncommon that a foul word was heard in the streets of Stokebridge. Nothing could make the rows of cottages picturesque as are those of a rural village; but from tubs, placed in front, creepers and roses climbed over the houses, while the gardens behind were gay with flowers. No young woman needed to remain single in Stokebridge longer than she chose, for so noteworthy were they for their housewifely qualities that the young pitmen of the villages round thought themselves fortunate indeed if they could get a wife from Stokebridge. Bill Cummings, Fred Wood, and several others of Jack's boy friends, were viewers or under-managers of the Vaughan, and many had left to take similar situations elsewhere. Jack Simpson was popular with all classes. With the upper class his simple straightforwardness, his cheerfulness and good temper, made him a great favourite, although they found it hard to understand how so quiet and unassuming a young fellow could be the hero of the two rescues at the Vaughan, for, now when the fact was known, Jack no longer made a secret of his share in the attack by the rioters on the engine-house. Among the pitmen his popularity was unbounded. Of an evening he would sometimes come down to the club-room and chat as unrestrainedly and intimately as of old with the friends of his boyhood, and he never lost an opportunity of pushing their fortunes. Once a week he spent the evening with Bill Haden and his wife, who always came up and passed Sunday with him when he was at home. At this time all ceremony was dispensed with, the servants were sent out of the room, and when the pitman and his wife became accustomed to their surroundings they were far more at their ease than they had at first thought possible. On the evenings when he went down to his mother he always dropped in for an hour's talk with his friend Nelly. There was no shadow of change in their relations. Nelly was his friend firm and fast, to whom he told all his thoughts and plans. Harry was assistant master in a school at Birmingham, and was, as he told Jack, still waiting patiently. Jack was now often over at Birmingham, and one night he said to Nelly: "Nelly, I promised you long ago that I would tell you if I ever fell in love." "And you have come to tell me now?" she asked quietly. "Yes," he said, "if it can be called falling in love; for it has been so gradual that I don't know how it began. Perhaps three years ago, when she refused another man. I was glad of it, and of course asked myself why I was glad. There came no answer but one--I wanted her myself." "I suppose it is Alice Merton?" Nelly said as quietly as before. "Of course," Jack said; "it could be no one else. I suppose I like her because she is the reverse of myself. She is gentle but lively and full of fun, she is made to be the light of a hard working man's home. I am not at all gentle, and I have very little idea of fun. Alice is made to lean on some one. I suppose I am meant to be leant upon. I suppose it is always the case that opposite natures are attracted towards one another, the one forms the complement of the other." Nelly sat thinking. This then was the reason why she had never attracted Jack. Both their natures were strong and firm. Both had full control over themselves, although both of a passionate nature; both had the capability of making great sacrifices, even of life if necessary; both had ambition and a steady power of work. No wonder Jack had thought of her as a comrade rather than as a possible wife; while Harry, gentler and easily led, patient rather than firm, leaned upon her strong nature. "I think, dear Jack," she said, "that Miss Merton is the very woman to make you happy. You have known each other for twelve years, and can make no mistake. I need not say how truly and sincerely I wish you every happiness." There was a quiver in her voice as she spoke, but her face was as firm and steadfast as ever; and Jack Simpson, as he walked homewards, did not dream that Nelly Hardy was weeping as if her heart would break, over this final downfall of her life's dream. It was not that she had for the last seven years ever thought that Jack would ask her to be his wife, but she would have been content to go on to the end of her life as his first and dearest friend. Then she said at last, "That's done with. Jack and I will always be great friends, but not as we have been. Perhaps it is as well. Better now than ten years on." Then her thoughts went to Harry, to whom, indeed, during the last few years they had gone oftener than she would have admitted to herself. "He is very faithful and kind and good, and I suppose one of these days I shall have to give in. He will not expect much, but he deserves all I could give him." In after years, however, Nelly Shepherd learned that she could give her husband very true and earnest love; and the headmaster and mistress of the largest school at Wolverhampton are regarded by all who know them, and by none less than by Jack Simpson and his wife, as a perfectly happy couple. It is ten years since Jack married Alice Merton, who had loved him for years before he asked her to be his wife. Jack is now part proprietor of the Vaughan pit, and is still its real manager, although he has a nominal manager under him. He cannot, however, be always on the spot, as he lives near Birmingham, and is one of the greatest authorities on mining, and the first consulting engineer, in the Black Country. At Mr. Brook's death he will be sole proprietor of the Vaughan, that gentleman having at Jack's marriage settled its reversion upon his wife. Dinner is over, and he is sitting in the garden, surrounded by those he most cares for in the world. It is the 1st of June, a day upon which a small party always assembles at his house. By his side is his wife, and next to her are Harry Shepherd and Nelly. Between the ladies a warm friendship has sprung up of late years, while that between the three friends has never diminished in the slightest. On Jack's other hand sits an artist, bearing one of the most honoured names in England, whose health Jack always proposes at this dinner as "the founder of his fortune." Next to the artist sits Mr. Brook, and beyond him Mrs. Simpson's father, a permanent resident in the house now, but some years back a professor of mathematics in Birmingham. Playing in the garden are six children, two of whom call the young Simpsons cousins, although there is no blood relationship between them; and walking with them are an old couple, who live in the pretty cottage just opposite to the entrance of the grounds, and whom Jack Simpson still affectionately calls "dad" and "mother." THE END. Transcriber's Note Punctuation has been standardized. Inconsistent hyphenation has not been changed. This book includes a lot of dialect, which often looks misspelled but was intentionally written that way. Therefore, some irregularities that might be errors have not been corrected in order to preserve author intent. On page 83, the name Ratcliffe was misspelled in the original text. This has been corrected. In the paragraph beginning "There was a movement in the crowd," the next sentence in the original text is, '"The soldiers be coming" run from mouth to mouth.' As this is likely an error in the text, "run" has been changed to "ran." In the formula given by Jack, the original text has an extraneous 1. This seems to be an error by the author and has been removed. Italics in the original text are indicated by _ in the text version, with one exception: the above-mentioned formula was originally in italics, but the _ characters have been removed for clarity. 
56528	----	GERMINAL BY ÉMILE ZOLA Translated and Introduced By Havelock Ellis Translated and Introduced by Havelock Ellis J. M. DENT & SONS LTD. Aldine House--Bedford St.--London 1885 Introduction By Havelock Ellis 'GERMINAL' was published in 1885, after occupying Zola during the previous year. In accordance with his usual custom--but to a greater extent than with any other of his books except _La Débâcle_--he accumulated material beforehand. For six months he travelled about the coal-mining district in northern France and Belgium, especially the Borinage around Mons, note-book in hand. 'He was inquisitive, was that gentleman', miner told Sherard who visited the neighbourhood at a later period and found that the miners in every village knew _Germinal_. That was a tribute of admiration the book deserved, but it was never one of Zola's most popular novels; it was neither amusing enough nor outrageous enough to attract the multitude. Yet _Germinal_ occupies a place among Zola's works which is constantly becoming more assured, so that to some critics it even begins to seem the only book of his that in the end may survive. In his own time, as we know, the accredited critics of the day could find no condemnation severe enough for Zola. Brunetière attacked him perpetually with a fury that seemed inexhaustible; Schérer could not even bear to hear his name mentioned; Anatole France, though he lived to relent, thought it would have been better if he had never been born. Even at that time, however, there were critics who inclined to view Germinal more favourably. Thus Faguet, who was the recognized academic critic of the end of the last century, while he held that posterity would be unable to understand how Zola could ever have been popular, yet recognized him as in Germinal the heroic representative of democracy, incomparable in his power of describing crowds, and he realized how marvellous is the conclusion of this book. To-day, when critics view Zola In the main with indifference rather than with horror, although he still retains his popular favour, the distinction of _Germinal_ is yet more clearly recognized. Seillière, while regarding the capitalistic conditions presented as now of an ancient and almost extinct type, yet sees _Germinal_ standing out as 'the poem of social mysticism', while André Gide, a completely modern critic who has left a deep mark on the present generation, observes somewhere that it may nowadays cause surprise that he should refer with admiration to _Germinal_, but it is a masterly book that fills him with astonishment; he can hardly believe that it was written in French and still less that it should have been written in any other language; it seems that it should have been created in some international tongue. The high place thus claimed for _Germinal_ will hardly seem exaggerated. The book was produced when Zola had at length achieved the full mastery of his art and before his hand had, as in his latest novels, begun to lose its firm grasp. The subject lent itself, moreover, to his special aptitude for presenting in vivid outline great human groups, and to his special sympathy with the collective emotions and social aspirations of such groups. We do not, as so often in Zola's work, become painfully conscious that he is seeking to reproduce aspects of life with which he is imperfectly acquainted, or fitting them into scientific formulas which he has imperfectly understood. He shows a masterly grip of each separate group, and each represents some essential element of the whole; they are harmoniously balanced, and their mutual action and reaction leads on inevitably to the splendid tragic dose, with yet its great promise for the future. I will not here discuss Zola's literary art (I have done so in my book of _Affirmations_); it is enough to say that, though he was not a great master of style, Zola never again wrote so finely as here. A word may be added to explain how this translation fell to the lot of one whose work has been in other fields. In 1893 the late A. Texeira de Mattos was arranging for private issue a series of complete versions of some of Zola's chief novels and offered to assign _Germinal_ to me. My time was taken up with preliminary but as yet unfruitful preparation for what I regarded as my own special task in life, and I felt that I must not neglect the opportunity of spending my spare time in making a modest addition to my income. My wife readily fell into the project and agreed, on the understanding that we shared the proceeds, to act as my amanuensis. So, in the little Cornish cottage over the sea we then occupied, the evenings of the early months of 1894 were spent over _Germinal_, I translating aloud, and she with swift efficient untiring pen following, now and then bettering my English dialogue with her pungent wit. In this way I was able to gain a more minute insight into the details of Zola's work, and a more impressive vision of the massive structure he here raised, than can easily be acquired by the mere reader. That joint task has remained an abidingly pleasant memory. It is, moreover, a satisfaction to me to know that I have been responsible, however inadequately, for the only complete English version of this wonderful book, 'a great fresco,' as Zola himself called it, a great prose epic, as it has seemed to some, worthy to compare with the great verse epics of old. PART ONE CHAPTER I Over the open plain, beneath a starless sky as dark and thick as ink, a man walked alone along the highway from Marchiennes to Montsou, a straight paved road ten kilometres in length, intersecting the beetroot fields. He could not even see the black soil before him, and only felt the immense flat horizon by the gusts of March wind, squalls as strong as on the sea, and frozen from sweeping leagues of marsh and naked earth. No tree could be seen against the sky, and the road unrolled as straight as a pier in the midst of the blinding spray of darkness. The man had set out from Marchiennes about two o'clock. He walked with long strides, shivering beneath his worn cotton jacket and corduroy breeches. A small parcel tied in a check handkerchief troubled him much, and he pressed it against his side, sometimes with one elbow, sometimes with the other, so that he could slip to the bottom of his pockets both the benumbed hands that bled beneath the lashes of the wind. A single idea occupied his head--the empty head of a workman without work and without lodging--the hope that the cold would be less keen after sunrise. For an hour he went on thus, when on the left, two kilometres from Montsou, he saw red flames, three fires burning in the open air and apparently suspended. At first he hesitated, half afraid. Then he could not resist the painful need to warm his hands for a moment. The steep road led downwards, and everything disappeared. The man saw on his right a paling, a wall of coarse planks shutting in a line of rails, while a grassy slope rose on the left surmounted by confused gables, a vision of a village with low uniform roofs. He went on some two hundred paces. Suddenly, at a bend in the road, the fires reappeared close to him, though he could not understand how they burnt so high in the dead sky, like smoky moons. But on the level soil another sight had struck him. It was a heavy mass, a low pile of buildings from which rose the silhouette of a factory chimney; occasional gleams appeared from dirty windows, five or six melancholy lanterns were hung outside to frames of blackened wood, which vaguely outlined the profiles of gigantic stages; and from this fantastic apparition, drowned in night and smoke, a single voice arose, the thick, long breathing of a steam escapement that could not be seen. Then the man recognized a pit. His despair returned. What was the good? There would be no work. Instead of turning towards the buildings he decided at last to ascend the pit bank, on which burnt in iron baskets the three coal fires which gave light and warmth for work. The labourers in the cutting must have been working late; they were still throwing out the useless rubbish. Now he heard the landers push the wagons on the stages. He could distinguish living shadows tipping over the trams or tubs near each fire. "Good day," he said, approaching one of the baskets. Turning his back to the fire, the carman stood upright. He was an old man, dressed in knitted violet wool with a rabbit-skin cap on his head; while his horse, a great yellow horse, waited with the immobility of stone while they emptied the six trains he drew. The workman employed at the tipping-cradle, a red-haired lean fellow, did not hurry himself; he pressed on the lever with a sleepy hand. And above, the wind grew stronger--an icy north wind--and its great, regular breaths passed by like the strokes of a scythe. "Good day," replied the old man. There was silence. The man, who felt that he was being looked at suspiciously, at once told his name. "I am called Étienne Lantier. I am an engine-man. Any work here?" The flames lit him up. He might be about twenty-one years of age, a very dark, handsome man, who looked strong in spite of his thin limbs. The carman, thus reassured, shook his head. "Work for an engine-man? No, no! There were two came yesterday. There's nothing." A gust cut short their speech. Then Étienne asked, pointing to the sombre pile of buildings at the foot of the platform: "A pit, isn't it?" The old man this time could not reply: he was strangled by a violent cough. At last he expectorated, and his expectoration left a black patch on the purple soil. "Yes, a pit. The Voreux. There! The settlement is quite near." In his turn, and with extended arm, he pointed out in the night the village of which the young man had vaguely seen the roofs. But the six trams were empty, and he followed them without cracking his whip, his legs stiffened by rheumatism; while the great yellow horse went on of itself, pulling heavily between the rails beneath a new gust which bristled its coat. The Voreux was now emerging from the gloom. Étienne, who forgot himself before the stove, warming his poor bleeding hands, looked round and could see each part of the pit: the shed tarred with siftings, the pit-frame, the vast chamber of the winding machine, the square turret of the exhaustion pump. This pit, piled up in the bottom of a hollow, with its squat brick buildings, raising its chimney like a threatening horn, seemed to him to have the evil air of a gluttonous beast crouching there to devour the earth. While examining it, he thought of himself, of his vagabond existence these eight days he had been seeking work. He saw himself again at his workshop at the railway, delivering a blow at his foreman, driven from Lille, driven from everywhere. On Saturday he had arrived at Marchiennes, where they said that work was to be had at the Forges, and there was nothing, neither at the Forges nor at Sonneville's. He had been obliged to pass the Sunday hidden beneath the wood of a cartwright's yard, from which the watchman had just turned him out at two o'clock in the morning. He had nothing, not a penny, not even a crust; what should he do, wandering along the roads without aim, not knowing where to shelter himself from the wind? Yes, it was certainly a pit; the occasional lanterns lighted up the square; a door, suddenly opened, had enabled him to catch sight of the furnaces in a clear light. He could explain even the escapement of the pump, that thick, long breathing that went on without ceasing, and which seemed to be the monster's congested respiration. The workman, expanding his back at the tipping-cradle, had not even lifted his eyes on Étienne, and the latter was about to pick up his little bundle, which had fallen to the earth, when a spasm of coughing announced the carman's return. Slowly he emerged from the darkness, followed by the yellow horse drawing six more laden trams. "Are there factories at Montsou?" asked the young man. The old man expectorated, then replied in the wind: "Oh, it isn't factories that are lacking. Should have seen it three or four years ago. Everything was roaring then. There were not men enough; there never were such wages. And now they are tightening their bellies again. Nothing but misery in the country; every one is being sent away; workshops closing one after the other. It is not the Emperor's fault, perhaps; but why should he go and fight in America? without counting that the beasts are dying from cholera, like the people." Then, in short sentences and with broken breath, the two continued to complain. Étienne narrated his vain wanderings of the past week: must one, then, die of hunger? Soon the roads would be full of beggars. "Yes," said the old man, "this will turn out badly, for God does not allow so many Christians to be thrown on the street." "We don't have meat every day." "But if one had bread!" "True, if one only had bread." Their voices were lost, gusts of wind carrying away the words in a melancholy howl. "Here!" began the carman again very loudly, turning towards the south. "Montsou is over there." And stretching out his hand again he pointed out invisible spots in the darkness as he named them. Below, at Montsou, the Fauvelle sugar works were still going, but the Hoton sugar works had just been dismissing hands; there were only the Dutilleul flour mill and the Bleuze rope walk for mine-cables which kept up. Then, with a large gesture he indicated the north half of the horizon: the Sonneville workshops had not received two-thirds of their usual orders; only two of the three blast furnaces of the Marchiennes Forges were alight; finally, at the Gagebois glass works a strike was threatening, for there was talk of a reduction of wages. "I know, I know," replied the young man at each indication. "I have been there." "With us here things are going on at present," added the carman; "but the pits have lowered their output. And see opposite, at the Victoire, there are also only two batteries of coke furnaces alight." He expectorated, and set out behind his sleepy horse, after harnessing it to the empty trams. Now Étienne could oversee the entire country. The darkness remained profound, but the old man's hand had, as it were, filled it with great miseries, which the young man unconsciously felt at this moment around him everywhere in the limitless tract. Was it not a cry of famine that the March wind rolled up across this naked plain? The squalls were furious: they seemed to bring the death of labour, a famine which would kill many men. And with wandering eyes he tried to pierce shades, tormented at once by the desire and by the fear of seeing. Everything was hidden in the unknown depths of the gloomy night. He only perceived, very far off, the blast furnaces and the coke ovens. The latter, with their hundreds of chimneys, planted obliquely, made lines of red flame; while the two towers, more to the left, burnt blue against the blank sky, like giant torches. It resembled a melancholy conflagration. No other stars rose on the threatening horizon except these nocturnal fires in a land of coal and iron. "You belong to Belgium, perhaps?" began again the carman, who had returned behind Étienne. This time he only brought three trams. Those at least could be tipped over; an accident which had happened to the cage, a broken screw nut, would stop work for a good quarter of an hour. At the bottom of the pit bank there was silence; the landers no longer shook the stages with a prolonged vibration. One only heard from the pit the distant sound of a hammer tapping on an iron plate. "No, I come from the South," replied the young man. The workman, after having emptied the trams, had seated himself on the earth, glad of the accident, maintaining his savage silence; he had simply lifted his large, dim eyes to the carman, as if annoyed by so many words. The latter, indeed, did not usually talk at such length. The unknown man's face must have pleased him that he should have been taken by one of these itchings for confidence which sometimes make old people talk aloud even when alone. "I belong to Montsou," he said, "I am called Bonnemort." "Is it a nickname?" asked Étienne, astonished. The old man made a grimace of satisfaction and pointed to the Voreux: "Yes, yes; they have pulled me three times out of that, torn to pieces, once with all my hair scorched, once with my gizzard full of earth, and another time with my belly swollen with water, like a frog. And then, when they saw that nothing would kill me, they called me Bonnemort for a joke." His cheerfulness increased, like the creaking of an ill-greased pulley, and ended by degenerating into a terrible spasm of coughing. The fire basket now clearly lit up his large head, with its scanty white hair and flat, livid face, spotted with bluish patches. He was short, with an enormous neck, projecting calves and heels, and long arms, with massive hands falling to his knees. For the rest, like his horse, which stood immovable, without suffering from the wind, he seemed to be made of stone; he had no appearance of feeling either the cold or the gusts that whistled at his ears. When he coughed his throat was torn by a deep rasping; he spat at the foot of the basket and the earth was blackened. Étienne looked at him and at the ground which he had thus stained. "Have you been working long at the mine?" Bonnemort flung open both arms. "Long? I should think so. I was not eight when I went down into the Voreux and I am now fifty-eight. Reckon that up! I have been everything down there; at first trammer, then putter, when I had the strength to wheel, then pikeman for eighteen years. Then, because of my cursed legs, they put me into the earth cutting, to bank up and patch, until they had to bring me up, because the doctor said I should stay there for good. Then, after five years of that, they made me carman. Eh? that's fine--fifty years at the mine, forty-five down below." While he was speaking, fragments of burning coal, which now and then fell from the basket, lit up his pale face with their red reflection. "They tell me to rest," he went on, "but I'm not going to; I'm not such a fool. I can get on for two years longer, to my sixtieth, so as to get the pension of one hundred and eighty francs. If I wished them good evening to-day they would give me a hundred and fifty at once. They are cunning, the beggars. Besides, I am sound, except my legs. You see, it's the water which has got under my skin through being always wet in the cuttings. There are days when I can't move a paw without screaming." A spasm of coughing interrupted him again. "And that makes you cough so?" said Étienne. But he vigorously shook his head. Then, when he could speak: "No, no! I caught cold a month ago. I never used to cough; now I can't get rid of it. And the queer thing is that I spit, that I spit----" The rasping was again heard in his throat, followed by the black expectoration. "Is it blood?" asked Étienne, at last venturing to question him. Bonnemort slowly wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "It's coal. I've got enough in my carcass to warm me till I die. And it's five years since I put a foot down below. I stored it up, it seems, without knowing it; it keeps you alive!" There was silence. The distant hammer struck regular blows in the pit, and the wind passed by with its moan, like a cry of hunger and weariness coming out of the depths of the night. Before the flames which grew low, the old man went on in lower tones, chewing over again his old recollections. Ah, certainly: it was not yesterday that he and his began hammering at the seam. The family had worked for the Montsou Mining Company since it started, and that was long ago, a hundred and six years already. His grandfather, Guillaume Maheu, an urchin of fifteen then, had found the rich coal at Réquillart, the Company's first pit, an old abandoned pit to-day down below near the Fauvelle sugar works. All the country knew it, and as a proof, the discovered seam was called the Guillaume, after his grandfather. He had not known him--a big fellow, it was said, very strong, who died of old age at sixty. Then his father, Nicolas Maheu, called Le Rouge, when hardly forty years of age had died in the pit, which was being excavated at that time: a landslip, a complete slide, and the rock drank his blood and swallowed his bones. Two of his uncles and his three brothers, later on, also left their skins there. He, Vincent Maheu, who had come out almost whole, except that his legs were rather shaky, was looked upon as a knowing fellow. But what could one do? One must work; one worked here from father to son, as one would work at anything else. His son, Toussaint Maheu, was being worked to death there now, and his grandsons, and all his people, who lived opposite in the settlement. A hundred and six years of mining, the youngsters after the old ones, for the same master. Eh? there were many bourgeois that could not give their history so well! "Anyhow, when one has got enough to eat!" murmured Étienne again. "That is what I say. As long as one has bread to eat one can live." Bonnemort was silent; and his eyes turned towards the settlement, where lights were appearing one by one. Four o'clock struck in the Montsou tower and the cold became keener. "And is your company rich?" asked Étienne. The old man shrugged his shoulders, and then let them fall as if overwhelmed beneath an avalanche of gold. "Ah, yes! Ah, yes! Not perhaps so rich as its neighbour, the Anzin Company. But millions and millions all the same. They can't count it. Nineteen pits, thirteen at work, the Voreux, the Victoire, Crévecoeur, Mirou, St. Thomas, Madeleine, Feutry-Cantel, and still more, and six for pumping or ventilation, like Réquillart. Ten thousand workers, concessions reaching over sixty-seven communes, an output of five thousand tons a day, a railway joining all the pits, and workshops, and factories! Ah, yes! ah, yes! there's money there!" The rolling of trams on the stages made the big yellow horse prick his ears. The cage was evidently repaired below, and the landers had got to work again. While he was harnessing his beast to re-descend, the carman added gently, addressing himself to the horse: "Won't do to chatter, lazy good-for-nothing! If Monsieur Hennebeau knew how you waste your time!" Étienne looked thoughtfully into the night. He asked: "Then Monsieur Hennebeau owns the mine?" "No," explained the old man, "Monsieur Hennebeau is only the general manager; he is paid just the same as us." With a gesture the young man pointed into the darkness. "Who does it all belong to, then?" But Bonnemort was for a moment so suffocated by a new and violent spasm that he could not get his breath. Then, when he had expectorated and wiped the black froth from his lips, he replied in the rising wind: "Eh? all that belong to? Nobody knows. To people." And with his hand he pointed in the darkness to a vague spot, an unknown and remote place, inhabited by those people for whom the Maheus had been hammering at the seam for more than a century. His voice assumed a tone of religious awe; it was as if he were speaking of an inaccessible tabernacle containing a sated and crouching god to whom they had given all their flesh and whom they had never seen. "At all events, if one can get enough bread to eat," repeated Étienne, for the third time, without any apparent transition. "Indeed, yes; if we could always get bread, it would be too good." The horse had started; the carman, in his turn, disappeared, with the trailing step of an invalid. Near the tipping-cradle the workman had not stirred, gathered up in a ball, burying his chin between his knees, with his great dim eyes fixed on emptiness. When he had picked up his bundle, Étienne still remained at the same spot. He felt the gusts freezing his back, while his chest was burning before the large fire. Perhaps, all the same, it would be as well to inquire at the pit, the old man might not know. Then he resigned himself; he would accept any work. Where should he go, and what was to become of him in this country famished for lack of work? Must he leave his carcass behind a wall, like a strayed dog? But one doubt troubled him, a fear of the Voreux in the middle of this flat plain, drowned in so thick a night. At every gust the wind seemed to rise as if it blew from an ever-broadening horizon. No dawn whitened the dead sky. The blast furnaces alone flamed, and the coke ovens, making the darkness redder without illuminating the unknown. And the Voreux, at the bottom of its hole, with its posture as of an evil beast, continued to crunch, breathing with a heavier and slower respiration, troubled by its painful digestion of human flesh. CHAPTER II In the middle of the fields of wheat and beetroot, the Deux-Cent-Quarante settlement slept beneath the black night. One could vaguely distinguish four immense blocks of small houses, back to back, barracks or hospital blocks, geometric and parallel, separated by three large avenues which were divided into gardens of equal size. And over the desert plain one heard only the moan of squalls through the broken trellises of the enclosures. In the Maheus' house, No. 16 in the second block, nothing was stirring. The single room that occupied the first floor was drowned in a thick darkness which seemed to overwhelm with its weight the sleep of the beings whom one felt to be there in a mass, with open mouths, overcome by weariness. In spite of the keen cold outside, there was a living heat in the heavy air, that hot stuffiness of even the best kept bedrooms, the smell of human cattle. Four o'clock had struck from the clock in the room on the ground floor, but nothing yet stirred; one heard the piping of slender respirations, accompanied by two series of sonorous snores. And suddenly Catherine got up. In her weariness she had, as usual, counted the four strokes through the floor without the strength to arouse herself completely. Then, throwing her legs from under the bedclothes, she felt about, at last struck a match and lighted the candle. But she remained seated, her head so heavy that it fell back between her shoulders, seeking to return to the bolster. Now the candle lighted up the room, a square room with two windows, and filled with three beds. There could be seen a cupboard, a table, and two old walnut chairs, whose smoky tone made hard, dark patches against the walls, which were painted a light yellow. And nothing else, only clothes hung to nails, a jug placed on the floor, and a red pan which served as a basin. In the bed on the left, Zacharie, the eldest, a youth of one-and-twenty, was asleep with his brother Jeanlin, who had completed his eleventh year; in the right-hand bed two urchins, Lénore and Henri, the first six years old, the second four, slept in each other's arms, while Catherine shared the third bed with her sister Alzire, so small for her nine years that Catherine would not have felt her near her if it were not for the little invalid's humpback, which pressed into her side. The glass door was open; one could perceive the lobby of a landing, a sort of recess in which the father and the mother occupied a fourth bed, against which they had been obliged to install the cradle of the latest comer, Estelle, aged scarcely three months. However, Catherine made a desperate effort. She stretched herself, she fidgeted her two hands in the red hair which covered her forehead and neck. Slender for her fifteen years, all that showed of her limbs outside the narrow sheath of her chemise were her bluish feet, as it were tattooed with coal, and her slight arms, the milky whiteness of which contrasted with the sallow tint of her face, already spoilt by constant washing with black soap. A final yawn opened her rather large mouth with splendid teeth against the chlorotic pallor of her gums; while her grey eyes were crying in her fight with sleep, with a look of painful distress and weariness which seemed to spread over the whole of her naked body. But a growl came from the landing, and Maheu's thick voice stammered; "Devil take it! It's time. Is it you lighting up, Catherine?" "Yes, father; it has just struck downstairs." "Quick then, lazy. If you had danced less on Sunday you would have woke us earlier. A fine lazy life!" And he went on grumbling, but sleep returned to him also. His reproaches became confused, and were extinguished in fresh snoring. The young girl, in her chemise, with her naked feet on the floor, moved about in the room. As she passed by the bed of Henri and Lénore, she replaced the coverlet which had slipped down. They did not wake, lost in the strong sleep of childhood. Alzire, with open eyes, had turned to take the warm place of her big sister without speaking. "I say, now, Zacharie--and you, Jeanlin; I say, now!" repeated Catherine, standing before her two brothers, who were still wallowing with their noses in the bolster. She had to seize the elder by the shoulder and shake him; then, while he was muttering abuse, it came into her head to uncover them by snatching away the sheet. That seemed funny to her, and she began to laugh when she saw the two boys struggling with naked legs. "Stupid, leave me alone," growled Zacharie in ill-temper, sitting up. "I don't like tricks. Good Lord! Say it's time to get up?" He was lean and ill-made, with a long face and a chin which showed signs of a sprouting beard, yellow hair, and the anaemic pallor which belonged to his whole family. His shirt had rolled up to his belly, and he lowered it, not from modesty but because he was not warm. "It has struck downstairs," repeated Catherine; "come! up! father's angry." Jeanlin, who had rolled himself up, closed his eyes, saying: "Go and hang yourself; I'm going to sleep." She laughed again, the laugh of a good-natured girl. He was so small, his limbs so thin, with enormous joints, enlarged by scrofula, that she took him up in her arms. But he kicked about, his apish face, pale and wrinkled, with its green eyes and great ears, grew pale with the rage of weakness. He said nothing, he bit her right breast. "Beastly fellow!" she murmured, keeping back a cry and putting him on the floor. Alzire was silent, with the sheet tucked under her chin, but she had not gone to sleep again. With her intelligent invalid's eyes she followed her sister and her two brothers, who were now dressing. Another quarrel broke out around the pan, the boys hustled the young girl because she was so long washing herself. Shirts flew about: and, while still half-asleep, they eased themselves without shame, with the tranquil satisfaction of a litter of puppies that have grown up together. Catherine was ready first. She put on her miner's breeches, then her canvas jacket, and fastened the blue cap on her knotted hair; in these clean Monday clothes she had the appearance of a little man; nothing remained to indicate her sex except the slight roll of her hips. "When the old man comes back," said Zacharie, mischievously, "he'll like to find the bed unmade. You know I shall tell him it's you." The old man was the grandfather, Bonnemort, who, as he worked during the night, slept by day, so that the bed was never cold; there was always someone snoring there. Without replying, Catherine set herself to arrange the bed-clothes and tuck them in. But during the last moments sounds had been heard behind the wall in the next house. These brick buildings, economically put up by the Company, were so thin that the least breath could be heard through them. The inmates lived there, elbow to elbow, from one end to the other; and no fact of family life remained hidden, even from the youngsters. A heavy step had tramped up the staircase; then there was a kind of soft fall, followed by a sigh of satisfaction. "Good!" said Catherine. "Levaque has gone down, and here is Bouteloup come to join the Levaque woman." Jeanlin grinned; even Alzire's eyes shone. Every morning they made fun of the household of three next door, a pikeman who lodged a worker in the cutting, an arrangement which gave the woman two men, one by night, the other by day. "Philoméne is coughing," began Catherine again, after listening. She was speaking of the eldest Levaque, a big girl of nineteen, and the mistress of Zacharie, by whom she had already had two children; her chest was so delicate that she was only a sifter at the pit, never having been able to work below. "Pooh! Philoméne!" replied Zacharie, "she cares a lot, she's asleep. It's hoggish to sleep till six." He was putting on his breeches when an idea occurred to him, and he opened the window. Outside in the darkness the settlement was awaking, lights were dawning one by one between the laths of the shutters. And there was another dispute: he leant out to watch if he could not see, coming out of Pierron's opposite, the captain of the Voreux, who was accused of sleeping with the Pierron woman, while his sister called to him that since the day before the husband had taken day duty at the pit-eye, and that certainly Dansaert could not have slept there that night. Whilst the air entered in icy whiffs, both of them, becoming angry, maintained the truth of their own information, until cries and tears broke out. It was Estelle, in her cradle, vexed by the cold. Maheu woke up suddenly. What had he got in his bones, then? Here he was going to sleep again like a good-for-nothing. And he swore so vigorously that the children became still. Zacharie and Jeanlin finished washing with slow weariness. Alzire, with her large, open eyes, continually stared. The two youngsters, Lénore and Henri, in each other's arms, had not stirred, breathing in the same quiet way in spite of the noise. "Catherine, give me the candle," called out Maheu. She finished buttoning her jacket, and carried the candle into the closet, leaving her brothers to look for their clothes by what light came through the door. Her father jumped out of bed. She did not stop, but went downstairs in her coarse woollen stockings, feeling her way, and lighted another candle in the parlour, to prepare the coffee. All the sabots of the family were beneath the sideboard. "Will you be still, vermin?" began Maheu, again, exasperated by Estelle's cries which still went on. He was short, like old Bonnemort, and resembled him, with his strong head, his flat, livid face, beneath yellow hair cut very short. The child screamed more than ever, frightened by those great knotted arms which were held above her. "Leave her alone; you know that she won't be still," said his wife, stretching herself in the middle of the bed. She also had just awakened and was complaining how disgusting it was never to be able to finish the night. Could they not go away quietly? Buried in the clothes she only showed her long face with large features of a heavy beauty, already disfigured at thirty-nine by her life of wretchedness and the seven children she had borne. With her eyes on the ceiling she spoke slowly, while her man dressed himself. They both ceased to hear the little one, who was strangling herself with screaming. "Eh? You know I haven't a penny and this is only Monday: still six days before the fortnight's out. This can't go on. You, all of you, only bring in nine francs. How do you expect me to go on? We are ten in the house." "Oh! nine francs!" exclaimed Maheu. "I and Zacharie three: that makes six, Catherine and the father, two: that makes four: four and six, ten, and Jeanlin one, that makes eleven." "Yes, eleven, but there are Sundays and the off-days. Never more than nine, you know." He did not reply, being occupied in looking on the ground for his leather belt. Then he said, on getting up: "Mustn't complain. I am sound all the same. There's more than one at forty-two who are put to the patching." "Maybe, old man, but that does not give us bread. Where am I to get it from, eh? Have you got nothing?" "I've got two coppers." "Keep them for a half-pint. Good Lord! where am I to get it from? Six days! it will never end. We owe sixty francs to Maigrat, who turned me out of doors day before yesterday. That won't prevent me from going to see him again. But if he goes on refusing----" And Maheude continued in her melancholy voice, without moving her head, only closing her eyes now and then beneath the dim light of the candle. She said the cupboard was empty, the little ones asking for bread and butter, even the coffee was done, and the water caused colic, and the long days passed in deceiving hunger with boiled cabbage leaves. Little by little she had been obliged to raise her voice, for Estelle's screams drowned her words. These cries became unbearable. Maheu seemed all at once to hear them, and, in a fury, snatched the little one up from the cradle and threw it on the mother's bed, stammering with rage: "Here, take her; I'll do for her! Damn the child! It wants for nothing: it sucks, and it complains louder than all the rest!" Estelle began, in fact, to suck. Hidden beneath the clothes and soothed by the warmth of the bed, her cries subsided into the greedy little sound of her lips. "Haven't the Piolaine people told you to go and see them?" asked the father, after a period of silence. The mother bit her lip with an air of discouraged doubt. "Yes, they met me; they were carrying clothes for poor children. Yes, I'll take Lénore and Henri to them this morning. If they only give me a few pence!" There was silence again. Maheu was ready. He remained a moment motionless, then added, in his hollow voice: "What is it that you want? Let things be, and see about the soup. It's no good talking, better be at work down below." "True enough," replied Maheude. "Blow out the candle: I don't need to see the colour of my thoughts." He blew out the candle. Zacharie and Jeanlin were already going down; he followed them, and the wooden staircase creaked beneath their heavy feet, clad in wool. Behind them the closet and the room were again dark. The children slept; even Alzire's eyelids were closed; but the mother now remained with her eyes open in the darkness, while, pulling at her breast, the pendent breast of an exhausted woman, Estelle was purring like a kitten. Down below, Catherine had at first occupied herself with the fire, which was burning in the iron grate, flanked by two ovens. The Company distributed every month, to each family, eight hectolitres of a hard slaty coal, gathered in the passages. It burnt slowly, and the young girl, who piled up the fire every night, only had to stir it in the morning, adding a few fragments of soft coal, carefully picked out. Then, after having placed a kettle on the grate, she sat down before the sideboard. It was a fairly large room, occupying all the ground floor, painted an apple green, and of Flemish cleanliness, with its flags well washed and covered with white sand. Besides the sideboard of varnished deal the furniture consisted of a table and chairs of the same wood. Stuck on to the walls were some violently-coloured prints, portraits of the Emperor and the Empress, given by the Company, of soldiers and of saints speckled with gold, contrasting crudely with the simple nudity of the room; and there was no other ornament except a box of rose-coloured pasteboard on the sideboard, and the clock with its daubed face and loud tick-tack, which seemed to fill the emptiness of the place. Near the staircase door another door led to the cellar. In spite of the cleanliness, an odour of cooked onion, shut up since the night before, poisoned the hot, heavy air, always laden with an acrid flavour of coal. Catherine, in front of the sideboard, was reflecting. There only remained the end of a loaf, cheese in fair abundance, but hardly a morsel of butter; and she had to provide bread and butter for four. At last she decided, cut the slices, took one and covered it with cheese, spread another with butter, and stuck them together; that was the "brick," the bread-and-butter sandwich taken to the pit every morning. The four bricks were soon on the table, in a row, cut with severe justice, from the big one for the father down to the little one for Jeanlin. Catherine, who appeared absorbed in her household duties, must, however, have been thinking of the stories told by Zacharie about the head captain and the Pierron woman, for she half opened the front door and glanced outside. The wind was still whistling. There were numerous spots of light on the low fronts of the settlement, from which arose a vague tremor of awakening. Already doors were being closed, and black files of workers passed into the night. It was stupid of her to get cold, since the porter at the pit-eye was certainly asleep, waiting to take his duties at six. Yet she remained and looked at the house on the other side of the gardens. The door opened, and her curiosity was aroused. But it could only be one of the little Pierrons, Lydie, setting out for the pit. The hissing sound of steam made her turn. She shut the door, and hastened back; the water was boiling over, and putting out the fire. There was no more coffee. She had to be content to add the water to last night's dregs; then she sugared the coffee-pot with brown sugar. At that moment her father and two brothers came downstairs. "Faith!" exclaimed Zacharie, when he had put his nose into his bowl, "here's something that won't get into our heads." Maheu shrugged his shoulders with an air of resignation. "Bah! It's hot! It's good all the same." Jeanlin had gathered up the fragments of bread and made a sop of them. After having drunk, Catherine finished by emptying the coffee-pot into the tin-jacks. All four, standing up in the smoky light of the candle, swallowed their meals hastily. "Are we at the end?" said the father; "one would say we were people of property." But a voice came from the staircase, of which they had left the door open. It was Maheude, who called out: "Take all the bread: I have some vermicelli for the children." "Yes, yes," replied Catherine. She had piled up the fire, wedging the pot that held the remains of the soup into a corner of the grate, so that the grandfather might find it warm when he came in at six. Each took his sabots from under the sideboard, passed the strings of his tin over his shoulder and placed his brick at his back, between shirt and jacket. And they went out, the men first, the girl, who came last, blowing out the candle and turning the key. The house became dark again. "Ah! we're off together," said a man who was closing the door of the next house. It was Levaque, with his son Bébert, an urchin of twelve, a great friend of Jeanlin's. Catherine, in surprise, stifled a laugh in Zacharie's ear: "Why! Bouteloup didn't even wait until the husband had gone!" Now the lights in the settlement were extinguished, and the last door banged. All again fell asleep; the women and the little ones resuming their slumber in the midst of wider beds. And from the extinguished village to the roaring Voreux a slow filing of shadows took place beneath the squalls, the departure of the colliers to their work, bending their shoulders and incommoded by their arms, crossed on their breasts, while the brick behind formed a hump on each back. Clothed in their thin jackets they shivered with cold, but without hastening, straggling along the road with the tramp of a flock. CHAPTER III Étienne had at last descended from the platform and entered the Voreux; he spoke to men whom he met, asking if there was work to be had, but all shook their heads, telling him to wait for the captain. They left him free to roam through the ill-lighted buildings, full of black holes, confusing with their complicated stories and rooms. After having mounted a dark and half-destroyed staircase, he found himself on a shaky foot-bridge; then he crossed the screening-shed, which was plunged in such profound darkness that he walked with his hands before him for protection. Suddenly two enormous yellow eyes pierced the darkness in front of him. He was beneath the pit-frame in the receiving-room, at the very mouth of the shaft. A captain, Father Richomme, a big man with the face of a good-natured gendarme, and with a straight grey moustache, was at that moment going towards the receiver's office. "Do they want a hand here for any kind of work?" asked Étienne again. Richomme was about to say no, but he changed his mind and replied like the others, as he went away: "Wait for Monsieur Dansaert, the head captain." Four lanterns were placed there, and the reflectors which threw all the light on to the shaft vividly illuminated the iron rail, the levers of the signals and bars, the joists of the guides along which slid the two cages. The rest of the vast room, like the nave of a church, was obscure, and peopled by great floating shadows. Only the lamp-cabin shone at the far end, while in the receiver's office a small lamp looked like a fading star. Work was about to be resumed, and on the iron pavement there was a continual thunder, trams of coal being wheeled without ceasing, while the landers, with their long, bent backs, could be distinguished amid the movement of all these black and noisy things, in perpetual agitation. For a moment Étienne stood motionless, deafened and blinded. He felt frozen by the currents of air which entered from every side. Then he moved on a few paces, attracted by the winding engine, of which he could now see the glistening steel and copper. It was twenty-five metres beyond the shaft, in a loftier chamber, and placed so solidly on its brick foundation that though it worked at full speed, with all its four hundred horse power, the movement of its enormous crank, emerging and plunging with oily softness, imparted no quiver to the walls. The engine-man, standing at his post, listened to the ringing of the signals, and his eye never moved from the indicator where the shaft was figured, with its different levels, by a vertical groove traversed by shot hanging to strings, which represented the cages; and at each departure, when the machine was put in motion, the drums--two immense wheels, five metres in radius, by means of which the two steel cables were rolled and unrolled--turned with such rapidity that they became like grey powder. "Look out, there!" cried three landers, who were dragging an immense ladder. Étienne just escaped being crushed; his eyes were soon more at home, and he watched the cables moving in the air, more than thirty metres of steel ribbon, which flew up into the pit-frame where they passed over pulleys to descend perpendicularly into the shaft, where they were attached to the cages. An iron frame, like the high scaffolding of a belfry, supported the pulleys. It was like the gliding of a bird, noiseless, without a jar, this rapid flight, the continual come and go of a thread of enormous weight, capable of lifting twelve thousand kilograms at the rate of ten metres a second. "Attention there, for God's sake!" cried again the landers, pushing the ladder to the other side in order to climb to the left-hand rowel. Slowly Étienne returned to the receiving-room. This giant flight over his head took away his breath. Shivering in the currents of air, he watched the movement of the cages, his ears deafened by the rumblings of the trams. Near the shaft the signal was working, a heavy-levered hammer drawn by a cord from below and allowed to strike against a block. One blow to stop, two to go down, three to go up; it was unceasing, like blows of a club dominating the tumult, accompanied by the clear sound of the bell; while the lander, directing the work, increased the noise still more by shouting orders to the engine-man through a trumpet. The cages in the middle of the clear space appeared and disappeared, were filled and emptied, without Étienne being at all able to understand the complicated proceeding. He only understood one thing well: the shaft swallowed men by mouthfuls of twenty or thirty, and with so easy a gulp that it seemed to feel nothing go down. Since four o'clock the descent of the workmen had been going on. They came to the shed with naked feet and their lamps in their hands, waiting in little groups until a sufficient number had arrived. Without a sound, with the soft bound of a nocturnal beast, the iron cage arose from the night, wedged itself on the bolts with its four decks, each containing two trams full of coal. Landers on different platforms took out the trams and replaced them by others, either empty or already laden with trimmed wooden props; and it was into the empty trams that the workmen crowded, five at a time, up to forty. When they filled all the compartments, an order came from the trumpet--a hollow indistinct roar--while the signal cord was pulled four times from below, "ringing meat," to give warning of this burden of human flesh. Then, after a slight leap, the cage plunged silently, falling like a stone, only leaving behind it the vibrating flight of a cable. "Is it deep?" asked Étienne of a miner, who waited near him with a sleepy air. "Five hundred and fifty-four metres," replied the man. "But there are four levels, the first at three hundred and twenty." Both were silent, with their eyes on the returning cable. Étienne said again: "And if it breaks?" "Ah! if it breaks----" The miner ended with a gesture. His turn had arrived; the cage had reappeared with its easy, unfatigued movement. He squatted in it with some comrades; it plunged down, then flew up again in less then four minutes to swallow down another load of men. For half an hour the shaft went on devouring in this fashion, with more or less greedy gulps, according to the depth of the level to which the men went down, but without stopping, always hungry, with its giant intestines capable of digesting a nation. It went on filling and still filling, and the darkness remained dead. The cage mounted from the void with the same voracious silence. Étienne was at last seized again by the same depression which he had experienced on the pit bank. What was the good of persisting? This head captain would send him off like the others. A vague fear suddenly decided him: he went away, only stopping before the building of the engine room. The wide-open door showed seven boilers with two furnaces. In the midst of the white steam and the whistling of the escapes a stoker was occupied in piling up one of the furnaces, the heat of which could be felt as far as the threshold; and the young man was approaching, glad of the warmth, when he met a new band of colliers who had just arrived at the pit. It was the Maheu and Levaque set. When he saw Catherine at the head, with her gentle boyish air, a superstitious idea caused him to risk another question. "I say there, mate! do they want a hand here for any kind of work?" She looked at him surprised, rather frightened at this sudden voice coming out of the shadow. But Maheu, behind her, had heard and replied, talking with Étienne for a moment. No, no one was wanted. This poor devil of a man who had lost his way here interested him. When he left him he said to the others: "Eh! one might easily be like that. Mustn't complain: every one hasn't the chance to work himself to death." The band entered and went straight to the shed, a vast hall roughly boarded and surrounded by cupboards shut by padlocks. In the centre an iron fireplace, a sort of closed stove without a door, glowed red and was so stuffed with burning coal that fragments flew out and rolled on to the trodden soil. The hall was only lighted by this stove, from which sanguine reflections danced along the greasy woodwork up to the ceiling, stained with black dust. As the Maheus went into the heat there was a sound of laughter. Some thirty workmen were standing upright with their backs to the fire, roasting themselves with an air of enjoyment. Before going down, they all came here to get a little warmth in their skins, so that they could face the dampness of the pit. But this morning there was much amusement: they were joking Mouquette, a putter girl of eighteen, whose enormous breasts and flanks were bursting through her old jacket and breeches. She lived at Réquillart with her father old Mouque, a groom, and Mouquet, her brother, a lander; but their hours of work were not the same; she went to the pit by herself, and in the middle of the wheatfields in summer, or against a wall in winter, she took her pleasure with her lover of the week. All in the mine had their turn; it was a perpetual round of comrades without further consequences. One day, when reproached about a Marchiennes nail-maker, she was furiously angry, exclaiming that she respected herself far too much, that she would cut her arm off if any one could boast that he had seen her with any one but a collier. "It isn't that big Chaval now?" said a miner grinning; "did that little fellow have you? he must have needed a ladder. I saw you behind Réquillart, a token that he got up on a milestone." "Well," replied Mouquette, in a good humour, "what's that to do with you? You were not asked to push." And this gross good-natured joke increased the laughter of the men, who expanded their shoulders, half cooked by the stove, while she herself, shaken by laughter, was displaying in the midst of them the indecency of her costume, embarrassingly comical, with her masses of flesh exaggerated almost to disease. But the gaiety ceased; Mouquette told Maheu that Fleurance, big Fleurance, would never come again; she had been found the night before stiff in her bed; some said it was her heart, others that it was a pint of gin she had drunk too quickly. And Maheu was in despair; another piece of ill-luck; one of the best of his putters gone without any chance of replacing her at once. He was working in a set; there were four pikemen associated in his cutting, himself, Zacharie, Levaque, and Chaval. If they had Catherine alone to wheel, the work would suffer. Suddenly he called out: "I have it! there was that man looking for work!" At that moment Dansaert passed before the shed. Maheu told him the story, and asked for his authority to engage the man; he emphasized the desire of the Company to substitute men for women, as at Anzin. The head captain smiled at first; for the scheme of excluding women from the pit was not usually well received by the miners, who were troubled about placing their daughters, and not much affected by questions of morality and health. But after some hesitation he gave his permission, reserving its ratification for Monsieur Négrel, the engineer. "All very well!" exclaimed Zacharie; "the man must be away by this time." "No," said Catherine. "I saw him stop at the boilers." "After him, then, lazy," cried Maheu. The young girl ran forward; while a crowd of miners proceeded to the shaft, yielding the fire to others. Jeanlin, without waiting for his father, went also to take his lamp, together with Bébert, a big, stupid boy, and Lydie, a small child of ten. Mouquette, who was in front of them, called out in the black passage they were dirty brats, and threatened to box their ears if they pinched her. Étienne was, in fact, in the boiler building, talking with a stoker, who was charging the furnaces with coal. He felt very cold at the thought of the night into which he must return. But he was deciding to set out, when he felt a hand placed on his shoulder. "Come," said Catherine; "there's something for you." At first he could not understand. Then he felt a spasm of joy, and vigorously squeezed the young girl's hands. "Thanks, mate. Ah! you're a good chap, you are!" She began to laugh, looking at him in the red light of the furnaces, which lit them up. It amused her that he should take her for a boy, still slender, with her knot of hair hidden beneath the cap. He also was laughing, with satisfaction, and they remained, for a moment, both laughing in each other's faces with radiant cheeks. Maheu, squatting down before his box in the shed, was taking off his sabots and his coarse woollen stockings. When Étienne arrived everything was settled in three or four words: thirty sous a day, hard work, but work that he would easily learn. The pikeman advised him to keep his shoes, and lent him an old cap, a leather hat for the protection of his skull, a precaution which the father and his children disdained. The tools were taken out of the chest, where also was found Fleurance's shovel. Then, when Maheu had shut up their sabots, their stockings, as well as Étienne's bundle, he suddenly became impatient. "What is that lazy Chaval up to? Another girl given a tumble on a pile of stones? We are half an hour late to-day." Zacharie and Levaque were quietly roasting their shoulders. The former said at last: "Is it Chaval you're waiting for? He came before us, and went down at once." "What! you knew that, and said nothing? Come, come, look sharp!" Catherine, who was warming her hands, had to follow the band. Étienne allowed her to pass, and went behind her. Again he journeyed through a maze of staircases and obscure corridors in which their naked feet produced the soft sound of old slippers. But the lamp-cabin was glittering--a glass house, full of hooks in rows, holding hundreds of Davy lamps, examined and washed the night before, and lighted like candles in a mortuary chapel. At the barrier each workman took his own, stamped with his number; then he examined it and shut it himself, while the marker, seated at a table, inscribed on the registers the hour of descent. Maheu had to intervene to obtain a lamp for his new putter, and there was still another precaution: the workers defiled before an examiner, who assured himself that all the lamps were properly closed. "Golly! It's not warm here," murmured Catherine, shivering. Étienne contented himself with nodding his head. He was in front of the shaft, in the midst of a vast hall swept by currents of air. He certainly considered himself brave, but he felt a disagreeable emotion at his chest amid this thunder of trams, the hollow blows of the signals, the stifled howling of the trumpet, the continual flight of those cables, unrolled and rolled at full speed by the drums of the engine. The cages rose and sank with the gliding movement of a nocturnal beast, always engulfing men, whom the throat of the hole seemed to drink. It was his turn now. He felt very cold, and preserved a nervous silence which made Zacharie and Levaque grin; for both of them disapproved of the hiring of this unknown man, especially Levaque, who was offended that he had not been consulted. So Catherine was glad to hear her father explain things to the young man. "Look! above the cage there is a parachute with iron grapnels to catch into the guides in case of breakage. Does it work? Oh, not always. Yes, the shaft is divided into three compartments, closed by planking from top to bottom; in the middle the cages, on the left the passage for the ladders----" But he interrupted himself to grumble, though taking care not to raise his voice much. "What are we stuck here for, blast it? What right have they to freeze us in this way?" The captain, Richomme, who was going down himself, with his naked lamp fixed by a nail into the leather of his cap, heard him. "Careful! Look out for ears," he murmured paternally, as an old miner with a affectionate feeling for comrades. "Workmen must do what they can. Hold on! here we are; get in with your fellows." The cage, provided with iron bands and a small-meshed lattice work, was in fact awaiting them on the bars. Maheu, Zacharie, and Catherine slid into a tram below, and as all five had to enter, Étienne in his turn went in, but the good places were taken; he had to squeeze himself near the young girl, whose elbow pressed into his belly. His lamp embarrassed him; they advised him to fasten it to the button-hole of his jacket. Not hearing, he awkwardly kept it in his hand. The embarkation continued, above and below, a confused packing of cattle. They did not, however, set out. What, then, was happening? It seemed to him that his impatience lasted for many minutes. At last he felt a shock, and the light grew dim, everything around him seemed to fly, while he experienced the dizzy anxiety of a fall contracting his bowels. This lasted as long as he could see light, through the two reception stories, in the midst of the whirling by of the scaffolding. Then, having fallen into the blackness of the pit, he became stunned, no longer having any clear perception of his sensations. "Now we are off," said Maheu quietly. They were all at their ease. He asked himself at times if he was going up or down. Now and then, when the cage went straight without touching the guides, there seemed to be no motion, but rough shocks were afterwards produced, a sort of dancing amid the joists, which made him fear a catastrophe. For the rest he could not distinguish the walls of the shaft behind the lattice work, to which he pressed his face. The lamps feebly lighted the mass of bodies at his feet. Only the captain's naked light, in the neighbouring tram, shone like a lighthouse. "This is four metres in diameter," continued Maheu, to instruct him. "The tubbing wants doing over again, for the water comes in everywhere. Stop! we are reaching the bottom: do you hear?" Étienne was, in fact, now asking himself the meaning of this noise of falling rain. A few large drops had at first sounded on the roof of the cage, like the beginning of a shower, and now the rain increased, streaming down, becoming at last a deluge. The roof must be full of holes, for a thread of water was flowing on to his shoulder and wetting him to the skin. The cold became icy and they were buried in black humidity, when they passed through a sudden flash of light, the vision of a cavern in which men were moving. But already they had fallen back into darkness. Maheu said: "That is the first main level. We are at three hundred and twenty metres. See the speed." Raising his lamp he lighted up a joist of the guides which fled by like a rail beneath a train going at full speed; and beyond, as before, nothing could be seen. They passed three other levels in flashes of light. The deafening rain continued to strike through the darkness. "How deep it is!" murmured Étienne. This fall seemed to last for hours. He was suffering for the cramped position he had taken, not daring to move, and especially tortured by Catherine's elbow. She did not speak a word; he only felt her against him and it warmed him. When the cage at last stopped at the bottom, at five hundred and fifty-four metres, he was astonished to learn that the descent had lasted exactly one minute. But the noise of the bolts fixing themselves, the sensation of solidity beneath, suddenly cheered him; and he was joking when he said to Catherine: "What have you got under your skin to be so warm? I've got your elbow in my belly, sure enough." Then she also burst out laughing. Stupid of him, still to take her for a boy! Were his eyes out? "It's in your eye that you've got my elbow!" she replied, in the midst of a storm of laughter which the astonished young man could not account for. The cage voided its burden of workers, who crossed the pit-eye hall, a chamber cut in the rock, vaulted with masonry, and lighted up by three large lamps. Over the iron flooring the porters were violently rolling laden trams. A cavernous odour exhaled from the walls, a freshness of saltpetre in which mingled hot breaths from the neighbouring stable. The openings of four galleries yawned here. "This way," said Maheu to Étienne. "You're not there yet. It is still two kilometres." The workmen separated, and were lost in groups in the depths of these black holes. Some fifteen went off into that on the left, and Étienne walked last, behind Maheu, who was preceded by Catherine, Zacharie, and Levaque. It was a large gallery for wagons, through a bed of solid rock, which had only needed walling here and there. In single file they still went on without a word, by the tiny flame of the lamps. The young man stumbled at every step, and entangled his feet in the rails. For a moment a hollow sound disturbed him, the sound of a distant storm, the violence of which seemed to increase and to come from the bowels of the earth. Was it the thunder of a landslip bringing on to their heads the enormous mass which separated them from the light? A gleam pierced the night, he felt the rock tremble, and when he had placed himself close to the wall, like his comrades, he saw a large white horse close to his face, harnessed to a train of wagons. On the first, and holding the reins, was seated Bébert, while Jeanlin, with his hands leaning on the edge of the last, was running barefooted behind. They again began their walk. Farther on they reached crossways, where two new galleries opened, and the band divided again, the workers gradually entering all the stalls of the mine. Now the wagon-gallery was constructed of wood; props of timber supported the roof, and made for the crumbly rock a screen of scaffolding, behind which one could see the plates of schist glimmering with mica, and the coarse masses of dull, rough sandstone. Trains of tubs, full or empty, continually passed, crossing each other with their thunder, borne into the shadow by vague beasts trotting by like phantoms. On the double way of a shunting line a long, black serpent slept, a train at standstill, with a snorting horse, whose crupper looked like a block fallen from the roof. Doors for ventilation were slowly opening and shutting. And as they advanced the gallery became more narrow and lower, and the roof irregular, forcing them to bend their backs constantly. Étienne struck his head hard; without his leather cap he would have broken his skull. However, he attentively followed the slightest gestures of Maheu, whose sombre profile was seen against the glimmer of the lamps. None of the workmen knocked themselves; they evidently knew each boss, each knot of wood or swelling in the rock. The young man also suffered from the slippery soil, which became damper and damper. At times he went through actual puddles, only revealed by the muddy splash of his feet. But what especially astonished him were the sudden changes of temperature. At the bottom of the shaft it was very chilly, and in the wagon-gallery, through which all the air of the mine passed, an icy breeze was blowing, with the violence of a tempest, between the narrow walls. Afterwards, as they penetrated more deeply along other passages which only received a meagre share of air, the wind fell and the heat increased, a suffocating heat as heavy as lead. Maheu had not again opened his mouth. He turned down another gallery to the right, simply saying to Étienne, without looking round: "The Guillaume seam." It was the seam which contained their cutting. At the first step, Étienne hurt his head and elbows. The sloping roof descended so low that, for twenty or thirty metres at a time, he had to walk bent double. The water came up to his ankles. After two hundred metres of this, he saw Levaque, Zacharie, and Catherine disappear, as though they had flown through a narrow fissure which was open in front of him. "We must climb," said Maheu. "Fasten your lamp to a button-hole and hang on to the wood." He himself disappeared, and Étienne had to follow him. This chimney-passage left in the seam was reserved for miners, and led to all the secondary passages. It was about the thickness of the coal-bed, hardly sixty centimetres. Fortunately the young man was thin, for, as he was still awkward, he hoisted himself up with a useless expense of muscle, flattening his shoulders and hips, advancing by the strength of his wrists, clinging to the planks. Fifteen metres higher they came on the first secondary passage, but they had to continue, as the cutting of Maheu and his mates was in the sixth passage, in hell, as they said; every fifteen metres the passages were placed over each other in never-ending succession through this cleft, which scraped back and chest. Étienne groaned as if the weight of the rocks had pounded his limbs; with torn hands and bruised legs, he also suffered from lack of air, so that he seemed to feel the blood bursting through his skin. He vaguely saw in one passage two squatting beasts, a big one and a little one, pushing trams: they were Lydie and Mouquette already at work. And he had still to climb the height of two cuttings! He was blinded by sweat, and he despaired of catching up the others, whose agile limbs he heard brushing against the rock with a long gliding movement. "Cheer up! here we are!" said Catherine's voice. He had, in fact, arrived, and another voice cried from the bottom of the cutting: "Well, is this the way to treat people? I have two kilometres to walk from Montsou and I am here first." It was Chaval, a tall, lean, bony fellow of twenty-five, with strongly marked features, who was in a bad humour at having to wait. When he saw Étienne he asked, with contemptuous surprise: "What's that?" And when Maheu had told him the story he added between his teeth: "These men are eating the bread of girls." The two men exchanged a look, lighted up by one of those instinctive hatreds which suddenly flame up. Étienne had felt the insult without yet understanding it. There was silence, and they got to work. At last all the seams were gradually filled, and the cuttings were in movement at every level and at the end of every passage. The devouring shaft had swallowed its daily ration of men: nearly seven hundred hands, who were now at work in this giant ant-hill, everywhere making holes in the earth, drilling it like an old worm-eaten piece of wood. And in the middle of the heavy silence and crushing weight of the strata one could hear, by placing one's ear to the rock, the movement of these human insects at work, from the flight of the cable which moved the cage up and down, to the biting of the tools cutting out the coal at the end of the stalls. Étienne, on turning round, found himself again pressed close to Catherine. But this time he caught a glimpse of the developing curves of her breast: he suddenly understood the warmth which had penetrated him. "You are a girl, then!" he exclaimed, stupefied. She replied in her cheerful way, without blushing: "Of course. You've taken your time to find it out!" CHAPTER IV The four pikemen had spread themselves one above the other over the whole face of the cutting. Separated by planks, hooked on to retain the fallen coal, they each occupied about four metres of the seam, and this seam was so thin, scarcely more than fifty centimetres thick at this spot, that they seemed to be flattened between the roof and the wall, dragging themselves along by their knees and elbows, and unable to turn without crushing their shoulders. In order to attack the coal, they had to lie on their sides with their necks twisted and arms raised, brandishing, in a sloping direction, their short-handled picks. Below there was, first, Zacharie; Levaque and Chaval were on the stages above, and at the very top was Maheu. Each worked at the slaty bed, which he dug out with blows of the pick; then he made two vertical cuttings in the bed and detached the block by burying an iron wedge in its upper part. The coal was rich; the block broke and rolled in fragments along their bellies and thighs. When these fragments, retained by the plank, had collected round them, the pikemen disappeared, buried in the narrow cleft. Maheu suffered most. At the top the temperature rose to thirty-five degrees, and the air was stagnant, so that in the long run it became lethal. In order to see, he had been obliged to fix his lamp to a nail near his head, and this lamp, close to his skull, still further heated his blood. But his torment was especially aggravated by the moisture. The rock above him, a few centimetres from his face, streamed with water, which fell in large continuous rapid drops with a sort of obstinate rhythm, always at the same spot. It was vain for him to twist his head or bend back his neck. They fell on his face, dropping unceasingly. In a quarter of an hour he was soaked, and at the same time covered with sweat, smoking as with the hot steam of a laundry. This morning a drop beating upon his eye made him swear. He would not leave his picking, he dealt great strokes which shook him violently between the two rocks, like a fly caught between two leaves of a book and in danger of being completely flattened. Not a word was exchanged. They all hammered; one only heard these irregular blows, which seemed veiled and remote. The sounds had a sonorous hoarseness, without any echo in the dead air. And it seemed that the darkness was an unknown blackness, thickened by the floating coal dust, made heavy by the gas which weighed on the eyes. The wicks of the lamps beneath their caps of metallic tissue only showed as reddish points. One could distinguish nothing. The cutting opened out above like a large chimney, flat and oblique, in which the soot of ten years had amassed a profound night. Spectral figures were moving in it, the gleams of light enabled one to catch a glimpse of a rounded hip, a knotty arm, a vigorous head, besmeared as if for a crime. Sometimes, blocks of coal shone suddenly as they became detached, illuminated by a crystalline reflection. Then everything fell back into darkness, pickaxes struck great hollow blows; one only heard panting chests, the grunting of discomfort and weariness beneath the weight of the air and the rain of the springs. Zacharie, with arms weakened by a spree of the night before, soon left his work on the pretence that more timbering was necessary. This allowed him to forget himself in quiet whistling, his eyes vaguely resting in the shade. Behind the pikemen nearly three metres of the seam were clear, and they had not yet taken the precaution of supporting the rock, having grown careless of danger and miserly of their time. "Here, you swell," cried the young man to Étienne, "hand up some wood." Étienne, who was learning from Catherine how to manage his shovel, had to raise the wood in the cutting. A small supply had remained over from yesterday. It was usually sent down every morning ready cut to fit the bed. "Hurry up there, damn it!" shouted Zacharie, seeing the new putter hoist himself up awkwardly in the midst of the coal, his arms embarrassed by four pieces of oak. He made a hole in the roof with his pickaxe, and then another in the wall, and wedged in the two ends of the wood, which thus supported the rock. In the afternoon the workers in the earth cutting took the rubbish left at the bottom of the gallery by the pikemen, and cleared out the exhausted section of the seam, in which they destroyed the wood, being only careful about the lower and upper roads for the haulage. Maheu ceased to groan. At last he had detached his block, and he wiped his streaming face on his sleeve. He was worried about what Zacharie was doing behind him. "Let it be," he said, "we will see after breakfast. Better go on hewing, if we want to make up our share of trams." "It's because it's sinking," replied the young man. "Look, there's a crack. It may slip." But the father shrugged his shoulders. Ah! nonsense! Slip! And if it did, it would not be the first time; they would get out of it all right. He grew angry at last, and sent his son to the front of the cutting. All of them, however, were now stretching themselves. Levaque, resting on his back, was swearing as he examined his left thumb which had been grazed by the fall of a piece of sandstone. Chaval had taken off his shirt in a fury, and was working with bare chest and back for the sake of coolness. They were already black with coal, soaked in a fine dust diluted with sweat which ran down in streams and pools. Maheu first began again to hammer, lower down, with his head level with the rock. Now the drop struck his forehead so obstinately that he seemed to feel it piercing a hole in the bone of his skull. "You mustn't mind," explained Catherine to Étienne, "they are always howling." And like a good-natured girl she went on with her lesson. Every laden tram arrived at the top in the same condition as it left the cutting, marked with a special metal token so that the receiver might put it to the reckoning of the stall. It was necessary, therefore, to be very careful to fill it, and only to take clean coal, otherwise it was refused at the receiving office. The young man, whose eyes were now becoming accustomed to the darkness, looked at her, still white with her chlorotic complexion, and he could not have told her age; he thought she must be twelve, she seemed to him so slight. However, he felt she must be older, with her boyish freedom, a simple audacity which confused him a little; she did not please him: he thought her too roguish with her pale Pierrot head, framed at the temples by the cap. But what astonished him was the strength of this child, a nervous strength which was blended with a good deal of skill. She filled her tram faster than he could, with quick small regular strokes of the shovel; she afterwards pushed it to the inclined way with a single slow push, without a hitch, easily passing under the low rocks. He tore himself to pieces, got off the rails, and was reduced to despair. It was certainly not a convenient road. It was sixty metres from the cutting to the upbrow, and the passage, which the miners in the earth cutting had not yet enlarged, was a mere tube with a very irregular roof swollen by innumerable bosses; at certain spots the laden tram could only just pass; the putter had to flatten himself, to push on his knees, in order not to break his head, and besides this the wood was already bending and yielding. One could see it broken in the middle in long pale rents like an over-weak crutch. One had to be careful not to graze oneself in these fractures; and beneath the slow crushing, which caused the splitting of billets of oak as large as the thigh, one had to glide almost on one's belly with a secret fear of suddenly hearing one's back break. "Again!" said Catherine, laughing. Étienne's tram had gone off the rails at the most difficult spot. He could not roll straight on these rails which sank in the damp earth, and he swore, became angry, and fought furiously with the wheels, which he could not get back into place in spite of exaggerated efforts. "Wait a bit," said the young girl. "If you get angry it will never go." Skilfully she had glided down and thrust her buttocks beneath the tram, and by putting the weight on her loins she raised it and replaced it. The weight was seven hundred kilograms. Surprised and ashamed, he stammered excuses. She was obliged to show him how to straddle his legs and brace his feet against the planking on both sides of the gallery, in order to give himself a more solid fulcrum. The body had to be bent, the arms made stiff so as to push with all the muscles of the shoulders and hips. During the journey he followed her and watched her proceed with tense back, her fists so low that she seemed trotting on all fours, like one of those dwarf beasts that perform at circuses. She sweated, panted, her joints cracked, but without a complaint, with the indifference of custom, as if it were the common wretchedness of all to live thus bent double. But he could not succeed in doing as much; his shoes troubled him, his body seemed broken by walking in this way with lowered head. At the end of a few minutes the position became a torture, an intolerable anguish, so painful that he got on his knees for a moment to straighten himself and breathe. Then at the upbrow there was more labour. She taught him to fill his tram quickly. At the top and bottom of this inclined plane, which served all the cuttings from one level to the other, there was a trammer--the brakesman above, the receiver below. These scamps of twelve to fifteen years shouted abominable words to each other, and to warn them it was necessary to yell still more violently. Then, as soon as there was an empty tram to send back, the receiver gave the signal and the putter embarked her full tram, the weight of which made the other ascend when the brakesman loosened his brake. Below, in the bottom gallery, were formed the trains which the horses drew to the shaft. "Here, you confounded rascals," cried Catherine in the inclined way, which was wood-lined, about a hundred metres long, and resounded like a gigantic trumpet. The trammers must have been resting, for neither of them replied. On all the levels haulage had stopped. A shrill girl's voice said at last: "One of them must be on Mouquette, sure enough!" There was a roar of laughter, and the putters of the whole seam held their sides. "Who is that?" asked Étienne of Catherine. The latter named little Lydie, a scamp who knew more than she ought, and who pushed her tram as stoutly as a woman in spite of her doll's arms. As to Mouquette, she was quite capable of being with both the trammers at once. But the voice of the receiver arose, shouting out to load. Doubtless a captain was passing beneath. Haulage began again on the nine levels, and one only heard the regular calls of the trammers, and the snorting of the putters arriving at the upbrow and steaming like over-laden mares. It was the element of bestiality which breathed in the pit, the sudden desire of the male, when a miner met one of these girls on all fours, with her flanks in the air and her hips bursting through her boy's breeches. And on each journey Étienne found again at the bottom the stuffiness of the cutting, the hollow and broken cadence of the axes, the deep painful sighs of the pikemen persisting in their work. All four were naked, mixed up with the coal, soaked with black mud up to the cap. At one moment it had been necessary to free Maheu, who was gasping, and to remove the planks so that the coal could fall into the passage. Zacharie and Levaque became enraged with the seam, which was now hard, they said, and which would make the condition of their account disastrous. Chaval turned, lying for a moment on his back, abusing Étienne, whose presence decidedly exasperated him. "A sort of worm; hasn't the strength of a girl! Are you going to fill your tub? It's to spare your arms, eh? Damned if I don't keep back the ten sous if you get us one refused!" The young man avoided replying, too happy at present to have found this convict's labour and accepting the brutal rule of the worker by master worker. But he could no longer walk, his feet were bleeding, his limbs torn by horrible cramps, his body confined in an iron girdle. Fortunately it was ten o'clock, and the stall decided to have breakfast. Maheu had a watch, but he did not even look at it. At the bottom of this starless night he was never five minutes out. All put on their shirts and jackets. Then, descending from the cutting they squatted down, their elbows to their sides, their buttocks on their heels, in that posture so habitual with miners that they keep it even when out of the mine, without feeling the need of a stone or a beam to sit on. And each, having taken out his brick, bit seriously at the thick slice, uttering occasional words on the morning's work. Catherine, who remained standing, at last joined Étienne, who had stretched himself out farther along, across the rails, with his back against the planking. There was a place there almost dry. "You don't eat?" she said to him, with her mouth full and her brick in her hand. Then she remembered that this youth, wandering about at night without a sou, perhaps had not a bit of bread. "Will you share with me?" And as he refused, declaring that he was not hungry, while his voice trembled with the gnawing in his stomach, she went on cheerfully: "Ah! if you are fastidious! But here, I've only bitten on that side. I'll give you this." She had already broken the bread and butter into two pieces. The young man, taking his half, restrained himself from devouring it all at once, and placed his arms on his thighs, so that she should not see how he trembled. With her quiet air of good comradeship she lay beside him, at full length on her stomach, with her chin in one hand, slowly eating with the other. Their lamps, placed between them, lit up their faces. Catherine looked at him a moment in silence. She must have found him handsome, with his delicate face and black moustache. She vaguely smiled with pleasure. "Then you are an engine-driver, and they sent you away from your railway. Why?" "Because I struck my chief." She remained stupefied, overwhelmed, with her hereditary ideas of subordination and passive obedience. "I ought to say that I had been drinking," he went on, and when I drink I get mad--I could devour myself, and I could devour other people. Yes; I can't swallow two small glasses without wanting to kill someone. Then I am ill for two days." "You mustn't drink," she said, seriously. "Ah, don't be afraid. I know myself." And he shook his head. He hated brandy with the hatred of the last child of a race of drunkards, who suffered in his flesh from all those ancestors, soaked and driven mad by alcohol to such a point that the least drop had become poison to him. "It is because of mother that I didn't like being turned into the street," he said, after having swallowed a mouthful. "Mother is not happy, and I used to send her a five-franc piece now and then." "Where is she, then, your mother?" "At Paris. Laundress, Rue de la Goutte-d'or." There was silence. When he thought of these things a tremor dimmed his dark eyes, the sudden anguish of the injury he brooded over in his fine youthful strength. For a moment he remained with his looks buried in the darkness of the mine; and at that depth, beneath the weight and suffocation of the earth, he saw his childhood again, his mother still beautiful and strong, forsaken by his father, then taken up again after having married another man, living with the two men who ruined her, rolling with them in the gutter in drink and ordure. It was down there, he recalled the street, the details came back to him; the dirty linen in the middle of the shop, the drunken carousals that made the house stink, and the jaw-breaking blows. "Now," he began again, in a slow voice, "I haven't even thirty sous to make her presents with. She will die of misery, sure enough." He shrugged his shoulders with despair, and again bit at his bread and butter. "Will you drink?" asked Catherine, uncorking her tin. "Oh, it's coffee, it won't hurt you. One gets dry when one eats like that." But he refused; it was quite enough to have taken half her bread. However, she insisted good-naturedly, and said at last: "Well, I will drink before you since you are so polite. Only you can't refuse now, it would be rude." She held out her tin to him. She had got on to her knees and he saw her quite close to him, lit up by the two lamps. Why had he found her ugly? Now that she was black, her face powdered with fine charcoal, she seemed to him singularly charming. In this face surrounded by shadow, the teeth in the broad mouth shone with whiteness, while the eyes looked large and gleamed with a greenish reflection, like a cat's eyes. A lock of red hair which had escaped from her cap tickled her ear and made her laugh. She no longer seemed so young, she might be quite fourteen. "To please you," he said, drinking and giving her back the tin. She swallowed a second mouthful and forced him to take one too, wishing to share, she said; and that little tin that went from one mouth to the other amused them. He suddenly asked himself if he should not take her in his arms and kiss her lips. She had large lips of a pale rose colour, made vivid by the coal, which tormented him with increasing desire. But he did not dare, intimidated before her, only having known girls on the streets at Lille of the lowest order, and not realizing how one ought to behave with a work-girl still living with her family. "You must be about fourteen then?" he asked, after having gone back to his bread. She was astonished, almost angry. "What? fourteen! But I am fifteen! It's true I'm not big. Girls don't grow quick with us." He went on questioning her and she told everything without boldness or shame. For the rest she was not ignorant concerning man and woman, although he felt that her body was virginal, with the virginity of a child delayed in her sexual maturity by the environment of bad air and weariness in which she lived. When he spoke of Mouquette, in order to embarrass her, she told some horrible stories in a quiet voice, with much amusement. Ah! she did some fine things! And as he asked if she herself had no lovers, she replied jokingly that she did not wish to vex her mother, but that it must happen some day. Her shoulders were bent. She shivered a little from the coldness of her garments soaked in sweat, with a gentle resigned air, ready to submit to things and men. "People can find lovers when they all live together, can't they?" "Sure enough!" "And then it doesn't hurt any one. One doesn't tell the priest." "Oh! the priest! I don't care for him! But there is the Black Man." "What do you mean, the Black Man?" "The old miner who comes back into the pit and wrings naughty girls' necks." He looked at her, afraid that she was making fun of him. "You believe in those stupid things? Then you don't know anything." "Yes, I do. I can read and write. That is useful among us; in father and mother's time they learnt nothing." She was certainly very charming. When she had finished her bread and butter, he would take her and kiss her on her large rosy lips. It was the resolution of timidity, a thought of violence which choked his voice. These boy's clothes--this jacket and these breeches--on the girl's flesh excited and troubled him. He had swallowed his last mouthful. He drank from the tin and gave it back for her to empty. Now the moment for action had come, and he cast a restless glance at the miners farther on. But a shadow blocked the gallery. For a moment Chaval stood and looked at them from afar. He came forward, having assured himself that Maheu could not see him; and as Catherine was seated on the earth he seized her by the shoulders, drew her head back, and tranquilly crushed her mouth beneath a brutal kiss, affecting not to notice Étienne. There was in that kiss an act of possession, a sort of jealous resolution. However, the young girl was offended. "Let me go, do you hear?" He kept hold of her head and looked into her eyes. His moustache and small red beard flamed in his black face with its large eagle nose. He let her go at last, and went away without speaking a word. A shudder had frozen Étienne. It was stupid to have waited. He could certainly not kiss her now, for she would, perhaps, think that he wished to behave like the other. In his wounded vanity he experienced real despair. "Why did you lie?" he said, in a low voice. "He's your lover." "But no, I swear," she cried. "There is not that between us. Sometimes he likes a joke; he doesn't even belong here; it's six months since he came from the Pas-de-Calais." Both rose; work was about to be resumed. When she saw him so cold she seemed annoyed. Doubtless she found him handsomer than the other; she would have preferred him perhaps. The idea of some amiable, consoling relationship disturbed her; and when the young man saw with surprise that his lamp was burning blue with a large pale ring, she tried at least to amuse him. "Come, I will show you something," she said, in a friendly way. When she had led him to the bottom of the cutting, she pointed out to him a crevice in the coal. A slight bubbling escaped from it, a little noise like the warbling of a bird. "Put your hand there; you'll feel the wind. It's fire-damp." He was surprised. Was that all? Was that the terrible thing which blew everything up? She laughed, she said there was a good deal of it to-day to make the flame of the lamps so blue. "Now, if you've done chattering, lazy louts!" cried Maheu's rough voice. Catherine and Étienne hastened to fill their trams, and pushed them to the upbrow with stiffened back, crawling beneath the bossy roof of the passage. Even after the second journey, the sweat ran off them and their joints began to crack. The pikemen had resumed work in the cutting. The men often shortened their breakfast to avoid getting cold; and their bricks, eaten in this way, far from the sun, with silent voracity, loaded their stomachs with lead. Stretched on their sides they hammered more loudly, with the one fixed idea of filling a large number of trams. Every thought disappeared in this rage for gain which was so hard to earn. They no longer felt the water which streamed on them and swelled their limbs, the cramps of forced attitudes, the suffocation of the darkness in which they grew pale, like plants put in a cellar. Yet, as the day advanced, the air became more poisoned and heated with the smoke of the lamps, with the pestilence of their breaths, with the asphyxia of the fire-damp--blinding to the eyes like spiders' webs--which only the aeration of the night could sweep away. At the bottom of their mole-hill, beneath the weight of the earth, with no more breath in their inflamed lungs, they went on hammering. CHAPTER V Maheu, without looking at his watch which he had left in his jacket, stopped and said: "One o'clock directly. Zacharie, is it done?" The young man had just been at the planking. In the midst of his labour he had been lying on his back, with dreamy eyes, thinking over a game of hockey of the night before. He woke up and replied: "Yes, it will do; we shall see to-morrow." And he came back to take his place at the cutting. Levaque and Chaval had also dropped their picks. They were all resting. They wiped their faces on their naked arms and looked at the roof, in which slaty masses were cracking. They only spoke about their work. "Another chance," murmured Chaval, "of getting into loose earth. They didn't take account of that in the bargain." "Rascals!" growled Levaque. "They only want to bury us in it." Zacharie began to laugh. He cared little for the work and the rest, but it amused him to hear the Company abused. In his placid way Maheu explained that the nature of the soil changed every twenty metres. One must be just; they could not foresee everything. Then, when the two others went on talking against the masters, he became restless, and looked around him. "Hush! that's enough." "You're right," said Levaque, also lowering his voice; "it isn't wholesome." A morbid dread of spies haunted them, even at this depth, as if the shareholders' coal, while still in the seam, might have ears. "That won't prevent me," added Chaval loudly, in a defiant manner, "from lodging a brick in the belly of that damned Dansaert, if he talks to me as he did the other day. I won't prevent him, I won't, from buying pretty girls with a white skin." This time Zacharie burst out laughing. The head captain's love for Pierronne was a constant joke in the pit. Even Catherine rested on her shovel at the bottom of the cutting, holding her sides, and in a few words told Étienne the joke; while Maheu became angry, seized by a fear which he could not conceal. "Will you hold your tongue, eh? Wait till you're alone if you want to get into trouble." He was still speaking when the sound of steps was heard in the upper gallery. Almost immediately the engineer of the mine, little Négrel, as the workmen called him among themselves, appeared at the top of the cutting, accompanied by Dansaert, the head captain. "Didn't I say so?" muttered Maheu. "There's always someone there, rising out of the ground." Paul Négrel, M. Hennebeau's nephew, was a young man of twenty-six, refined and handsome, with curly hair and brown moustache. His pointed nose and sparkling eyes gave him the air of an amiable ferret of sceptical intelligence, which changed into an abrupt authoritative manner in his relations with the workmen. He was dressed like them, and like them smeared with coal; to make them respect him he exhibited a dare-devil courage, passing through the most difficult spots and always first when landslips or fire-damp explosions occurred. "Here we are, are we not, Dansaert?" he asked. The head captain, a coarse-faced Belgian, with a large sensual nose, replied with exaggerated politeness: "Yes, Monsieur Négrel. Here is the man who was taken on this morning." Both of them had slid down into the middle of the cutting. They made Étienne come up. The engineer raised his lamp and looked at him without asking any questions. "Good," he said at last. "But I don't like unknown men to be picked up from the road. Don't do it again." He did not listen to the explanations given to him, the necessities of work, the desire to replace women by men for the haulage. He had begun to examine the roof while the pikemen had taken up their picks again. Suddenly he called out: "I say there, Maheu; have you no care for life? By heavens! you will all be buried here!" "Oh! it's solid," replied the workman tranquilly. "What! solid! but the rock is giving already, and you are planting props at more than two metres, as if you grudged it! Ah! you are all alike. You will let your skull be flattened rather than leave the seam to give the necessary time to the timbering! I must ask you to prop that immediately. Double the timbering--do you understand?" And in face of the unwillingness of the miners who disputed the point, saying that they were good judges of their safety, he became angry. "Go along! when your heads are smashed, is it you who will have to bear the consequences? Not at all! it will be the Company which will have to pay you pensions, you or your wives. I tell you again that we know you; in order to get two extra trams by evening you would sell your skins." Maheu, in spite of the anger which was gradually mastering him, still answered steadily: "If they paid us enough we should prop it better." The engineer shrugged his shoulders without replying. He had descended the cutting, and only said in conclusion, from below: "You have an hour. Set to work, all of you; and I give you notice that the stall is fined three francs." A low growl from the pikemen greeted these words. The force of the system alone restrained them, that military system which, from the trammer to the head captain, ground one beneath the other. Chaval and Levaque, however, made a furious gesture, while Maheu restrained them by a glance, and Zacharie shrugged his shoulders chaffingly. But Étienne was, perhaps, most affected. Since he had found himself at the bottom of this hell a slow rebellion was rising within him. He looked at the resigned Catherine, with her lowered back. Was it possible to kill oneself at this hard toil, in this deadly darkness, and not even to gain the few pence to buy one's daily bread? However, Négrel went off with Dansaert, who was content to approve by a continual movement of his head. And their voices again rose; they had just stopped once more, and were examining the timbering in the gallery, which the pikemen were obliged to look after for a length of ten metres behind the cutting. "Didn't I tell you that they care nothing?" cried the engineer. "And you! why, in the devil's name, don't you watch them?" "But I do--I do," stammered the head captain. "One gets tired of repeating things." Négrel called loudly: "Maheu! Maheu!" They all came down. He went on: "Do you see that? Will that hold? It's a twopenny-halfpenny construction! Here is a beam which the posts don't carry already, it was done so hastily. By Jove! I understand how it is that the mending costs us so much. It'll do, won't it? if it lasts as long as you have the care of it; and then it may go smash, and the Company is obliged to have an army of repairers. Look at it down there; it is mere botching!" Chaval wished to speak, but he silenced him. "No! I know what you are going to say. Let them pay you more, eh? Very well! I warn you that you will force the managers to do something: they will pay you the planking separately, and proportionately reduce the price of the trams. We shall see if you will gain that way! Meanwhile, prop that over again, at once; I shall pass to-morrow." Amid the dismay caused by this threat he went away. Dansaert, who had been so humble, remained behind a few moments, to say brutally to the men: "You get me into a row, you here. I'll give you something more than three francs fine, I will. Look out!" Then, when he had gone, Maheu broke out in his turn: "By God! what's fair is fair! I like people to be calm, because that's the only way of getting along, but at last they make you mad. Did you hear? The tram lowered, and the planking separately! Another way of paying us less. By God it is!" He looked for someone upon whom to vent his anger, and saw Catherine and Étienne swinging their arms. "Will you just fetch me some wood! What does it matter to you? I'll put my foot into you somewhere!" Étienne went to carry it without rancour for this rough speech, so furious himself against the masters that he thought the miners too good-natured. As for the others, Levaque and Chaval had found relief in strong language. All of them, even Zacharie, were timbering furiously. For nearly half an hour one only heard the creaking of wood wedged in by blows of the hammer. They no longer spoke, they snorted, became enraged with the rock, which they would have hustled and driven back by the force of their shoulders if they had been able. "That's enough," said Maheu at last, worn out with anger and fatigue. "An hour and a half! A fine day's work! We shan't get fifty sous! I'm off. This disgusts me." Though there was still half an hour of work left he dressed himself. The others imitated him. The mere sight of the cutting enraged them. As the putter had gone back to the haulage they called her, irritated at her zeal: let the coal take care of itself. And the six, their tools under their arms, set out to walk the two kilometres back, returning to the shaft by the road of the morning. At the chimney Catherine and Étienne were delayed while the pikemen slid down. They met little Lydie, who stopped in a gallery to let them pass, and told them of the disappearance of Mouquette, whose nose had been bleeding so much that she had been away an hour, bathing her face somewhere, no one knew where. Then, when they left her, the child began again to push her tram, weary and muddy, stiffening her insect-like arms and legs like a lean black ant struggling with a load that was too heavy for it. They let themselves down on their backs, flattening their shoulders for fear of scratching the skin on their foreheads, and they walked so close to the polished rock at the back of the stalls that they were obliged from time to time to hold on to the woodwork, so that their backsides should not catch fire, as they said jokingly. Below they found themselves alone. Red stars disappeared afar at a bend in the passage. Their cheerfulness fell, they began to walk with the heavy step of fatigue, she in front, he behind. Their lamps were blackened. He could scarcely see her, drowned in a sort of smoky mist; and the idea that she was a girl disturbed him because he felt that it was stupid not to embrace her, and yet the recollection of the other man prevented him. Certainly she had lied to him: the other was her lover, they lay together on all those heaps of slaty coal, for she had a loose woman's gait. He sulked without reason, as if she had deceived him. She, however, every moment turned round, warned him of obstacles, and seemed to invite him to be affectionate. They were so lost here, it would have been so easy to laugh together like good friends! At last they entered the large haulage gallery; it was a relief to the indecision from which he was suffering; while she once more had a saddened look, the regret for a happiness which they would not find again. Now the subterranean life rumbled around them with a continual passing of captains, the come and go of the trams drawn by trotting horses. Lamps starred the night everywhere. They had to efface themselves against the rock to leave the path free to shadowy men and beasts, whose breath came against their faces. Jeanlin, running barefooted behind his tram, cried out some naughtiness to them which they could not hear amid the thunder of the wheels. They still went on, she now silent, he not recognizing the turnings and roads of the morning, and fancying that she was leading him deeper and deeper into the earth; and what specially troubled him was the cold, an increasing cold which he had felt on emerging from the cutting, and which caused him to shiver the more the nearer they approached the shaft. Between the narrow walls the column of air now blew like a tempest. He despaired of ever coming to the end, when suddenly they found themselves in the pit-eye hall. Chaval cast a sidelong glance at them, his mouth drawn with suspicion. The others were there, covered with sweat in the icy current, silent like himself, swallowing their grunts of rage. They had arrived too soon and could not be taken to the top for half an hour, more especially since some complicated manoeuvres were going on for lowering a horse. The porters were still rolling the trams with the deafening sound of old iron in movement, and the cages were flying up, disappearing in the rain which fell from the black hole. Below, the sump, a cesspool ten metres deep, filled with this streaming water, also exhaled its muddy moisture. Men were constantly moving around the shaft, pulling the signal cords, pressing on the arms of levers, in the midst of this spray in which their garments were soaked. The reddish light of three open lamps cut out great moving shadows and gave to this subterranean hall the air of a villainous cavern, some bandits' forge near a torrent. Maheu made one last effort. He approached Pierron, who had gone on duty at six o'clock. "Here! you might as well let us go up." But the porter, a handsome fellow with strong limbs and a gentle face, refused with a frightened gesture. "Impossible: ask the captain. They would fine me." Fresh growls were stifled. Catherine bent forward and said in Étienne's ear: "Come and see the stable, then. That's a comfortable place!" And they had to escape without being seen, for it was forbidden to go there. It was on the left, at the end of a short gallery. Twenty-five metres in length and nearly four high, cut in the rock and vaulted with bricks, it could contain twenty horses. It was, in fact, comfortable there. There was a pleasant warmth of living beasts, the good odour of fresh and well-kept litter. The only lamp threw out the calm rays of a night-light. There were horses there, at rest, who turned their heads, with their large infantine eyes, then went back to their hay, without haste, like fat well-kept workers, loved by everybody. But as Catherine was reading aloud their names, written on zinc plates over the mangers, she uttered a slight cry, seeing something suddenly rise before her. It was Mouquette, who emerged in fright from a pile of straw in which she was sleeping. On Monday, when she was overtired with her Sunday's spree, she gave herself a violent blow on the nose, and left her cutting under the pretence of seeking water, to bury herself here with the horses in the warm litter. Her father, being weak with her, allowed it, at the risk of getting into trouble. Just then, Mouque, the father, entered, a short, bald, worn-out looking man, but still stout, which is rare in an old miner of fifty. Since he had been made a groom, he chewed to such a degree that his gums bled in his black mouth. On seeing the two with his daughter, he became angry. "What are you up to there, all of you? Come! up! The jades, bringing a man here! It's a fine thing to come and do your dirty tricks in my straw." Mouquette thought it funny, and held her sides. But Étienne, feeling awkward, moved away, while Catherine smiled at him. As all three returned to the pit-eye, Bébert and Jeanlin arrived there also with a train of tubs. There was a stoppage for the manoeuvring of the cages, and the young girl approached their horse, caressed it with her hand, and talked about it to her companion. It was Bataille, the _doyen_ of the mine, a white horse who had lived below for ten years. These ten years he had lived in this hole, occupying the same corner of the stable, doing the same task along the black galleries without ever seeing daylight. Very fat, with shining coat and a good-natured air, he seemed to lead the existence of a sage, sheltered from the evils of the world above. In this darkness, too, he had become very cunning. The passage in which he worked had grown so familiar to him that he could open the ventilation doors with his head, and he lowered himself to avoid knocks at the narrow spots. Without doubt, also, he counted his turns, for when he had made the regulation number of journeys he refused to do any more, and had to be led back to his manger. Now that old age was coming on, his cat's eyes were sometimes dimmed with melancholy. Perhaps he vaguely saw again, in the depths of his obscure dreams, the mill at which he was born, near Marchiennes, a mill placed on the edge of the Scarpe, surrounded by large fields over which the wind always blew. Something burnt in the air--an enormous lamp, the exact appearance of which escaped his beast's memory--and he stood with lowered head, trembling on his old feet, making useless efforts to recall the sun. Meanwhile, the manoeuvres went on in the shaft, the signal hammer had struck four blows, and the horse was being lowered; there was always excitement at such a time, for it sometimes happened that the beast was seized by such terror that it was landed dead. When put into a net at the top it struggled fiercely; then, when it felt the ground no longer beneath it, it remained as if petrified and disappeared without a quiver of the skin, with enlarged and fixed eyes. This animal being too big to pass between the guides, it had been necessary, when hooking it beneath the cage, to pull down the head and attach it to the flanks. The descent lasted nearly three minutes, the engine being slowed as a precaution. Below, the excitement was increasing. What then? Was he going to be left on the road, hanging in the blackness? At last he appeared in his stony immobility, his eye fixed and dilated with terror. It was a bay horse hardly three years of age, called Trompette. "Attention!" cried Father Mouque, whose duty it was to receive it. "Bring him here, don't undo him yet." Trompette was soon placed on the metal floor in a mass. Still he did not move: he seemed in a nightmare in this obscure infinite hole, this deep hall echoing with tumult. They were beginning to unfasten him when Bataille, who had just been unharnessed, approached and stretched out his neck to smell this companion who lay on the earth. The workmen jokingly enlarged the circle. Well! what pleasant odour did he find in him? But Bataille, deaf to mockery, became animated. He probably found in him the good odour of the open air, the forgotten odour of the sun on the grass. And he suddenly broke out into a sonorous neigh, full of musical gladness, in which there seemed to be the emotion of a sob. It was a greeting, the joy of those ancient things of which a gust had reached him, the melancholy of one more prisoner who would not ascend again until death. "Ah! that animal Bataille!" shouted the workmen, amused at the antics of their favourite, "he's talking with his mate." Trompette was unbound, but still did not move. He remained on his flank, as if he still felt the net restraining him, garrotted by fear. At last they got him up with a lash of the whip, dazed and his limbs quivering. And Father Mouque led away the two beasts, fraternizing together. "Here! Is it ready yet?" asked Maheu. It was necessary to clear the cages, and besides it was yet ten minutes before the hour for ascending. Little by little the stalls emptied, and the miners returned from all the galleries. There were already some fifty men there, damp and shivering, their inflamed chests panting on every side. Pierron, in spite of his mawkish face, struck his daughter Lydie, because she had left the cutting before time. Zacharie slyly pinched Mouquette, with a joke about warming himself. But the discontent increased; Chaval and Levaque narrated the engineer's threat, the tram to be lowered in price, and the planking paid separately. And exclamations greeted this scheme, a rebellion was germinating in this little corner, nearly six hundred metres beneath the earth. Soon they could not restrain their voices; these men, soiled by coal, and frozen by the delay, accused the Company of killing half their workers at the bottom, and starving the other half to death. Étienne listened, trembling. "Quick, quick!" repeated the captain, Richomme, to the porters. He hastened the preparations for the ascent, not wishing to be hard, pretending not to hear. However, the murmurs became so loud that he was obliged to notice them. They were calling out behind him that this would not last always, and that one fine day the whole affair would be smashed up. "You're sensible," he said to Maheu; "make them hold their tongues. When one hasn't got power one must have sense." But Maheu, who was getting calm, and had at last become anxious, did not interfere. Suddenly the voices fell; Négrel and Dansaert, returning from their inspection, entered from a gallery, both of them sweating. The habit of discipline made the men stand in rows while the engineer passed through the group without a word. He got into one tram, and the head captain into another, the signal was sounded five times, ringing for the butcher's meat, as they said for the masters; and the cage flew up in the air in the midst of a gloomy silence. CHAPTER VI As he ascended in the cage heaped up with four others, Étienne resolved to continue his famished course along the roads. One might as well die at once as go down to the bottom of that hell, where it was not even possible to earn one's bread. Catherine, in the tram above him, was no longer at his side with her pleasant enervating warmth; and he preferred to avoid foolish thoughts and to go away, for with his wider education he felt nothing of the resignation of this flock; he would end by strangling one of the masters. Suddenly he was blinded. The ascent had been so rapid that he was stunned by the daylight, and his eyelids quivered in the brightness to which he had already grown unaccustomed. It was none the less a relief to him to feel the cage settle on to the bars. A lander opened the door, and a flood of workmen leapt out of the trams. "I say, Mouquet," whispered Zacharie in the lander's ear, "are we off to the Volcan to-night?" The Volcan was a café-concert at Montsou. Mouquet winked his left eye with a silent laugh which made his jaws gape. Short and stout like his father, he had the impudent face of a fellow who devours everything without care for the morrow. Just then Mouquette came out in her turn, and he gave her a formidable smack on the flank by way of fraternal tenderness. Étienne hardly recognized the lofty nave of the receiving-hall, which had before looked imposing in the ambiguous light of the lanterns. It was simply bare and dirty; a dull light entered through the dusty windows. The engine alone shone at the end with its copper; the well-greased steel cables moved like ribbons soaked in ink, and the pulleys above, the enormous scaffold which supported them, the cages, the trams, all this prodigality of metal made the hall look sombre with their hard grey tones of old iron. Without ceasing, the rumbling of the wheels shook the metal floor; while from the coal thus put in motion there arose a fine charcoal powder which powdered black the soil, the walls, even the joists of the steeple. But Chaval, after glancing at the table of counters in the receiver's little glass office, came back furious. He had discovered that two of their trams had been rejected, one because it did not contain the regulation amount, the other because the coal was not clean. "This finishes the day," he cried. "Twenty sous less again! This is because we take on lazy rascals who use their arms as a pig does his tail!" And his sidelong look at Étienne completed his thought. The latter was tempted to reply by a blow. Then he asked himself what would be the use since he was going away. This decided him absolutely. "It's not possible to do it right the first day," said Maheu, to restore peace; "he'll do better to-morrow." They were all none the less soured, and disturbed by the need to quarrel. As they passed to the lamp cabin to give up their lamps, Levaque began to abuse the lamp-man, whom he accused of not properly cleaning his lamp. They only slackened down a little in the shed where the fire was still burning. It had even been too heavily piled up, for the stove was red and the vast room, without a window, seemed to be in flames, to such a degree did the reflection make bloody the walls. And there were grunts of joy, all the backs were roasted at a distance till they smoked like soup. When their flanks were burning they cooked their bellies. Mouquette had tranquilly let down her breeches to dry her chemise. Some lads were making fun of her; they burst out laughing because she suddenly showed them her posterior, a gesture which in her was the extreme expression of contempt. "I'm off," said Chaval, who had shut up his tools in his box. No one moved. Only Mouquette hastened, and went out behind him on the pretext that they were both going back to Montsou. But the others went on joking; they knew that he would have no more to do with her. Catherine, however, who seemed preoccupied, was speaking in a low voice to her father. The latter was surprised; then he agreed with a nod; and calling Étienne to give him back his bundle: "Listen," he said: "you haven't a sou; you will have time to starve before the fortnight's out. Shall I try and get you credit somewhere?" The young man stood for a moment confused. He had been just about to claim his thirty sous and go. But shame restrained him before the young girl. She looked at him fixedly; perhaps she would think he was shirking the work. "You know I can promise you nothing," Maheu went on. "They can but refuse us." Then Étienne consented. They would refuse. Besides, it would bind him to nothing, he could still go away after having eaten something. Then he was dissatisfied at not having refused, seeing Catherine's joy, a pretty laugh, a look of friendship, happy at having been useful to him. What was the good of it all? When they had put on their sabots and shut their boxes, the Maheus left the shed, following their comrades, who were leaving one by one after they had warmed themselves. Étienne went behind. Levaque and his urchin joined the band. But as they crossed the screening place a scene of violence stopped them. It was in a vast shed, with beams blackened by the powder, and large shutters, through which blew a constant current of air. The coal trams arrived straight from the receiving-room, and were then overturned by the tipping-cradles on to hoppers, long iron slides; and to right and to left of these the screeners, mounted on steps and armed with shovels and rakes, separated the stone and swept together the clean coal, which afterwards fell through funnels into the railway wagons beneath the shed. Philoméne Levaque was there, thin and pale, with the sheep-like face of a girl who spat blood. With head protected by a fragment of blue wool, and hands and arms black to the elbows, she was screening beneath an old witch, the mother of Pierronne, the Brulé, as she was called, with terrible owl's eyes, and a mouth drawn in like a miser's purse. They were abusing each other, the young one accusing the elder of raking her stones so that she could not get a basketful in ten minutes. They were paid by the basket, and these quarrels were constantly arising. Hair was flying, and hands were making black marks on red faces. "Give it her bloody well!" cried Zacharie, from above, to his mistress. All the screeners laughed. But the Brulé turned snappishly on the young man. "Now, then, dirty beast! You'd better to own the two kids you have filled her with. Fancy that, a slip of eighteen, who can't stand straight!" Maheu had to prevent his son from descending to see, as he said, the colour of this carcass's skin. A foreman came up and the rakes again began to move the coal. One could only see, all along the hoppers, the round backs of women squabbling incessantly over the stones. Outside, the wind had suddenly quieted; a moist cold was falling from a grey sky. The colliers thrust out their shoulders, folded their arms, and set forth irregularly, with a rolling gait which made their large bones stand out beneath their thin garments. In the daylight they looked like a band of Negroes thrown into the mud. Some of them had not finished their bricks; and the remains of the bread carried between the shirt and the jacket made them humpbacked. "Hallo! there's Bouteloup." said Zacharie, grinning. Levaque without stopping exchanged two sentences with his lodger, a big dark fellow of thirty-five with a placid, honest air: "Is the soup ready, Louis?" "I believe it is." "Then the wife is good-humoured to-day." "Yes, I believe she is." Other miners bound for the earth-cutting came up, new bands which one by one were engulfed in the pit. It was the three o'clock descent, more men for the pit to devour, the gangs who would replace the sets of the pikemen at the bottom of the passages. The mine never rested; day and night human insects were digging out the rock six hundred metres below the beetroot fields. However, the youngsters went ahead. Jeanlin confided to Bébert a complicated plan for getting four sous' worth of tobacco on credit, while Lydie followed respectfully at a distance. Catherine came with Zacharie and Étienne. None of them spoke. And it was only in front of the Avantage inn that Maheu and Levaque rejoined them. "Here we are," said the former to Étienne; "will you come in?" They separated. Catherine had stood a moment motionless, gazing once more at the young man with her large eyes full of greenish limpidity like spring water, the crystal deepened the more by her black face. She smiled and disappeared with the others on the road that led up to the settlement. The inn was situated between the village and the mine, at the crossing of two roads. It was a two-storied brick house, whitewashed from top to bottom, enlivened around the windows by a broad pale-blue border. On a square sign-board nailed above the door, one read in yellow letters: _A l'Avantage, licensed to Rasseneur._ Behind stretched a skittle-ground enclosed by a hedge. The Company, who had done everything to buy up the property placed within its vast territory, was in despair over this inn in the open fields, at the very entrance of the Voreux. "Go in," said Maheu to Étienne. The little parlour was quite bare with its white walls, its three tables and its dozen chairs, its deal counter about the size of a kitchen dresser. There were a dozen glasses at most, three bottles of liqueur, a decanter, a small zinc tank with a pewter tap to hold the beer; and nothing else--not a figure, not a little table, not a game. In the metal fireplace, which was bright and polished, a coal fire was burning quietly. On the flags a thin layer of white sand drank up the constant moisture of this water-soaked land. "A glass," ordered Maheu of a big fair girl, a neighbour's daughter who sometimes took charge of the place. "Is Rasseneur in?" The girl turned the tap, replying that the master would soon return. In a long, slow gulp, the miner emptied half his glass to sweep away the dust which filled his throat. He offered nothing to his companion. One other customer, a damp and besmeared miner, was seated before the table, drinking his beer in silence, with an air of deep meditation. A third entered, was served in response to a gesture, paid and went away without uttering a word. But a stout man of thirty-eight, with a round shaven face and a good-natured smile, now appeared. It was Rasseneur, a former pikeman whom the Company had dismissed three years ago, after a strike. A very good workman, he could speak well, put himself at the head of every opposition, and had at last become the chief of the discontented. His wife already held a license, like many miners' wives; and when he was thrown on to the street he became an innkeeper himself; having found the money, he placed his inn in front of the Voreux as a provocation to the Company. Now his house had prospered; it had become a centre, and he was enriched by the animosity he had gradually fostered in the hearts of his old comrades. "This is a lad I hired this morning," said Maheu at once. "Have you got one of your two rooms free, and will you give him credit for a fortnight?" Rasseneur's broad face suddenly expressed great suspicion. He examined Étienne with a glance, and replied, without giving himself the trouble to express any regret: "My two rooms are taken. Can't do it." The young man expected this refusal; but it hurt him nevertheless, and he was surprised at the sudden grief he experienced in going. No matter; he would go when he had received his thirty sous. The miner who was drinking at a table had left. Others, one by one, continued to come in to clear their throats, then went on their road with the same slouching gait. It was a simple swilling without joy or passion, the silent satisfaction of a need. "Then, there's no news?" Rasseneur asked in a peculiar tone of Maheu, who was finishing his beer in small gulps. The latter turned his head, and saw that only Étienne was near. "There's been more squabbling. Yes, about the timbering." He told the story. The innkeeper's face reddened, swelling with emotion, which flamed in his skin and eyes. At last he broke out: "Well, well! if they decide to lower the price they are done for." Étienne constrained him. However he went on, throwing sidelong glances in his direction. And there were reticences, and implications; he was talking of the manager, M. Hennebeau, of his wife, of his nephew, the little Négrel, without naming them, repeating that this could not go on, that things were bound to smash up one of these fine days. The misery was too great; and he spoke of the workshops that were closing, the workers who were going away. During the last month he had given more than six pounds of bread a day. He had heard the day before, that M. Deneulin, the owner of a neighbouring pit, could scarcely keep going. He had also received a letter from Lille full of disturbing details. "You know," he whispered, "it comes from that person you saw here one evening." But he was interrupted. His wife entered in her turn, a tall woman, lean and keen, with a long nose and violet cheeks. She was a much more radical politician than her husband. "Pluchart's letter," she said. "Ah! if that fellow was master things would soon go better." Étienne had been listening for a moment; he understood and became excited over these ideas of misery and revenge. This name, suddenly uttered, caused him to start. He said aloud, as if in spite of himself: "I know him--Pluchart." They looked at him. He had to add: "Yes, I am an engine-man: he was my foreman at Lille. A capable man. I have often talked with him." Rasseneur examined him afresh; and there was a rapid change on his face, a sudden sympathy. At last he said to his wife: "It's Maheu who brings me this gentleman, one of his putters, to see if there is a room for him upstairs, and if we can give him credit for a fortnight." Then the matter was settled in four words. There was a room; the lodger had left that morning. And the innkeeper, who was very excited, talked more freely, repeating that he only asked possibilities from the masters, without demanding, like so many others, things that were too hard to get. His wife shrugged her shoulders and demanded justice, absolutely. "Good evening," interrupted Maheu. "All that won't prevent men from going down, and as long as they go there will be people working themselves to death. Look how fresh you are, these three years that you've been out of it." "Yes, I'm very much better," declared Rasseneur, complacently. Étienne went as far as the door, thanking the miner, who was leaving; but the latter nodded his head without adding a word, and the young man watched him painfully climb up the road to the settlement. Madame Rasseneur, occupied with serving customers, asked him to wait a minute, when she would show him his room, where he could clean himself. Should he remain? He again felt hesitation, a discomfort which made him regret the freedom of the open road, the hunger beneath the sun, endured with the joy of being one's own master. It seemed to him that he had lived years from his arrival on the pit-bank, in the midst of squalls, to those hours passed under the earth on his belly in the black passages. And he shrank from beginning again; it was unjust and too hard. His man's pride revolted at the idea of becoming a crushed and blinded beast. While Étienne was thus debating with himself, his eyes, wandering over the immense plain, gradually began to see it clearly. He was surprised; he had not imagined the horizon was like this, when old Bonnemort had pointed it out to him in the darkness. Before him he plainly saw the Voreux in a fold of the earth, with its wood and brick buildings, the tarred screening-shed, the slate-covered steeple, the engine-room and the tall, pale red chimney, all massed together with that evil air. But around these buildings the space extended, and he had not imagined it so large, changed into an inky sea by the ascending waves of coal soot, bristling with high trestles which carried the rails of the foot-bridges, encumbered in one corner with the timber supply, which looked like the harvest of a mown forest. Towards the right the pit-bank hid the view, colossal as a barricade of giants, already covered with grass in its older part, consumed at the other end by an interior fire which had been burning for a year with a thick smoke, leaving at the surface in the midst of the pale grey of the slates and sandstones long trails of bleeding rust. Then the fields unrolled, the endless fields of wheat and beetroot, naked at this season of the year, marshes with scanty vegetation, cut by a few stunted willows, distant meadows separated by slender rows of poplars. Very far away little pale patches indicated towns, Marchiennes to the north, Montsou to the south; while the forest of Vandame to the east bordered the horizon with the violet line of its leafless trees. And beneath the livid sky, in the faint daylight of this winter afternoon, it seemed as if all the blackness of the Voreux, and all its flying coal dust, had fallen upon the plain, powdering the trees, sanding the roads, sowing the earth. Étienne looked, and what especially surprised him was a canal, the canalized stream of the Scarpe, which he had not seen in the night. From the Voreux to Marchiennes this canal ran straight, like a dull silver ribbon two leagues long, an avenue lined by large trees, raised above the low earth, threading into space with the perspective of its green banks, its pale water into which glided the vermilion of the boats. Near one pit there was a wharf with moored vessels which were laden directly from the trams at the foot-bridges. Afterwards the canal made a curve, sloping by the marshes; and the whole soul of that smooth plain appeared to lie in this geometrical stream, which traversed it like a great road, carting coal and iron. Étienne's glance went up from the canal to the settlement built on the height, of which he could only distinguish the red tiles. Then his eyes rested again at the bottom of the clay slope, towards the Voreux, on two enormous masses of bricks made and burnt on the spot. A branch of the Company's railroad passed behind a paling, for the use of the pit. They must be sending down the last miners to the earth-cutting. Only one shrill note came from a truck pushed by men. One felt no longer the unknown darkness, the inexplicable thunder, the flaming of mysterious stars. Afar, the blast furnaces and the coke kilns had paled with the dawn. There only remained, unceasingly, the escapement of the pump, always breathing with the same thick, long breath, the ogre's breath of which he could now see the grey steam, and which nothing could satiate. Then Étienne suddenly made up his mind. Perhaps he seemed to see again Catherine's clear eyes, up there, at the entrance to the settlement. Perhaps, rather, it was the wind of revolt which came from the Voreux. He did not know, but he wished to go down again to the mine, to suffer and to fight. And he thought fiercely of those people Bonnemort had talked of, the crouching and sated god, to whom ten thousand starving men gave their flesh without knowing it. PART TWO CHAPTER I The Grégoires' property, Piolaine, was situated two kilometres to the east of Montsou, on the Joiselle road. The house was a large square building, without style, dating from the beginning of the last century. Of all the land that once belonged to it there only remained some thirty hectares, enclosed by walls, and easy to keep up. The orchard and kitchen garden especially were everywhere spoken of, being famous for the finest fruit and vegetables in the country. For the rest, there was no park, only a small wood. The avenue of old limes, a vault of foliage three hundred metres long, reaching from the gate to the porch, was one of the curiosities of this bare plain, on which one could count the large trees between Marchiennes and Beaugnies. On that morning the Grégoires got up at eight o'clock. Usually they never stirred until an hour later, being heavy sleepers; but last night's tempest had disturbed them. And while her husband had gone at once to see if the wind had made any havoc, Madame Grégoire went down to the kitchen in her slippers and flannel dressing-gown. She was short and stout, about fifty-eight years of age, and retained a broad, surprised, dollish face beneath the dazzling whiteness of her hair. "Mélanie," she said to the cook, "suppose you were to make the brioche this morning, since the dough is ready. Mademoiselle will not get up for half an hour yet, and she can eat it with her chocolate. Eh? It will be a surprise." The cook, a lean old woman who had served them for thirty years, laughed. "That's true! it will be a famous surprise. My stove is alight, and the oven must be hot; and then Honorine can help me a bit." Honorine, a girl of some twenty years, who had been taken in as a child and brought up in the house, now acted as housemaid. Besides these two women, the only other servant was the coachman, Francis, who undertook the heavy work. A gardener and his wife were occupied with the vegetables, the fruit, the flowers, and the poultry-yard. And as service here was patriarchal, this little world lived together, like one large family, on very good terms. Madame Grégoire, who had planned this surprise of the brioche in bed, waited to see the dough put in the oven. The kitchen was very large, and one guessed it was the most important room in the house by its extreme cleanliness and by the arsenal of saucepans, utensils, and pots which filled it. It gave an impression of good feeding. Provisions abounded, hanging from hooks or in cupboards. "And let it be well glazed, won't you?" Madame Grégoire said as she passed into the dining-room. In spite of the hot-air stove which warmed the whole house, a coal fire enlivened this room. In other respects it exhibited no luxury; a large table, chairs, a mahogany sideboard; only two deep easy-chairs betrayed a love of comfort, long happy hours of digestion. They never went into the drawing-room, they remained here in a family circle. Just then M. Grégoire came back dressed in a thick fustian jacket; he also was ruddy for his sixty years, with large, good-natured, honest features beneath the snow of his curly hair. He had seen the coachman and the gardener; there had been no damage of importance, nothing but a fallen chimney-pot. Every morning he liked to give a glance round Piolaine, which was not large enough to cause him anxiety, and from which he derived all the happiness of ownership. "And Cécile?" he asked, "isn't she up yet then?" "I can't make it out," replied his wife. "I thought I heard her moving." The table was set; there were three cups on the white cloth. They sent Honorine to see what had become of mademoiselle. But she came back immediately, restraining her laughter, stifling her voice, as if she were still upstairs in the bedroom. "Oh! if monsieur and madame could see mademoiselle! She sleeps; oh! she sleeps like an angel. One can't imagine it! It's a pleasure to look at her." The father and mother exchanged tender looks. He said, smiling: "Will you come and see?" "The poor little darling!" she murmured. "I'll come." And they went up together. The room was the only luxurious one in the house. It was draped in blue silk, and the furniture was lacquered white, with blue tracery--a spoilt child's whim, which her parents had gratified. In the vague whiteness of the bed, beneath the half-light which came through a curtain that was drawn back, the young girl was sleeping with her cheek resting on her naked arm. She was not pretty, too healthy, in too vigorous condition, fully developed at eighteen; but she had superb flesh, the freshness of milk, with her chestnut hair, her round face, and little willful nose lost between her cheeks. The coverlet had slipped down, and she was breathing so softly that her respiration did not even lift her already well-developed bosom. "That horrible wind must have prevented her from closing her eyes," said the mother softly. The father imposed silence with a gesture. Both of them leant down and gazed with adoration on this girl, in her virgin nakedness, whom they had desired so long, and who had come so late, when they had no longer hoped for her. They found her perfect, not at all too fat, and could never feed her sufficiently. And she went on sleeping, without feeling them near her, with their faces against hers. However, a slight movement disturbed her motionless face. They feared that they would wake her, and went out on tiptoe. "Hush!" said M. Grégoire, at the door. "If she has not slept we must leave her sleeping." "As long as she likes, the darling!" agreed Madame Grégoire. "We will wait." They went down and seated themselves in the easy-chairs in the dining-room; while the servants, laughing at mademoiselle's sound sleep, kept the chocolate on the stove without grumbling. He took up a newspaper; she knitted at a large woollen quilt. It was very hot, and not a sound was heard in the silent house. The Grégoires' fortune, about forty thousand francs a year, was entirely invested in a share of the Montsou mines. They would complacently narrate its origin, which dated from the very formation of the Company. Towards the beginning of the last century, there had been a mad search for coal between Lille and Valenciennes. The success of those who held the concession, which was afterwards to become the Anzin Company, had turned all heads. In every commune the ground was tested; and societies were formed and concessions grew up in a night. But among all the obstinate seekers of that epoch, Baron Desrumaux had certainly left the reputation for the most heroic intelligence. For forty years he had struggled without yielding, in the midst of continual obstacles: early searches unsuccessful, new pits abandoned at the end of long months of work, landslips which filled up borings, sudden inundations which drowned the workmen, hundreds of thousands of francs thrown into the earth; then the squabbles of the management, the panics of the shareholders, the struggle with the lords of the soil, who were resolved not to recognize royal concessions if no treaty was first made with themselves. He had at last founded the association of Desrumaux, Fauquenoix and Co. to exploit the Montsou concession, and the pits began to yield a small profit when two neighbouring concessions, that of Cougny, belonging to the Comte de Cougny, and that of Joiselle, belonging to the Cornille and Jenard Company, had nearly overwhelmed him beneath the terrible assault of their competition. Happily, on the 25th August 1760, a treaty was made between the three concessions, uniting them into a single one. The Montsou Mining Company was created, such as it still exists to-day. In the distribution they had divided the total property, according to the standard of the money of the time, into twenty-four sous, of which each was subdivided into twelve deniers, which made two hundred and eighty-eight deniers; and as the denier was worth ten thousand francs the capital represented a sum of nearly three millions. Desrumaux, dying but triumphant, received in this division six sous and three deniers. In those days the baron possessed Piolaine, which had three hundred hectares belonging to it, and he had in his service as steward Honoré Grégoire, a Picardy lad, the great-grandfather of Léon Grégoire, Cécile's father. When the Montsou treaty was made, Honoré, who had laid up savings to the amount of some fifty thousand francs, yielded tremblingly to his master's unshakable faith. He took out ten thousand francs in fine crowns, and took a denier, though with the fear of robbing his children of that sum. His son Eugéne, in fact, received very small dividends; and as he had become a bourgeois and had been foolish enough to throw away the other forty thousand francs of the paternal inheritance in a company that came to grief, he lived meanly enough. But the interest of the denier gradually increased. The fortune began with Félicien, who was able to realize a dream with which his grandfather, the old steward, had nursed his childhood--the purchase of dismembered Piolaine, which he acquired as national property for a ludicrous sum. However, bad years followed. It was necessary to await the conclusion of the revolutionary catastrophes, and afterwards Napoleon's bloody fall; and it was Léon Grégoire who profited at a stupefying rate of progress by the timid and uneasy investment of his great-grandfather. Those poor ten thousand francs grew and multiplied with the Company's prosperity. From 1820 they had brought in one hundred per cent, ten thousand francs. In 1844 they had produced twenty thousand; in 1850, forty. During two years the dividend had reached the prodigious figure of fifty thousand francs; the value of the denier, quoted at the Lille bourse at a million, had centupled in a century. M. Grégoire, who had been advised to sell out when this figure of a million was reached, had refused with his smiling paternal air. Six months later an industrial crisis broke out; the denier fell to six hundred thousand francs. But he still smiled; he regretted nothing, for the Grégoires had maintained an obstinate faith in their mine. It would rise again: God Himself was not so solid. Then with his religious faith was mixed profound gratitude towards an investment which for a century had supported the family in doing nothing. It was like a divinity of their own, whom their egoism surrounded with a kind of worship, the benefactor of the hearth, lulling them in their great bed of idleness, fattening them at their gluttonous table. From father to son it had gone on. Why risk displeasing fate by doubting it? And at the bottom of their fidelity there was a superstitious terror, a fear lest the million of the denier might suddenly melt away if they were to realize it and to put it in a drawer. It seemed to them more sheltered in the earth, from which a race of miners, generations of starving people, extracted it for them, a little every day, as they needed it. For the rest, happiness rained on this house. M. Grégoire, when very young, had married the daughter of a Marchiennes druggist, a plain, penniless girl, whom he adored, and who repaid him with happiness. She shut herself up in her household, and worshipped her husband, having no other will but his. No difference of tastes separated them, their desires were mingled in one idea of comfort; and they had thus lived for forty years, in affection and little mutual services. It was a well-regulated existence; the forty thousand francs were spent quietly, and the savings expended on Cécile, whose tardy birth had for a moment disturbed the budget. They still satisfied all her whims--a second horse, two more carriages, toilets sent from Paris. But they tasted in this one more joy; they thought nothing too good for their daughter, although they had such a horror of display that they had preserved the fashions of their youth. Every unprofitable expense seemed foolish to them. Suddenly the door opened, and a loud voice called out: "Hallo! What now? Having breakfast without me!" It was Cécile, just come from her bed, her eyes heavy with sleep. She had simply put up her hair and flung on a white woollen dressing-gown. "No, no!" said the mother; "you see we are all waiting. Eh? has the wind prevented you from sleeping, poor darling?" The young girl looked at her in great surprise. "Has it been windy? I didn't know anything about it. I haven't moved all night." Then they thought this funny, and all three began to laugh; the servants who were bringing in the breakfast also broke out laughing, so amused was the household at the idea that mademoiselle had been sleeping for twelve hours right off. The sight of the brioche completed the expansion of their faces. "What! Is it cooked, then?" said Cécile; "that must be a surprise for me! That'll be good now, hot, with the chocolate!" They sat down to table at last with the smoking chocolate in their cups, and for a long time talked of nothing but the brioche. Mélanie and Honorine remained to give details about the cooking and watched them stuffing themselves with greasy lips, saying that it was a pleasure to make a cake when one saw the masters enjoying it so much. But the dogs began to bark loudly; perhaps they announced the music mistress, who came from Marchiennes on Mondays and Fridays. A professor of literature also came. All the young girl's education was thus carried on at Piolaine in happy ignorance, with her childish whims, throwing the book out of the window as soon as anything wearied her. "It is M. Deneulin," said Honorine, returning. Behind her, Deneulin, a cousin of M. Grégoire's, appeared without ceremony; with his loud voice, his quick gestures, he had the appearance of an old cavalry officer. Although over fifty, his short hair and thick moustache were as black as ink. "Yes! It is I. Good day! Don't disturb yourselves." He had sat down amid the family's exclamations. They turned back at last to their chocolate. "Have you anything to tell me?" asked M. Grégoire. "No! nothing at all," Deneulin hastened to reply. "I came out on horseback to rub off the rust a bit, and as I passed your door I thought I would just look in." Cécile questioned him about Jeanne and Lucie, his daughters. They were perfectly well, the first was always at her painting, while the other, the elder, was training her voice at the piano from morning till night. And there was a slight quiver in his voice, a disquiet which he concealed beneath bursts of gaiety. M. Grégoire began again: "And everything goes well at the pit?" "Well, I am upset over this dirty crisis. Ah! we are paying for the prosperous years! They have built too many workshops, put down too many railways, invested too much capital with a view to a large return, and today the money is asleep. They can't get any more to make the whole thing work. Luckily things are not desperate; I shall get out of it somehow." Like his cousin he had inherited a denier in the Montsou mines. But being an enterprising engineer, tormented by the desire for a royal fortune, he had hastened to sell out when the denier had reached a million. For some months he had been maturing a scheme. His wife possessed, through an uncle, the little concession of Vandame, where only two pits were open--Jean-Bart and Gaston-Marie--in an abandoned state, and with such defective material that the output hardly covered the cost. Now he was meditating the repair of Jean-Bart, the renewal of the engine, and the enlargement of the shaft so as to facilitate the descent, keeping Gaston-Marie only for exhaustion purposes. They ought to be able to shovel up gold there, he said. The idea was sound. Only the million had been spent over it, and this damnable industrial crisis broke out at the moment when large profits would have shown that he was right. Besides, he was a bad manager, with a rough kindness towards his workmen, and since his wife's death he allowed himself to be pillaged, and also gave the rein to his daughters, the elder of whom talked of going on the stage, while the younger had already had three landscapes refused at the Salon, both of them joyous amid the downfall, and exhibiting in poverty their capacity for good household management. "You see, Léon," he went on, in a hesitating voice, "you were wrong not to sell out at the same time as I did; now everything is going down. You run risk, and if you had confided your money to me you would have seen what we should have done at Vandame in our mine!" M. Grégoire finished his chocolate without haste. He replied peacefully: "Never! You know that I don't want to speculate. I live quietly, and it would be too foolish to worry my head over business affairs. And as for Montsou, it may continue to go down, we shall always get our living out of it. It doesn't do to be so diabolically greedy! Then, listen, it is you who will bite your fingers one day, for Montsou will rise again and Cécile's grandchildren will still get their white bread out of it." Deneulin listened with a constrained smile. "Then," he murmured, "if I were to ask you to put a hundred thousand francs in my affair you would refuse?" But seeing the Grégoires' disturbed faces he regretted having gone so far; he put off his idea of a loan, reserving it until the case was desperate. "Oh! I have not got to that! it is a joke. Good heavens! Perhaps you are right; the money that other people earn for you is the best to fatten on." They changed the conversation. Cécile spoke again of her cousins, whose tastes interested, while at the same time they shocked her. Madame Grégoire promised to take her daughter to see those dear little ones on the first fine day. M. Grégoire, however, with a distracted air, did not follow the conversation. He added aloud: "If I were in your place I wouldn't persist any more; I would treat with Montsou. They want it, and you will get your money back." He alluded to an old hatred which existed between the concession of Montsou and that of Vandame. In spite of the latter's slight importance, its powerful neighbour was enraged at seeing, enclosed within its own sixty-seven communes, this square league which did not belong to it, and after having vainly tried to kill it had plotted to buy it at a low price when in a failing condition. The war continued without truce. Each party stopped its galleries at two hundred metres from the other; it was a duel to the last drop of blood, although the managers and engineers maintained polite relations with each other. Deneulin's eyes had flamed up. "Never!" he cried, in his turn. "Montsou shall never have Vandame as long as I am alive. I dined on Thursday at Hennebeau's, and I saw him fluttering around me. Last autumn, when the big men came to the administration building, they made me all sorts of advances. Yes, yes, I know them--those marquises, and dukes, and generals, and ministers! Brigands who would take away even your shirt at the corner of a wood." He could not cease. Besides, M. Grégoire did not defend the administration of Montsou--the six stewards established by the treaty of 1760, who governed the Company despotically, and the five survivors of whom on every death chose the new member among the powerful and rich shareholders. The opinion of the owner of Piolaine, with his reasonable ideas, was that these gentlemen were sometimes rather immoderate in their exaggerated love of money. Mélanie had come to clear away the table. Outside the dogs were again barking, and Honorine was going to the door, when Cécile, who was stifled by heat and food, left the table. "No, never mind! it must be for my lesson." Deneulin had also risen. He watched the young girl go out, and asked, smiling: "Well! and the marriage with little Négrel?" "Nothing has been settled," said Madame Grégoire; "it is only an idea. We must reflect." "No doubt!" he went on, with a gay laugh. "I believe that the nephew and the aunt-- What baffles me is that Madame Hennebeau should throw herself so on Cécile's neck." But M. Grégoire was indignant. So distinguished a lady, and fourteen years older than the young man! It was monstrous; he did not like joking on such subjects. Deneulin, still laughing, shook hands with him and left. "Not yet," said Cécile, coming back. "It is that woman with the two children. You know, mamma, the miner's wife whom we met. Are they to come in here?" They hesitated. Were they very dirty? No, not very; and they would leave their sabots in the porch. Already the father and mother had stretched themselves out in the depths of their large easy-chairs. They were digesting there. The fear of change of air decided them. "Let them come in, Honorine." Then Maheude and her little ones entered, frozen and hungry, seized by fright on finding themselves in this room, which was so warm and smelled so nicely of the brioche. CHAPTER II The room remained shut up and the shutters had allowed gradual streaks of daylight to form a fan on the ceiling. The confined air stupefied them so that they continued their night's slumber: Lénore and Henri in each other's arms, Alzire with her head back, lying on her hump; while Father Bonnemort, having the bed of Zacharie and Jeanlin to himself, snored with open mouth. No sound came from the closet where Maheude had gone to sleep again while suckling Estelle, her breast hanging to one side, the child lying across her belly, stuffed with milk, overcome also and stifling in the soft flesh of the bosom. The clock below struck six. Along the front of the settlement one heard the sound of doors, then the clatter of sabots along the pavements; the screening women were going to the pit. And silence again fell until seven o'clock. Then shutters were drawn back, yawns and coughs were heard through the walls. For a long time a coffee-mill scraped, but no one awoke in the room. Suddenly a sound of blows and shouts, far away, made Alzire sit up. She was conscious of the time, and ran barefooted to shake her mother. "Mother, mother, it is late! you have to go out. Take care, you are crushing Estelle." And she saved the child, half-stifled beneath the enormous mass of the breasts. "Good gracious!" stammered Maheude, rubbing her eyes, "I'm so knocked up I could sleep all day. Dress Lénore and Henri, I'll take them with me; and you can take care of Estelle; I don't want to drag her along for fear of hurting her, this dog's weather." She hastily washed herself and put on an old blue skirt, her cleanest, and a loose jacket of grey wool in which she had made two patches the evening before. "And the soup! Good gracious!" she muttered again. When her mother had gone down, upsetting everything, Alzire went back into the room taking with her Estelle, who had begun screaming. But she was used to the little one's rages; at eight she had all a woman's tender cunning in soothing and amusing her. She gently placed her in her still warm bed, and put her to sleep again, giving her a finger to suck. It was time, for now another disturbance broke out, and she had to make peace between Lénore and Henri, who at last awoke. These children could never get on together; it was only when they were asleep that they put their arms round one another's necks. The girl, who was six years old, as soon as she was awake set on the boy, her junior by two years, who received her blows without returning them. Both of them had the same kind of head, which was too large for them, as if blown out, with disorderly yellow hair. Alzire had to pull her sister by the legs, threatening to take the skin off her bottom. Then there was stamping over the washing, and over every garment that she put on to them. The shutters remained closed so as not to disturb Father Bonnemort's sleep. He went on snoring amid the children's frightful clatter. "It's ready. Are you coming, up there?" shouted Maheude. She had put back the blinds, and stirred up the fire, adding some coal to it. Her hope was that the old man had not swallowed all the soup. But she found the saucepan dry, and cooked a handful of vermicelli which she had been keeping for three days in reserve. They could swallow it with water, without butter, as there could not be any remaining from the day before, and she was surprised to find that Catherine in preparing the bricks had performed the miracle of leaving a piece as large as a nut. But this time the cupboard was indeed empty: nothing, not a crust, not an odd fragment, not a bone to gnaw. What was to become of them if Maigrat persisted in cutting short their credit, and if the Piolaine people would not give them the five francs? When the men and the girl returned from the pit they would want to eat, for unfortunately it had not yet been found out how to live without eating. "Come down, will you?" she cried out, getting angry. "I ought to be gone by this!" When Alzire and the children were there she divided the vermicelli in three small portions. She herself was not hungry, she said. Although Catherine had already poured water on the coffee-dregs of the day before, she did so over again, and swallowed two large glasses of coffee so weak that it looked like rusty water. That would keep her up all the same. "Listen!" she repeated to Alzire. "You must let your grandfather sleep; you must watch that Estelle does not knock her head; and if she wakes, or if she howls too much, here! take this bit of sugar and melt it and give it her in spoonfuls. I know that you are sensible and won't eat it yourself." "And school, mother?" "School! well, that must be left for another day: I want you." "And the soup? would you like me to make it if you come back late?" "Soup, soup: no, wait till I come." Alzire, with the precocious intelligence of a little invalid girl, could make soup very well. She must have understood, for she did not insist. Now the whole settlement was awake, bands of children were going to school, and one heard the trailing noise of their clogs. Eight o'clock struck, and a growing murmur of chatter arose on the left, among the Levaque people. The women were commencing their day around the coffee-pots, with their fists on their hips, their tongues turning without ceasing, like millstones. A faded head, with thick lips and flattened nose, was pressed against a window-pane, calling out: "Got some news. Stop a bit." "No, no! later on," replied Maheude. "I have to go out." And for fear of giving way to the offer of a glass of hot coffee she pushed Lénore and Henri, and set out with them. Up above, Father Bonnemort was still snoring with a rhythmic snore which rocked the house. Outside, Maheude was surprised to find that the wind was no longer blowing. There had been a sudden thaw; the sky was earth-coloured, the walls were sticky with greenish moisture, and the roads were covered with pitch-like mud, a special kind of mud peculiar to the coal country, as black as diluted soot, thick and tenacious enough to pull off her sabots. Suddenly she boxed Lénore's ears, because the little one amused herself by piling the mud on her clogs as on the end of a shovel. On leaving the settlement she had gone along by the pit-bank and followed the road of the canal, making a short cut through broken-up paths, across rough country shut in by mossy palings. Sheds succeeded one another, long workshop buildings, tall chimneys spitting out soot, and soiling this ravaged suburb of an industrial district. Behind a clump of poplars the old Réquillart pit exhibited its crumbling steeple, of which the large skeleton alone stood upright. And turning to the right, Maheude found herself on the high road. "Stop, stop, dirty pig! I'll teach you to make mincemeat." Now it was Henri, who had taken a handful of mud and was moulding it. The two children had their ears impartially boxed, and were brought into good order, looking out of the corner of their eyes at the mud pies they had made. They draggled along, already exhausted by their efforts to unstick their shoes at every step. On the Marchiennes side the road unrolled its two leagues of pavement, which stretched straight as a ribbon soaked in cart grease between the reddish fields. But on the other side it went winding down through Montsou, which was built on the slope of a large undulation in the plain. These roads in the Nord, drawn like a string between manufacturing towns, with their slight curves, their slow ascents, gradually get lined with houses and tend to make the department one laborious city. The little brick houses, daubed over to enliven the climate, some yellow, others blue, others black--the last, no doubt, in order to reach at once their final shade--went serpentining down to right and to left to the bottom of the slope. A few large two-storied villas, the dwellings of the heads of the workshops, made gaps in the serried line of narrow facades. A church, also of brick, looked like a new model of a large furnace, with its square tower already stained by the floating coal dust. And amid the sugar works, the rope works, and the flour mills, there stood out ballrooms, restaurants, and beershops, which were so numerous that to every thousand houses there were more than five hundred inns. As she approached the Company's Yards, a vast series of storehouses and workshops, Maheude decided to take Henri and Lénore by the hand, one on the right, the other on the left. Beyond was situated the house of the director, M. Hennebeau, a sort of vast chalet, separated from the road by a grating, and then a garden in which some lean trees vegetated. Just then, a carriage had stopped before the door and a gentleman with decorations and a lady in a fur cloak alighted: visitors just arrived from Paris at the Marchiennes station, for Madame Hennebeau, who appeared in the shadow of the porch, was uttering exclamations of surprise and joy. "Come along, then, dawdlers!" growled Maheude, pulling the two little ones, who were standing in the mud. When she arrived at Maigrat's, she was quite excited. Maigrat lived close to the manager; only a wall separated the latter's ground from his own small house, and he had there a warehouse, a long building which opened on to the road as a shop without a front. He kept everything there, grocery, cooked meats, fruit, and sold bread, beer, and saucepans. Formerly an overseer at the Voreux, he had started with a small canteen; then, thanks to the protection of his superiors, his business had enlarged, gradually killing the Montsou retail trade. He centralized merchandise, and the considerable custom of the settlements enabled him to sell more cheaply and to give longer credit. Besides, he had remained in the Company's hands, and they had built his small house and his shop. "Here I am again, Monsieur Maigrat," said Maheude humbly, finding him standing in front of his door. He looked at her without replying. He was a stout, cold, polite man, and he prided himself on never changing his mind. "Now you won't send me away again, like yesterday. We must have bread from now to Saturday. Sure enough, we owe you sixty francs these two years." She explained in short, painful phrases. It was an old debt contracted during the last strike. Twenty times over they had promised to settle it, but they had not been able; they could not even give him forty sous a fortnight. And then a misfortune had happened two days before; she had been obliged to pay twenty francs to a shoemaker who threatened to seize their things. And that was why they were without a sou. Otherwise they would have been able to go on until Saturday, like the others. Maigrat, with protruded belly and folded arms, shook his head at every supplication. "Only two loaves, Monsieur Maigrat. I am reasonable, I don't ask for coffee. Only two three-pound loaves a day." "No," he shouted at last, at the top of his voice. His wife had appeared, a pitiful creature who passed all her days over a ledger, without even daring to lift her head. She moved away, frightened at seeing this unfortunate woman turning her ardent, beseeching eyes towards her. It was said that she yielded the conjugal bed to the putters among the customers. It was a known fact that when a miner wished to prolong his credit, he had only to send his daughter or his wife, plain or pretty, it mattered not, provided they were complaisant. Maheude, still imploring Maigrat with her look, felt herself uncomfortable under the pale keenness of his small eyes, which seemed to undress her. It made her angry; she would have understood before she had had seven children, when she was young. And she went off, violently dragging Lénore and Henri who were occupied in picking up nut-shells from the gutter where they were making investigations. "This won't bring you luck, Monsieur Maigrat, remember!" Now there only remained the Piolaine people. If these would not throw her a five-franc piece she might as well lie down and die. She had taken the Joiselle road on the left. The administration building was there at the corner of the road, a veritable brick palace, where the great people from Paris, princes and generals and members of the Government, came every autumn to give large dinners. As she walked she was already spending the five francs, first bread, then coffee, afterwards a quarter of butter, a bushel of potatoes for the morning soup and the evening stew; finally, perhaps, a bit of pig's chitterlings, for the father needed meat. The Curé of Montsou, Abbé Joire, was passing, holding up his cassock, with the delicate air of a fat, well-nourished cat afraid of wetting its fur. He was a mild man who pretended not to interest himself in anything, so as not to vex either the workers or the masters. "Good day, Monsieur le Curé." Without stopping he smiled at the children, and left her planted in the middle of the road. She was not religious, but she had suddenly imagined that this priest would give her something. And the journey began again through the black, sticky mud. There were still two kilometres to walk, and the little ones dragged behind more than ever, for they were frightened, and no longer amused themselves. To right and to left of the path the same vague landscape unrolled, enclosed within mossy palings, the same factory buildings, dirty with smoke, bristling with tall chimneys. Then the flat land was spread out in immense open fields, like an ocean of brown clods, without a tree-trunk, as far as the purplish line of the forest of Vandame. "Carry me, mother." She carried them one after the other. Puddles made holes in the pathway, and she pulled up her clothes, fearful of arriving too dirty. Three times she nearly fell, so sticky was that confounded pavement. And as they at last arrived before the porch, two enormous dogs threw themselves upon them, barking so loudly that the little ones yelled with terror. The coachman was obliged to take a whip to them. "Leave your sabots, and come in," repeated Honorine. In the dining-room the mother and children stood motionless, dazed by the sudden heat, and very constrained beneath the gaze of this old lady and gentleman, who were stretched out in their easy-chairs. "Cécile," said the old lady, "fulfil your little duties." The Grégoires charged Cécile with their charities. It was part of their idea of a good education. One must be charitable. They said themselves that their house was the house of God. Besides, they flattered themselves that they performed their charity with intelligence, and they were exercised by a constant fear lest they should be deceived, and so encourage vice. So they never gave money, never! Not ten sous, not two sous, for it is a well-known fact that as soon as a poor man gets two sous he drinks them. Their alms were, therefore, always in kind, especially in warm clothing, distributed during the winter to needy children. "Oh! the poor dears!" exclaimed Cécile, '"how pale they are from the cold! Honorine, go and look for the parcel in the cupboard." The servants were also gazing at these miserable creatures with the pity and vague uneasiness of girls who are in no difficulty about their own dinners. While the housemaid went upstairs, the cook forgot her duties, leaving the rest of the brioche on the table, and stood there swinging her empty hands. "I still have two woollen dresses and some comforters," Cécile went on; "you will see how warm they will be, the poor dears!" Then Maheude found her tongue, and stammered: "Thank you so much, mademoiselle. You are all too good." Tears had filled her eyes, she thought herself sure of the five francs, and was only preoccupied by the way in which she would ask for them if they were not offered to her. The housemaid did not reappear, and there was a moment of embarrassed silence. From their mother's skirts the little ones opened their eyes wide and gazed at the brioche. "You only have these two?" asked Madame Grégoire, in order to break the silence. "Oh, madame! I have seven." M. Grégoire, who had gone back to his newspaper, sat up indignantly. "Seven children! But why? good God!" "It is imprudent," murmured the old lady. Maheude made a vague gesture of apology. What would you have? One doesn't think about it at all, they come quite naturally. And then, when they grow up they bring something in, and that makes the household go. Take their case, they could get on, if it was not for the grandfather who was getting quite stiff, and if it was not that among the lot only two of her sons and her eldest daughter were old enough to go down into the pit. It was necessary, all the same, to feed the little ones who brought nothing in. "Then," said Madame Grégoire, "you have worked for a long time at the mines?" A silent laugh lit up Maheude's pale face. "Ah, yes! ah, yes! I went down till I was twenty. The doctor said that I should stay down for good after I had been confined the second time, because it seems that made something go wrong in my inside. Besides, then I got married, and I had enough to do in the house. But on my husband's side, you see, they have been down there for ages. It goes up from grandfather to grandfather, one doesn't know how far back, quite to the beginning when they first took the pick down there at Réquillart." M. Grégoire thoughtfully contemplated this woman and these pitiful children, with their waxy flesh, their discoloured hair, the degeneration which stunted them, gnawed by anaemia, and with the melancholy ugliness of starvelings. There was silence again, and one only heard the burning coal as it gave out a jet of gas. The moist room had that heavy air of comfort in which our middle-class nooks of happiness slumber. "What is she doing, then?" exclaimed Cécile impatiently. "Mélanie, go up and tell her that the parcel is at the bottom of the cupboard, on the left." In the meanwhile, M. Grégoire repeated aloud the reflections inspired by the sight of these starving ones. "There is evil in this world, it is quite true; but, my good woman, it must also be said that workpeople are never prudent. Thus, instead of putting aside a few sous like our peasants, miners drink, get into debt, and end by not having enough to support their families." "Monsieur is right," replied Maheude sturdily. "They don't always keep to the right path. That's what I'm always saying to the ne'er-do-wells when they complain. Now, I have been lucky; my husband doesn't drink. All the same, on feast Sundays he sometimes takes a drop too much; but it never goes farther. It is all the nicer of him, since before our marriage he drank like a hog, begging your pardon. And yet, you know, it doesn't help us much that he is so sensible. There are days like to-day when you might turn out all the drawers in the house and not find a farthing." She wished to suggest to them the idea of the five-franc piece, and went on in her low voice, explaining the fatal debt, small at first, then large and overwhelming. They paid regularly for many fortnights. But one day they got behind, and then it was all up. They could never catch up again. The gulf widened, and the men became disgusted with work which did not even allow them to pay their way. Do what they could, there was nothing but difficulties until death. Besides, it must be understood that a collier needed a glass to wash away the dust. It began there, and then he was always in the inn when worries came. Without complaining of any one it might be that the workmen did not earn as much as they ought to. "I thought," said Madame Grégoire, "that the Company gave you lodging and firing?" Maheude glanced sideways at the flaming coal in the fireplace. "Yes, yes, they give us coal, not very grand, but it burns. As to lodging, it only costs six francs a month; that sounds like nothing, but it is often pretty hard to pay. To-day they might cut me up into bits without getting two sous out of me. Where there's nothing, there's nothing." The lady and gentleman were silent, softly stretched out, and gradually wearied and disquieted by the exhibition of this wretchedness. She feared she had wounded them, and added, with the stolid and just air of a practical woman: "Oh! I didn't want to complain. Things are like this, and one has to put up with them; all the more that it's no good struggling, perhaps we shouldn't change anything. The best is, is it not, to try and live honestly in the place in which the good God has put us?" M. Grégoire approved this emphatically. "With such sentiments, my good woman, one is above misfortune." Honorine and Mélanie at last brought the parcel. Cécile unfastened it and took out the two dresses. She added comforters, even stockings and mittens. They would all fit beautifully; she hastened and made the servants wrap up the chosen garments; for her music mistress had just arrived; and she pushed the mother and children towards the door. "We are very short," stammered Maheude; "if we only had a five-franc piece--" The phrase was stifled, for the Maheus were proud and never begged. Cécile looked uneasily at her father; but the latter refused decisively, with an air of duty. "No, it is not our custom. We cannot do it." Then the young girl, moved by the mother's overwhelmed face, wished to do all she could for the children. They were still looking fixedly at the brioche; she cut it in two and gave it to them. "Here! this is for you." Then, taking the pieces back, she asked for an old newspaper: "Wait, you must share with your brothers and sisters." And beneath the tender gaze of her parents she finally pushed them out of the room. The poor starving urchins went off, holding the brioche respectfully in their benumbed little hands. Maheude dragged her children along the road, seeing neither the desert fields, nor the black mud, nor the great livid sky. As she passed through Montsou she resolutely entered Maigrat's shop, and begged so persistently that at last she carried away two loaves, coffee, butter, and even her five-franc piece, for the man also lent money by the week. It was not her that he wanted, it was Catherine; she understood that when he advised her to send her daughter for provisions. They would see about that. Catherine would box his ears if he came too close under her nose. CHAPTER III Eleven o'clock struck at the little church in the Deux-Cent-Quarante settlement, a brick chapel to which Abbé Joire came to say mass on Sundays. In the school beside it, also of brick, one heard the faltering voices of the children, in spite of windows closed against the outside cold. The wide passages, divided into little gardens, back to back, between the four large blocks of uniform houses, were deserted; and these gardens, devastated by the winter, exhibited the destitution of their marly soil, lumped and spotted by the last vegetables. They were making soup, chimneys were smoking, a woman appeared at distant intervals along the fronts, opened a door and disappeared. From one end to the other, on the pavement, the pipes dripped into tubs, although it was no longer raining, so charged was this grey sky with moistness. And the village, built altogether in the midst of the vast plain, and edged by its black roads as by a mourning border, had no touch of joyousness about it save the regular bands of its red tiles, constantly washed by showers. When Maheude returned, she went out of her way to buy potatoes from an overseer's wife whose crop was not yet exhausted. Behind a curtain of sickly poplars, the only trees in these flat regions, was a group of isolated buildings, houses placed four together, and surrounded by their gardens. As the Company reserved this new experiment for the captains, the workpeople called this corner of the hamlet the settlement of the Bas-de-Soie, just as they called their own settlement Paie-tes-Dettes, in good-humoured irony of their wretchedness. "Eh! Here we are," said Maheude, laden with parcels, pushing in Lénore and Henri, covered with mud and quite tired out. In front of the fire Estelle was screaming, cradled in Alzire's arms. The latter, having no more sugar and not knowing how to soothe her, had decided to pretend to give her the breast. This ruse often succeeded. But this time it was in vain for her to open her dress, and to press the mouth against the lean breast of an eight-year-old invalid; the child was enraged at biting the skin and drawing nothing. "Pass her to me," cried the mother as soon as she found herself free; "she won't let us say a word." When she had taken from her bodice a breast as heavy as a leather bottle, to the neck of which the brawler hung, suddenly silent, they were at last able to talk. Otherwise everything was going on well; the little housekeeper had kept up the fire and had swept and arranged the room. And in the silence they heard upstairs the grandfather's snoring, the same rhythmic snoring which had not stopped for a moment. "What a lot of things!" murmured Alzire, smiling at the provisions. "If you like, mother, I'll make the soup." The table was encumbered: a parcel of clothes, two loaves, potatoes, butter, coffee, chicory, and half a pound of pig's chitterlings. "Oh! the soup!" said Maheude with an air of fatigue. "We must gather some sorrel and pull up some leeks. No! I will make some for the men afterwards. Put some potatoes on to boil; we'll eat them with a little butter and some coffee, eh? Don't forget the coffee!" But suddenly she thought of the brioche. She looked at the empty hands of Lénore and Henri who were fighting on the floor, already rested and lively. These gluttons had slyly eaten the brioche on the road. She boxed their ears, while Alzire, who was putting the saucepan on the fire, tried to appease her. "Let them be, mother. If the brioche was for me, you know I don't mind a bit. They were hungry, walking so far." Midday struck; they heard the clogs of the children coming out of school. The potatoes were cooked, and the coffee, thickened by a good half of chicory, was passing through the percolator with a singing noise of large drops. One corner of the table was free; but the mother only was eating there. The three children were satisfied with their knees; and all the time the little boy with silent voracity looked, without saying anything, at the chitterlings, excited by the greasy paper. Maheude was drinking her coffee in little sips, with her hands round the glass to warm them, when Father Bonnemort came down. Usually he rose late, and his breakfast waited for him on the fire. But to-day he began to grumble because there was no soup. Then, when his daughter-in-law said to him that one cannot always do what one likes, he ate his potatoes in silence. From time to time he got up to spit in the ashes for cleanliness, and, settled in his chair, he rolled his food round in his mouth, with lowered head and dull eyes. "Ah! I forgot, mother," said Alzire. "The neighbour came--" Her mother interrupted her. "She bothers me!" There was a deep rancour against the Levaque woman, who had pleaded poverty the day before to avoid lending her anything; while she knew that she was just then in comfort, since her lodger, Bouteloup, had paid his fortnight in advance. In the settlement they did not usually lend from household to household. "Here! you remind me," said Maheude. "Wrap up a millful of coffee. I will take it to Pierronne; I owe it her from the day before yesterday." And when her daughter had prepared the packet she added that she would come back immediately to put the men's soup on the fire. Then she went out with Estelle in her arms, leaving old Bonnemort to chew his potatoes leisurely, while Lénore and Henri fought for the fallen parings. Instead of going round, Maheude went straight across through the gardens, for fear lest Levaque's wife should call her. Her garden was just next to that of the Pierrons, and in the dilapidated trellis-work which separated them there was a hole through which they fraternized. The common well was there, serving four households. Beside it, behind a clump of feeble lilacs, was situated the shed, a low building full of old tools, in which were brought up the rabbits which were eaten on feast days. One o'clock struck; it was the hour for coffee, and not a soul was to be seen at the doors or windows. Only a workman belonging to the earth-cutting, waiting the hour for descent, was digging up his patch of vegetable ground without raising his head. But as Maheude arrived opposite the other block of buildings, she was surprised to see a gentleman and two ladies in front of the church. She stopped a moment and recognized them; it was Madame Hennebeau bringing her guests, the decorated gentleman and the lady in the fur mantle, to see the settlement. "Oh! why did you take this trouble?" exclaimed Pierronne, when Maheude had returned the coffee. "There was no hurry." She was twenty-eight, and was considered the beauty of the settlement, dark, with a low forehead, large eyes, straight mouth, and coquettish as well; with the neatness of a cat, and with a good figure, for she had had no children. Her mother, Brulé, the widow of a pikeman who died in the mine, after having sent her daughter to work in a factory, swearing that she should never marry a collier, had never ceased to be angry since she had married, somewhat late, Pierron, a widower with a girl of eight. However, the household lived very happily, in the midst of chatter, of scandals which circulated concerning the husband's complaisance and the wife's lovers. No debts, meat twice a week, a house kept so clean that one could see oneself in the saucepans. As an additional piece of luck, thanks to favours, the Company had authorized her to sell bon-bons and biscuits, jars of which she exhibited, on two boards, behind the window-panes. This was six or seven sous profit a day, and sometimes twelve on Sundays. The only drawback to all this happiness was Mother Brulé, who screamed with all the rage of an old revolutionary, having to avenge the death of her man on the masters, and little Lydie, who pocketed, in the shape of frequent blows, the passions of the family. "How big she is already!" said Pierronne, simpering at Estelle. "Oh! the trouble that it gives! Don't talk of it!" said Maheude. "You are lucky not to have any. At least you can keep clean." Although everything was in order in her house, and she scrubbed every Saturday, she glanced with a jealous housekeeper's eye over this clean room, in which there was even a certain coquetry, gilt vases on the sideboard, a mirror, three framed prints. Pierronne was about to drink her coffee alone, all her people being at the pit. "You'll have a glass with me?" she said. "No, thanks; I've just swallowed mine." "What does that matter?" In fact, it mattered nothing. And both began drinking slowly. Between the jars of biscuits and bon-bons their eyes rested on the opposite houses, of which the little curtains in the windows formed a row, revealing by their greater or less whiteness the virtues of the housekeepers. Those of the Levaques were very dirty, veritable kitchen clouts, which seemed to have wiped the bottoms of the saucepans. "How can they live in such dirt?" murmured Pierronne. Then Maheude began and did not stop. Ah! if she had had a lodger like that Bouteloup she would have made the household go. When one knew how to do it, a lodger was an excellent thing. Only one ought not to sleep with him. And then the husband had taken to drink, beat his wife, and ran after the singers at the Montsou café-concerts. Pierronne assumed an air of profound disgust. These singers gave all sort of diseases. There was one at Joiselle who had infected a whole pit. "What surprises me is that you let your son go with their girl." "Ah, yes! but just stop it then! Their garden is next to ours. Zacharie was always there in summer with Philoméne behind the lilacs, and they didn't put themselves out on the shed; one couldn't draw water at the well without surprising them." It was the usual history of the promiscuities of the settlement; boys and girls became corrupted together, throwing themselves on their backsides, as they said, on the low, sloping roof of the shed when twilight came on. All the putters got their first child there when they did not take the trouble to go to Réquillart or into the cornfields. It was of no consequence; they married afterwards, only the mothers were angry when their lads began too soon, for a lad who married no longer brought anything into the family. "In your place I would have done with it," said Pierronne, sensibly. "Your Zacharie has already filled her twice, and they will go on and get spliced. Anyhow, the money is gone." Maheude was furious and raised her hands. "Listen to this: I will curse them if they get spliced. Doesn't Zacharie owe us any respect? He has cost us something, hasn't he? Very well. He must return it before getting a wife to hang on him. What will become of us, eh, if our children begin at once to work for others? Might as well die!" However, she grew calm. "I'm speaking in a general way; we shall see later. It is fine and strong, your coffee; you make it proper." And after a quarter of an hour spent over other stories, she ran off, exclaiming that the men's soup was not yet made. Outside, the children were going back to school; a few women were showing themselves at their doors, looking at Madame Hennebeau, who, with lifted finger, was explaining the settlement to her guests. This visit began to stir up the village. The earth-cutting man stopped digging for a moment, and two disturbed fowls took fright in the gardens. As Maheude returned, she ran against the Levaque woman who had come out to stop Dr. Vanderhaghen, a doctor of the Company, a small hurried man, overwhelmed by work, who gave his advice as he walked. "Sir," she said, "I can't sleep; I feel ill everywhere. I must tell you about it." He spoke to them all familiarly, and replied without stopping: "Just leave me alone; you drink too much coffee." "And my husband, sir," said Maheude in her turn, "you must come and see him. He always has those pains in his legs." "It is you who take too much out of him. Just leave me alone!" The two women were left to gaze at the doctor's retreating back. "Come in, then," said the Levaque woman, when she had exchanged a despairing shrug with her neighbour. "You know, there is something new. And you will take a little coffee. It is quite fresh." Maheude refused, but without energy. Well! a drop, at all events, not to disoblige. And she entered. The room was black with dirt, the floor and the walls spotted with grease, the sideboard and the table sticky with filth; and the stink of a badly kept house took you by the throat. Near the fire, with his elbows on the table and his nose in his plate, Bouteloup, a broad stout placid man, still young for thirty-five, was finishing the remains of his boiled beef, while standing in front of him, little Achille, Philoméne's first-born, who was already in his third year, was looking at him in the silent, supplicating way of a gluttonous animal. The lodger, very kind behind his big brown beard, from time to time stuffed a piece of meat into his mouth. "Wait till I sugar it," said the Levaque woman, putting some brown sugar beforehand into the coffee-pot. Six years older than he was, she was hideous and worn out, with her bosom hanging on her belly, and her belly on her thighs, with a flattened muzzle, and greyish hair always uncombed. He had taken her naturally, without choosing, the same as he did his soup in which he found hairs, or his bed of which the sheets lasted for three months. She was part of the lodging; the husband liked repeating that good reckonings make good friends. "I was going to tell you," she went on, "that Pierronne was seen yesterday prowling about on the Bas-de-Soie side. The gentleman you know of was waiting for her behind Rasseneur's, and they went off together along the canal. Eh! that's nice, isn't it? A married woman!" "Gracious!" said Maheude; "Pierron, before marrying her, used to give the captain rabbits; now it costs him less to lend his wife." Bouteloup began to laugh enormously, and threw a fragment of sauced bread into Achille's mouth. The two women went on relieving themselves with regard to Pierronne--a flirt, no prettier than any one else, but always occupied in looking after every freckle of her skin, in washing herself, and putting on pomade. Anyhow, it was the husband's affair, if he liked that sort of thing. There were men so ambitious that they would wipe the masters' behinds to hear them say thank you. And they were only interrupted by the arrival of a neighbour bringing in a little urchin of nine months, Désirée, Philoméne's youngest; Philoméne, taking her breakfast at the screening-shed, had arranged that they should bring her little one down there, where she suckled it, seated for a moment in the coal. "I can't leave mine for a moment, she screams directly," said Maheude, looking at Estelle, who was asleep in her arms. But she did not succeed in avoiding the domestic affair which she had read in the other's eyes. "I say, now we ought to get that settled." At first the two mothers, without need for talking about it, had agreed not to conclude the marriage. If Zacharie's mother wished to get her son's wages as long as possible, Philoméne's mother was enraged at the idea of abandoning her daughter's wages. There was no hurry; the second mother had even preferred to keep the little one, as long as there was only one; but when it began to grow and eat and another one came, she found that she was losing, and furiously pushed on the marriage, like a woman who does not care to throw away her money. "Zacharie has drawn his lot," she went on, "and there's nothing in the way. When shall it be?" "Wait till the fine weather," replied Maheude, constrainedly. "They are a nuisance, these affairs! As if they couldn't wait to be married before going together! My word! I would strangle Catherine if I knew that she had done that." The other woman shrugged her shoulders. "Let be! she'll do like the others." Bouteloup, with the tranquillity of a man who is at home, searched about on the dresser for bread. Vegetables for Levaque's soup, potatoes and leeks, lay about on a corner of the table, half-peeled, taken up and dropped a dozen times in the midst of continual gossiping. The woman was about to go on with them again when she dropped them anew and planted herself before the window. "What's that there? Why, there's Madame Hennebeau with some people. They are going into Pierronne's." At once both of them started again on the subject of Pierronne. Oh! whenever the Company brought any visitors to the settlement they never failed to go straight to her place, because it was clean. No doubt they never told them stories about the head captain. One can afford to be clean when one has lovers who earn three thousand francs, and are lodged and warmed, without counting presents. If it was clean above it was not clean underneath. And all the time that the visitors remained opposite, they went on chattering. "There, they are coming out," said the Levaque woman at last. "They are going all around. Why, look, my dear--I believe they are going into your place." Maheude was seized with fear. Who knows whether Alzire had sponged over the table? And her soup, also, which was not yet ready! She stammered a good-day, and ran off home without a single glance aside. But everything was bright. Alzire, very seriously, with a cloth in front of her, had set about making the soup, seeing that her mother did not return. She had pulled up the last leeks from the garden, gathered the sorrel, and was just then cleaning the vegetables, while a large kettle on the fire was heating the water for the men's baths when they should return. Henri and Lénore were good for once, being absorbed in tearing up an old almanac. Father Bonnemort was smoking his pipe in silence. As Maheude was getting her breath Madame Hennebeau knocked. "You will allow me, will you not, my good woman?" Tall and fair, a little heavy in her superb maturity of forty years, she smiled with an effort of affability, without showing too prominently her fear of soiling her bronze silk dress and black velvet mantle. "Come in, come in," she said to her guests. "We are not disturbing any one. Now, isn't this clean again! And this good woman has seven children! All our households are like this. I ought to explain to you that the Company rents them the house at six francs a month. A large room on the ground floor, two rooms above, a cellar, and a garden." The decorated gentleman and the lady in the fur cloak, arrived that morning by train from Paris, opened their eyes vaguely, exhibiting on their faces their astonishment at all these new things which took them out of their element. "And a garden!" repeated the lady. "One could live here! It is charming!" "We give them more coal than they can burn," went on Madame Hennebeau. "A doctor visits them twice a week; and when they are old they receive pensions, although nothing is held back from their wages." "A Thebaid! a real land of milk and honey!" murmured the gentleman in delight. Maheude had hastened to offer chairs. The ladies refused. Madame Hennebeau was already getting tired, happy for a moment to amuse herself in the weariness of her exile by playing the part of exhibiting the beasts, but immediately disgusted by the sickly odour of wretchedness, in spite of the special cleanliness of the houses into which she ventured. Besides, she was only repeating odd phrases which she had overheard, without ever troubling herself further about this race of workpeople who were labouring and suffering beside her. "What beautiful children!" murmured the lady, who thought them hideous, with their large heads beneath their bushy, straw-coloured hair. And Maheude had to tell their ages; they also asked her questions about Estelle, out of politeness. Father Bonnemort respectfully took his pipe out of his mouth; but he was not the less a subject of uneasiness, so worn out by his forty years underground, with his stiff limbs, deformed body, and earthy face; and as a violent spasm of coughing took him he preferred to go and spit outside, with the idea that his black expectoration would make people uncomfortable. Alzire received all the compliments. What an excellent little housekeeper, with her cloth! They congratulated the mother on having a little daughter so sensible for her age. And none spoke of the hump, though looks of uneasy compassion were constantly turned towards the poor little invalid. "Now!" concluded Madame Hennebeau, "if they ask you about our settlements at Paris you will know what to reply. Never more noise than this, patriarchal manners, all happy and well off as you see, a place where you might come to recruit a little, on account of the good air and the tranquillity." "It is marvellous, marvellous!" exclaimed the gentleman, in a final outburst of enthusiasm. They left with that enchanted air with which people leave a booth in a fair, and Maheude, who accompanied them, remained on the threshold while they went away slowly, talking very loudly. The streets were full of people, and they had to pass through several groups of women, attracted by the news of their visit, which was hawked from house to house. Just then, Levaque, in front of her door, had stopped Pierronne, who was drawn by curiosity. Both of them affected a painful surprise. What now? Were these people going to bed at the Maheus'? But it was not so very delightful a place. "Always without a sou, with all that they earn! Lord! when people have vices!" "I have just heard that she went this morning to beg at Piolaine, and Maigrat, who had refused them bread, has given them something. We know how Maigrat pays himself!" "On her? Oh, no! that would need some courage. It's Catherine that he's after." "Why, didn't she have the cheek to say just now that she would strangle Catherine if she were to come to that? As if big Chaval for ever so long had not put her backside on the shed!" "Hush! here they are!" Then Levaque and Pierronne, with a peaceful air and without impolite curiosity, contented themselves with watching the visitors out of the corners of their eyes. Then by a gesture they quickly called Maheude, who was still carrying Estelle in her arms. And all three, motionless, watched the well-clad backs of Madame Hennebeau and her guests slowly disappear. When they were some thirty paces off, the gossiping recommenced with redoubled vigour. "They carry plenty of money on their skins; worth more than themselves, perhaps." "Ah, sure! I don't know the other, but the one that belongs here, I wouldn't give four sous for her, big as she is. They do tell stories--" "Eh? What stories?" "Why, she has men! First, the engineer." "That lean, little creature! Oh, he's too small! She would lose him in the sheets." "What does that matter, if it amuses her? I don't trust a woman who puts on such proud airs and never seems to be pleased where she is. Just look how she wags her rump, as if she felt contempt for us all. Is that nice?" The visitors went along at the same slow pace, still talking, when a carriage stopped in the road, before the church. A gentleman of about forty-eight got out of it, dressed in a black frock-coat, and with a very dark complexion and an authoritative, correct expression. "The husband," murmured Levaque, lowering her voice, as if he could hear her, seized by that hierarchical fear which the manager inspired in his ten thousand workpeople. "It's true, though, that he has a cuckold's head, that man." Now the whole settlement was out of doors. The curiosity of the women increased. The groups approached each other, and were melted into one crowd; while bands of urchins, with unwiped noses and gaping mouths, dawdled along the pavements. For a moment the schoolmaster's pale head was also seen behind the school-house hedge. Among the gardens, the man who was digging stood with one foot on his spade, and with rounded eyes. And the murmur of gossiping gradually increased, with a sound of rattles, like a gust of wind among dry leaves. It was especially before the Levaques' door that the crowd was thickest. Two women had come forward, then ten, then twenty. Pierronne was prudently silent now that there were too many ears about. Maheude, one of the more reasonable, also contented herself with looking on; and to calm Estelle, who was awake and screaming, she had tranquilly drawn out her suckling animal's breast, which hung swaying as if pulled down by the continual running of its milk. When M. Hennebeau had seated the ladies in the carriage, which went off in the direction of Marchiennes, there was a final explosion of clattering voices, all the women gesticulating and talking in each other's faces in the midst of a tumult as of an ant-hill in revolution. But three o'clock struck. The workers of the earth-cutting, Bouteloup and the others, had set out. Suddenly around the church appeared the first colliers returning from the pit with black faces and damp garments, folding their arms and expanding their backs. Then there was confusion among the women: they all began to run home with the terror of housekeepers who had been led astray by too much coffee and too much tattle, and one heard nothing more than this restless cry, pregnant with quarrels: "Good Lord, and my soup! and my soup which isn't ready!" CHAPTER IV When Maheu came in after having left Étienne at Rasseneur's, he found Catherine, Zacharie, and Jeanlin seated at the table finishing their soup. On returning from the pit they were always so hungry that they ate in their damp clothes, without even cleaning themselves; and no one was waited for, the table was laid from morning to night; there was always someone there swallowing his portion, according to the chances of work. As he entered the door Maheu saw the provisions. He said nothing, but his uneasy face lighted up. All the morning the emptiness of the cupboard, the thought of the house without coffee and without butter, had been troubling him; the recollection came to him painfully while he was hammering at the seam, stifled at the bottom of the cutting. What would his wife do, and what would become of them if she were to return with empty hands? And now, here was everything! She would tell him about it later on. He laughed with satisfaction. Catherine and Jeanlin had risen, and were taking their coffee standing; while Zacharie, not filled with the soup, cut himself a large slice of bread and covered it with butter. Although he saw the chitterlings on a plate he did not touch them, for meat was for the father, when there was only enough for one. All of them had washed down their soup with a big bumper of fresh water, the good, clear drink of the fortnight's end. "I have no beer," said Maheude, when the father had seated himself in his turn. "I wanted to keep a little money. But if you would like some the little one can go and fetch a pint." He looked at her in astonishment. What! she had money, too! "No, no," he said, "I've had a glass, it's all right." And Maheu began to swallow by slow spoonfuls the paste of bread, potatoes, leeks, and sorrel piled up in the bowl which served him as a plate. Maheude, without putting Estelle down, helped Alzire to give him all that he required, pushed near him the butter and the meat, and put his coffee on the fire to keep it quite hot. In the meanwhile, beside the fire, they began to wash themselves in the half of a barrel transformed into a tub. Catherine, whose turn came first, had filled it with warm water; and she undressed herself tranquilly, took off her cap, her jacket, her breeches, and even her chemise, habituated to this since the age of eight, having grown up without seeing any harm in it. She only turned with her stomach to the fire, then rubbed herself vigorously with black soap. No one looked at her, even Lénore and Henri were no longer inquisitive to see how she was made. When she was clean she went up the stairs quite naked, leaving her damp chemise and other garments in a heap on the floor. But a quarrel broke out between the two brothers: Jeanlin had hastened to jump into the tub under the pretence that Zacharie was still eating; and the latter hustled him, claiming his turn, and calling out that he was polite enough to allow Catherine to wash herself first, but he did not wish to have the rinsings of the young urchins, all the less since, when Jeanlin had been in, it would do to fill the school ink-pots. They ended by washing themselves together, also turning towards the fire, and they even helped each other, rubbing one another's backs. Then, like their sister, they disappeared up the staircase naked. "What a slop they do make!" murmured Maheude, taking up their garments from the floor to put them to dry. "Alzire, just sponge up a bit." But a disturbance on the other side of the wall cut short her speech. One heard a man's oaths, a woman's crying, a whole stampede of battle, with hollow blows that sounded like the shock of an empty gourd. "Levaque's wife is catching it," Maheu peacefully stated as he scraped the bottom of his bowl with the spoon. "It's queer; Bouteloup made out that the soup was ready." "Ah, yes! ready," said Maheude. "I saw the vegetables on the table, not even cleaned." The cries redoubled, and there was a terrible push which shook the wall, followed by complete silence. Then the miner, swallowing the last spoonful, concluded, with an air of calm justice: "If the soup is not ready, one can understand." And after having drunk a glassful of water, he attacked the chitterlings. He cut square pieces, stuck the point of his knife into them and ate them on his bread without a fork. There was no talking when the father was eating. He himself was hungry in silence; he did not recognize the usual taste of Maigrat's provisions; this must come from somewhere else; however, he put no question to his wife. He only asked if the old man was still sleeping upstairs. No, the grandfather had gone out for his usual walk. And there was silence again. But the odour of the meat made Lénore and Henri lift up their heads from the floor, where they were amusing themselves with making rivulets with the spilt water. Both of them came and planted themselves near their father, the little one in front. Their eyes followed each morsel, full of hope when it set out from the plate and with an air of consternation when it was engulfed in the mouth. At last the father noticed the gluttonous desire which made their faces pale and their lips moist. "Have the children had any of it?" he asked. And as his wife hesitated: "You know I don't like injustice. It takes away my appetite when I see them there, begging for bits." "But they've had some of it," she exclaimed, angrily. "If you were to listen to them you might give them your share and the others', too; they would fill themselves till they burst. Isn't it true, Alzire, that we have all had some?" "Sure enough, mother," replied the little humpback, who under such circumstances could tell lies with the self-possession of a grown-up person. Lénore and Henri stood motionless, shocked and rebellious at such lying, when they themselves were whipped if they did not tell the truth. Their little hearts began to swell, and they longed to protest, and to say that they, at all events, were not there when the others had some. "Get along with you," said the mother, driving them to the other end of the room. "You ought to be ashamed of being always in your father's plate; and even if he was the only one to have any, doesn't he work, while all you, a lot of good-for-nothings, can't do anything but spend! Yes, and the more the bigger you are." Maheu called them back. He seated Lénore on his left thigh, Henri on the right; then he finished the chitterlings by playing at dinner with them. He cut small pieces, and each had his share. The children devoured with delight. When he had finished, he said to his wife: "No, don't give me my coffee. I'm going to wash first; and just give me a hand to throw away this dirty water." They took hold of the handles of the tub and emptied it into the gutter before the door, when Jeanlin came down in dry garments, breeches and a woollen blouse, too large for him, which were weary of fading on his brother's back. Seeing him slinking out through the open door, his mother stopped him. "Where are you off to?" "Over there." "Over where? Listen to me. You go and gather a dandelion salad for this evening. Eh, do you hear? If you don't bring a salad back you'll have to deal with me." "All right!" Jeanlin set out with hands in his pockets, trailing his sabots and slouching along, with his slender loins of a ten-year-old urchin, like an old miner. In his turn, Zacharie came down, more carefully dressed, his body covered by a black woollen knitted jacket with blue stripes. His father called out to him not to return late; and he left, nodding his head with his pipe between his teeth, without replying. Again the tub was filled with warm water. Maheu was already slowly taking off his jacket. At a look, Alzire led Lénore and Henri outside to play. The father did not like washing _en famille_, as was practised in many houses in the settlement. He blamed no one, however; he simply said that it was good for the children to dabble together. "What are you doing up there?" cried Maheude, up the staircase. "I'm mending my dress that I tore yesterday," replied Catherine. "All right. Don't come down, your father is washing." Then Maheu and Maheude were left alone. The latter decided to place Estelle on a chair, and by a miracle, finding herself near the fire the child did not scream, but turned towards her parents the vague eyes of a little creature without intelligence. He was crouching before the tub quite naked, having first plunged his head into it, well rubbed with that black soap the constant use of which discoloured and made yellow the hair of the race. Afterwards he got into the water, lathered his chest, belly, arms, and thighs, scraping them energetically with both fists. His wife, standing by, watched him. "Well, then," she began, "I saw your eyes when you came in. You were bothered, eh? and it eased you, those provisions. Fancy! those Piolaine people didn't give me a sou! Oh! they are kind enough; they have dressed the little ones and I was ashamed to ask them, for it crosses me to ask for things." She interrupted herself a moment to wedge Estelle into the chair lest she should tip over. The father continued to work away at his skin, without hastening by a question this story which interested him, patiently waiting for light. "I must tell you that Maigrat had refused me, oh! straight! like one kicks a dog out of doors. Guess if I was on a spree! They keep you warm, woollen garments, but they don't put anything into your stomach, eh!" He lifted his head, still silent. Nothing at Piolaine, nothing at Maigrat's: then where? But, as usual, she was pulling up her sleeves to wash his back and those parts which he could not himself easily reach. Besides, he liked her to soap him, to rub him everywhere till she almost broke her wrists. She took soap and worked away at his shoulders while he held himself stiff so as to resist the shock. "Then I returned to Maigrat's, and said to him, ah, I said something to him! And that it didn't do to have no heart, and that evil would happen to him if there were any justice. That bothered him; he turned his eyes and would like to have got away." From the back she had got down to the buttocks and was pushing into the folds, not leaving any part of the body without passing over it, making him shine like her three saucepans on Saturdays after a big clean. Only she began to sweat with this tremendous exertion of her arms, so exhausted and out of breath that her words were choked. "At last he called me an old nuisance. We shall have bread until Saturday, and the best is that he has lent me five francs. I have got butter, coffee, and chicory from him. I was even going to get the meat and potatoes there, only I saw that he was grumbling. Seven sous for the chitterlings, eighteen for the potatoes, and I've got three francs seventy-five left for a ragout and a meat soup. Eh, I don't think I've wasted my morning!" Now she began to wipe him, plugging with a towel the parts that would not dry. Feeling happy and without thinking of the future debt, he burst out laughing and took her in his arms. "Leave me alone, stupid! You are damp, and wetting me. Only I'm afraid Maigrat has ideas----" She was about to speak of Catherine, but she stopped. What was the good of disturbing him? It would only lead to endless discussion. "What ideas?" he asked. "Why, ideas of robbing us. Catherine will have to examine the bill carefully." He took her in his arms again, and this time did not let her go. The bath always finished in this way: she enlivened him by the hard rubbing, and then by the towels which tickled the hairs of his arms and chest. Besides, among all his mates of the settlement it was the hour for stupidities, when more children were planted than were wanted. At night all the family were about. He pushed her towards the table, jesting like a worthy man who was enjoying the only good moment of the day, calling that taking his dessert, and a dessert which cost him nothing. She, with her loose figure and breast, struggled a little for fun. "You are stupid! My Lord! you are stupid! And there's Estelle looking at us. Wait till I turn her head." "Oh, bosh! at three months; as if she understood!" When he got up Maheu simply put on a dry pair of breeches. He liked, when he was clean and had taken his pleasure with his wife, to remain naked for a while. On his white skin, the whiteness of an anaemic girl, the scratches and gashes of the coal left tattoo-marks, grafts as the miners called them; and he was proud of them, and exhibited his big arms and broad chest shining like veined marble. In summer all the miners could be seen in this condition at their doors. He even went there for a moment now, in spite of the wet weather, and shouted out a rough joke to a comrade, whose breast was also naked, on the other side of the gardens. Others also appeared. And the children, trailing along the pathways, raised their heads and also laughed with delight at all this weary flesh of workers displayed in the open air. While drinking his coffee, without yet putting on a shirt, Maheu told his wife about the engineer's anger over the planking. He was calm and unbent, and listened with a nod of approval to the sensible advice of Maheude, who showed much common sense in such affairs. She always repeated to him that nothing was gained by struggling against the Company. She afterwards told him about Madame Hennebeau's visit. Without saying so, both of them were proud of this. "Can I come down yet?" asked Catherine, from the top of the staircase. "Yes, yes; your father is drying himself." The young girl had put on her Sunday dress, an old frock of rough blue poplin, already faded and worn in the folds. She had on a very simple bonnet of black tulle. "Hallo! you're dressed. Where are you going to?" "I'm going to Montsou to buy a ribbon for my bonnet. I've taken off the old one; it was too dirty." "Have you got money, then?" "No! but Mouquette promised to lend me half a franc." The mother let her go. But at the door she called her back. "Here! don't go and buy that ribbon at Maigrat's. He will rob you, and he will think that we are rolling in wealth." The father, who was crouching down before the fire to dry his neck and shoulders more quickly, contented himself with adding: "Try not to dawdle about at night on the road." In the afternoon, Maheu worked in his garden. Already he had sown potatoes, beans, and peas; and he now set about replanting cabbage and lettuce plants, which he had kept fresh from the night before. This bit of garden furnished them with vegetables, except potatoes of which they never had enough. He understood gardening very well, and could even grow artichokes, which was treated as sheer display by the neighbours. As he was preparing the bed, Levaque just then came out to smoke a pipe in his own square, looking at the cos lettuces which Bouteloup had planted in the morning; for without the lodger's energy in digging nothing would have grown there but nettles. And a conversation arose over the trellis. Levaque, refreshed and excited by thrashing his wife, vainly tried to take Maheu off to Rasseneur's. Why, was he afraid of a glass? They could have a game at skittles, lounge about for a while with the mates, and then come back to dinner. That was the way of life after leaving the pit. No doubt there was no harm in that, but Maheu was obstinate; if he did not replant his lettuces they would be faded by to-morrow. In reality he refused out of good sense, not wishing to ask a farthing from his wife out of the change of the five-franc piece. Five o'clock was striking when Pierronne came to know if it was with Jeanlin that her Lydie had gone off. Levaque replied that it must be something of that sort, for Bébert had also disappeared, and those rascals always went prowling about together. When Maheu had quieted them by speaking of the dandelion salad, he and his comrade set about joking the young woman with the coarseness of good-natured devils. She was angry, but did not go away, in reality tickled by the strong words which made her scream with her hands to her sides. A lean woman came to her aid, stammering with anger like a clucking hen. Others in the distance on their doorsteps confided their alarms. Now the school was closed; and all the children were running about, there was a swarm of little creatures shouting and tumbling and fighting; while those fathers who were not at the public-house were resting in groups of three or four, crouching on their heels as they did in the mine, smoking their pipes with an occasional word in the shelter of a wall. Pierronne went off in a fury when Levaque wanted to feel if her thighs were firm; and he himself decided to go alone to Rasseneur's, since Maheu was still planting. Twilight suddenly came on; Maheude lit the lamp, irritated because neither her daughter nor the boys had come back. She could have guessed as much; they never succeeded in taking together the only meal of the day at which it was possible for them to be all round the table. Then she was waiting for the dandelion salad. What could he be gathering at this hour, in this blackness of an oven, that nuisance of a child! A salad would go so well with the stew which was simmering on the fire--potatoes, leeks, sorrel, fricasseed with fried onion. The whole house smelt of that fried onion, that good odour which gets rank so soon, and which penetrates the bricks of the settlements with such infection that one perceives it far off in the country, the violent flavour of the poor man's kitchen. Maheu, when he left the garden at nightfall, at once fell into a chair with his head against the wall. As soon as he sat down in the evening he went to sleep. The clock struck seven; Henri and Lénore had just broken a plate in persisting in helping Alzire, who was laying the table, when Father Bonnemort came in first, in a hurry to dine and go back to the pit. Then Maheude woke up Maheu. "Come and eat! So much the worse! They are big enough to find the house. The nuisance is the salad!" CHAPTER V At Rasseneur's, after having eaten his soup, Étienne went back into the small chamber beneath the roof and facing the Voreux, which he was to occupy, and fell on to his bed dressed as he was, overcome with fatigue. In two days he had not slept four hours. When he awoke in the twilight he was dazed for a moment, not recognizing his surroundings; and he felt such uneasiness and his head was so heavy that he rose, painfully, with the idea of getting some fresh air before having his dinner and going to bed for the night. Outside, the weather was becoming milder: the sooty sky was growing copper-coloured, laden with one of those warm rains of the Nord, the approach of which one feels by the moist warmth of the air, and the night was coming on in great mists which drowned the distant landscape of the plain. Over this immense sea of reddish earth the low sky seemed to melt into black dust, without a breath of wind now to animate the darkness. It was the wan and deathly melancholy of a funeral. Étienne walked straight ahead at random, with no other aim but to shake off his fever. When he passed before the Voreux, already growing gloomy at the bottom of its hole and with no lantern yet shining from it, he stopped a moment to watch the departure of the day-workers. No doubt six o'clock had struck; landers, porters from the pit-eye, and grooms were going away in bands, mixed with the vague and laughing figures of the screening girls in the shade. At first it was Brulé and her son-in-law, Pierron. She was abusing him because he had not supported her in a quarrel with an overseer over her reckoning of stones. "Get along! damned good-for-nothing! Do you call yourself a man to lower yourself like that before one of these beasts who devour us?" Pierron followed her peacefully, without replying. At last he said: "I suppose I ought to jump on the boss? Thanks for showing me how to get into a mess!" "Bend your backside to him, then," she shouted. "By God! if my daughter had listened to me! It's not enough for them to kill the father. Perhaps you'd like me to say 'thank you.' No, I'll have their skins first!" Their voices were lost. Étienne saw her disappear, with her eagle nose, her flying white hair, her long, lean arms that gesticulated furiously. But the conversation of two young people behind caused him to listen. He had recognized Zacharie, who was waiting there, and who had just been addressed by his friend Mouquet. "Are you here?" said the latter. "We will have something to eat, and then off to the Volcan." "Directly. I've something to attend to." "What, then?" The lander turned and saw Philoméne coming out of the screening-shed. He thought he understood. "Very well, if it's that. Then I go ahead." "Yes, I'll catch you up." As he went away, Mouquet met his father, old Mouque, who was also coming out of the Voreux. The two men simply wished each other good evening, the son taking the main road while the father went along by the canal. Zacharie was already pushing Philoméne in spite of her resistance into the same solitary path. She was in a hurry, another time; and the two wrangled like old housemates. There was no fun in only seeing one another out of doors, especially in winter, when the earth is moist and there are no wheatfields to lie in. "No, no, it's not that," he whispered impatiently. "I've something to say to you." He led her gently with his arm round her waist. Then, when they were in the shadow of the pit-bank, he asked if she had any money. "What for?" she demanded. Then he became confused, spoke of a debt of two francs which had reduced his family to despair. "Hold your tongue! I've seen Mouquet; you're going again to the Volcan with him, where those dirty singer-women are." He defended himself, struck his chest, gave his word of honour. Then, as she shrugged her shoulders, he said suddenly: "Come with us if it will amuse you. You see that you don't put me out. What do I want to do with the singers? Will you come?" "And the little one?" she replied. "How can one stir with a child that's always screaming? Let me go back, I guess they're not getting on at the house." But he held her and entreated. See! it was only not to look foolish before Mouquet to whom he had promised. A man could not go to bed every evening like the fowls. She was overcome, and pulled up the skirt of her gown; with her nail she cut the thread and drew out some half-franc pieces from a corner of the hem. For fear of being robbed by her mother she hid there the profit of the overtime work she did at the pit. "I've got five, you see," she said, "I'll give you three. Only you must swear that you'll make your mother decide to let us marry. We've had enough of this life in the open air. And mother reproaches me for every mouthful I eat. Swear first." She spoke with the soft voice of a big, delicate girl, without passion, simply tired of her life. He swore, exclaimed that it was a sacred promise; then, when he had got the three pieces, he kissed her, tickled her, made her laugh, and would have pushed things to an extreme in this corner of the pit-bank, which was the winter chamber of their household, if she had not again refused, saying that it would not give her any pleasure. She went back to the settlement alone, while he cut across the fields to rejoin his companion. Étienne had followed them mechanically, from afar, without understanding, regarding it as a simple rendezvous. The girls were precocious in the pits; and he recalled the Lille work-girls whom he had waited for behind the factories, those bands of girls, corrupted at fourteen, in the abandonment of their wretchedness. But another meeting surprised him more. He stopped. At the bottom of the pit-bank, in a hollow into which some large stones had slipped, little Jeanlin was violently snubbing Lydie and Bébert, seated one at his right, the other at his left. "What do you say? Eh? I'll slap each of you if you want more. Who thought of it first, eh?" In fact, Jeanlin had had an idea. After having roamed about in the meadows, along the canal, for an hour, gathering dandelions with the two others, it had occurred to him, before this pile of salad, that they would never eat all that at home; and instead of going back to the settlement he had gone to Montsou, keeping Bébert to watch, and making Lydie ring at the houses and offer the dandelions. He was experienced enough to know that, as he said, girls could sell what they liked. In the ardour of business, the entire pile had disappeared; but the girl had gained eleven sous. And now, with empty hands, the three were dividing the profits. "That's not fair!" Bébert declared. "Must divide into three. If you keep seven sous we shall only have two each." "What? not fair!" replied Jeanlin furiously. "I gathered more first of all." The other usually submitted with timid admiration and a credulity which always made him the dupe. Though older and stronger, he even allowed himself to be struck. But this time the sight of all that money excited him to rebellion. "He's robbing us, Lydie, isn't he? If he doesn't share, we'll tell his mother." Jeanlin at once thrust his fist beneath the other's nose. "Say that again! I'll go and say at your house that you sold my mother's salad. And then, you silly beast, how can I divide eleven sous into three? Just try and see, if you're so clever. Here are your two sous each. Just look sharp and take them, or I'll put them in my pocket." Bébert was vanquished and accepted the two sous. Lydie, who was trembling, had said nothing, for with Jeanlin she experienced the fear and the tenderness of a little beaten woman. When he held out the two sous to her she advanced her hand with a submissive laugh. But he suddenly changed his mind. "Eh! what will you do with all that? Your mother will nab them, sure enough, if you don't know how to hide them from her. I'd better keep them for you. When you want money you can ask me for it." And the nine sous disappeared. To shut her mouth he had put his arms around her laughingly and was rolling with her over the pit-bank. She was his little wife, and in the dark corners they used to try together the love which they heard and saw in their homes behind partitions, through the cracks of doors. They knew everything, but they were able to do nothing, being too young, fumbling and playing for hours at the games of vicious puppies. He called that playing at papa and mama; and when he chased her she ran away and let herself be caught with the delicious trembling of instinct, often angry, but always yielding, in the expectation of something which never came. As Bébert was not admitted to these games and received a cuffing whenever he wanted to touch Lydie, he was always constrained, agitated by anger and uneasiness when the other two were amusing themselves, which they did not hesitate to do in his presence. His one idea, therefore, was to frighten them and disturb them, calling out that someone could see them. "It's all up! There's a man looking." This time he told the truth; it was Étienne, who had decided to continue his walk. The children jumped up and ran away, and he passed by round the bank, following the canal, amused at the terror of these little rascals. No doubt it was too early at their age, but they saw and heard so much that one would have to tie them up to restrain them. Yet Étienne became sad. A hundred paces farther on he came across more couples. He had arrived at Réquillart, and there, around the old ruined mine, all the girls of Montsou prowled about with their lovers. It was the common rendezvous, the remote and deserted spot to which the putters came to get their first child when they dared not risk the shed. The broken palings opened to every one the old yard, now become a nondescript piece of ground, obstructed by the ruins of the two sheds which had fallen in, and by the skeletons of the large buttresses which were still standing. Derelict trams were lying about, and piles of old rotting wood, while a dense vegetation was reconquering this corner of ground, displaying itself in thick grass, and springing up in young trees that were already vigorous. Every girl found herself at home here; there were concealed holes for all; their lovers placed them over beams, behind the timber, in the trams; they even lay elbow to elbow without troubling about their neighbours. And it seemed that around this extinguished engine, near this shaft weary of disgorging coal, there was a revenge of creation in the free love which, beneath the lash of instinct, planted children in the bellies of these girls who were yet hardly women. Yet a caretaker lived there, old Mouque, to whom the Company had given up, almost beneath the destroyed tower, two rooms which were constantly threatened by destruction from the expected fall of the last walls. He had even been obliged to shore up a part of the roof, and he lived there very comfortably with his family, he and Mouquet in one room, Mouquette in the other. As the windows no longer possessed a single pane, he had decided to close them by nailing up boards; one could not see well, but it was warm. For the rest, this caretaker cared for nothing: he went to look after his horses at the Voreux, and never troubled himself about the ruins of Réquillart, of which the shaft only was preserved, in order to serve as a chimney for a fire which ventilated the neighbouring pit. It was thus that Father Mouque was ending his old age in the midst of love. Ever since she was ten Mouquette had been lying about in all the corners of the ruins, not as a timid and still green little urchin like Lydie, but as a girl who was already big, and a mate for bearded lads. The father had nothing to say, for she was considerate, and never introduced a lover into the house. Then he was used to this sort of accident. When he went to the Voreux, when he came back, whenever he came out of his hole, he could scarcely put a foot down without treading on a couple in the grass; and it was worse if he wanted to gather wood to heat his soup or look for burdocks for his rabbit at the other end of the enclosure. Then he saw one by one the voluptuous noses of all the girls of Montsou rising up around him, while he had to be careful not to knock against the limbs stretched out level with the paths. Besides, these meetings had gradually ceased to disturb either him who was simply taking care not to stumble, or the girls whom he allowed to finish their affairs, going away with discreet little steps like a worthy man who was at peace with the ways of nature. Only just as they now knew him he at last also knew them, as one knows the rascally magpies who become corrupted in the pear-trees in the garden. Ah! youth! youth! how it goes on, how wild it is! Sometimes he wagged his chin with silent regret, turning away from the noisy wantons who were breathing too loudly in the darkness. Only one thing put him out of temper: two lovers had acquired the bad habit of embracing outside his wall. It was not that it prevented him from sleeping, but they leaned against the wall so heavily that at last they damaged it. Every evening old Mouque received a visit from his friend, Father Bonnemort, who regularly before dinner took the same walk. The two old men spoke little, scarcely exchanging ten words during the half-hour that they spent together. But it cheered them thus to think over the days of old, to chew their recollections over again without need to talk of them. At Réquillart they sat on a beam side by side, saying a word and then sinking into their dreams, with faces bent towards the earth. No doubt they were becoming young again. Around them lovers were turning over their sweethearts; there was a murmur of kisses and laughter; the warm odour of the girls arose in the freshness of the trodden grass. It was now forty-three years since Father Bonnemort had taken his wife behind the pit; she was a putter, so slight that he had placed her on a tram to embrace her at ease. Ah! those were fine days. And the two old men, shaking their heads, at last left each other, often without saying good night. That evening, however, as Étienne arrived, Father Bonnemort, who was getting up from the beam to return to the settlement, said to Mouque: "Good night, old man. I say, you knew Roussie?" Mouque was silent for a moment, rocked his shoulders; then, returning to the house: "Good night, good night, old man." Étienne came and sat on the beam, in his turn. His sadness was increasing, though he could not tell why. The old man, whose disappearing back he watched, recalled his arrival in the morning, and the flood of words which the piercing wind had dragged from his silence. What wretchedness! And all these girls, worn out with fatigue, who were still stupid enough in the evening to fabricate little ones, to yield flesh for labour and suffering! It would never come to an end if they were always filling themselves with starvelings. Would it not be better if they were to shut up their bellies, and press their thighs together, as at the approach of misfortune? Perhaps these gloomy ideas only stirred confusedly in him because he was alone, while all the others at this hour were going about taking their pleasure in couples. The mild weather stifled him a little, occasional drops of rain fell on his feverish hands. Yes, they all came to it; it was something stronger than reason. Just then, as Étienne remained seated motionless in the shadow, a couple who came down from Montsou rustled against him without seeing him as they entered the uneven Réquillart ground. The girl, certainly a virgin, was struggling and resisting with low whispered supplications, while the lad in silence was pushing her towards the darkness of a corner of the shed, still upright, under which there were piles of old mouldy rope. It was Catherine and big Chaval. But Étienne had not recognized them in passing, and his eyes followed them; he was watching for the end of the story, touched by a sensuality which changed the course of his thoughts. Why should he interfere? When girls refuse it is because they like first to be forced. On leaving the settlement of the Deux-Cent-Quarante Catherine had gone to Montsou along the road. From the age of ten, since she had earned her living at the pit, she went about the country alone in the complete liberty of the colliers' families; and if no man had possessed her at fifteen it was owing to the tardy awakening of her puberty, the crisis of which had not yet arrived. When she was in front of the Company's Yards she crossed the road and entered a laundress's where she was certain to find Mouquette; for the latter stayed there from morning till night, among women who treated each other with coffee all round. But she was disappointed; Mouquette had just then been regaling them in her turn so thoroughly that she was not able to lend the half-franc she had promised. To console her they vainly offered a glass of hot coffee. She was not even willing that her companion should borrow from another woman. An idea of economy had come to her, a sort of superstitious fear, the certainty that that ribbon would bring her bad luck if she were to buy it now. She hastened to regain the road to the settlement, and had reached the last houses of Montsou when a man at the door of the Piquette Estaminet called her: "Eh! Catherine! where are you off to so quick?" It was lanky Chaval. She was vexed, not because he displeased her, but because she was not inclined to joke. "Come in and have a drink. A little glass of sweet, won't you?" She refused politely; the night was coming on, they were expecting her at home. He had advanced, and was entreating her in a low voice in the middle of the road. It had been his idea for a long time to persuade her to come up to the room which he occupied on the first story of the Estaminet Piquette, a fine room for a household, with a large bed. Did he frighten her, that she always refused? She laughed good-naturedly, and said that she would come up some day when children didn't grow. Then, one thing leading to another, she told him, without knowing how, about the blue ribbon which she had not been able to buy. "But I'll pay for it," he exclaimed. She blushed, feeling that it would be best to refuse again, but possessed by a strong desire to have the ribbon. The idea of a loan came back to her, and at last she accepted on condition that she should return to him what he spent on her. They began to joke again: it was agreed that if she did not sleep with him she should return him the money. But there was another difficulty when he talked of going to Maigrat's. "No, not Maigrat's; mother won't let me." "Why? is there any need to say where one goes? He has the best ribbons in Montsou." When Maigrat saw lanky Chaval and Catherine coming to his shop like two lovers who are buying their engagement gifts, he became very red, and exhibited his pieces of blue ribbon with the rage of a man who is being made fun of. Then, when he had served the young people, he planted himself at the door to watch them disappear in the twilight; and when his wife came to ask him a question in a timid voice, he fell on her, abusing her, and exclaiming that he would make them repent some day, the filthy creatures, who had no gratitude, when they ought all to be on the ground licking his feet. Lanky Chaval accompanied Catherine along the road. He walked beside her, swinging his arms; only he pushed her by the hip, conducting her without seeming to do so. She suddenly perceived that he had made her leave the pavement and that they were taking the narrow Réquillart road. But she had no time to be angry; his arm was already round her waist, and he was dazing her with a constant caress of words. How stupid she was to be afraid! Did he want to hurt such a little darling, who was as soft as silk, so tender that he could have devoured her? And he breathed behind her ear, in her neck, so that a shudder passed over the skin of her whole body. She felt stifled, and had nothing to reply. It was true that he seemed to love her. On Saturday evenings, after having blown out the candle, she had asked herself what would happen if he were to take her in this way; then, on going to sleep, she had dreamed that she would no longer refuse, quite overcome by pleasure. Why, then, at the same idea to-day did she feel repugnance and something like regret? While he was tickling her neck with his moustache so softly that she closed her eyes, the shadow of another man, of the lad she had seen that morning, passed over the darkness of her closed eyelids. Catherine suddenly looked around her. Chaval had conducted her into the ruins of Réquillart and she recoiled, shuddering, from the darkness of the fallen shed. "Oh! no! oh, no!" she murmured, "please let me go!" The fear of the male had taken hold of her, that fear which stiffens the muscles in an impulse of defence, even when girls are willing, and feel the conquering approach of man. Her virginity which had nothing to learn took fright as at a threatening blow, a wound of which she feared the unknown pain. "No, no! I don't want to! I tell you that I am too young. It's true! Another time, when I am quite grown up." He growled in a low voice: "Stupid! There's nothing to fear. What does that matter?" But without speaking more he had seized her firmly and pushed her beneath the shed. And she fell on her back on the old ropes; she ceased to protest, yielding to the male before her time, with that hereditary submission which from childhood had thrown down in the open air all the girls of her race. Her frightened stammering grew faint, and only the ardent breath of the man was heard. Étienne, however, had listened without moving. Another who was taking the leap! And now that he had seen the comedy he got up, overcome by uneasiness, by a kind of jealous excitement in which there was a touch of anger. He no longer restrained himself; he stepped over the beams, for those two were too much occupied now to be disturbed. He was surprised, therefore, when he had gone a hundred paces along the path, to find that they were already standing up, and that they appeared, like himself, to be returning to the settlement. The man again had his arm round the girl's waist, and was squeezing her, with an air of gratitude, still speaking in her neck; and it was she who seemed in a hurry, anxious to return quickly, and annoyed at the delay. Then Étienne was tormented by the desire to see their faces. It was foolish, and he hastened his steps, so as not to yield to it; but his feet slackened of their own accord, and at the first lamppost he concealed himself in the shade. He was petrified by horror when he recognized Catherine and lanky Chaval. He hesitated at first: was it indeed she, that young girl in the coarse blue dress, with that bonnet? Was that the urchin whom he had seen in breeches, with her head in the canvas cap? That was why she could pass so near him without his recognizing her. But he no longer doubted; he had seen her eyes again, with their greenish limpidity of spring water, so clear and so deep. What a wench! And he experienced a furious desire to avenge himself on her with contempt, without any motive. Besides, he did not like her as a girl: she was frightful. Catherine and Chaval had passed him slowly. They did not know that they were watched. He held her to kiss her behind the ear, and she began to slacken her steps beneath his caresses, which made her laugh. Left behind, Étienne was obliged to follow them, irritated because they barred the road and because in spite of himself he had to witness these things which exasperated him. It was true, then, what she had sworn to him in the morning: she was not any one's mistress; and he, who had not believed her, who had deprived himself of her in order not to act like the other! and who had let her be taken beneath his nose, pushing his stupidity so far as to be dirtily amused at seeing them! It made him mad! he clenched his hands, he could have devoured that man in one of those impulses to kill in which he saw everything red. The walk lasted for half an hour. When Chaval and Catherine approached the Voreux they slackened their pace still more; they stopped twice beside the canal, three times along the pit-bank, very cheerful now and occupied with little tender games. Étienne was obliged to stop also when they stopped, for fear of being perceived. He endeavoured to feel nothing but a brutal regret: that would teach him to treat girls with consideration through being well brought up! Then, after passing the Voreux, and at last free to go and dine at Rasseneur's, he continued to follow them, accompanying them to the settlement, where he remained standing in the shade for a quarter of an hour, waiting until Chaval left Catherine to enter her home. And when he was quite sure that they were no longer together, he set off walking afresh, going very far along the Marchiennes road, stamping, and thinking of nothing, too stifled and too sad to shut himself up in a room. It was not until an hour later, towards nine o'clock, that Étienne again passed the settlement, saying to himself that he must eat and sleep, if he was to be up again at four o'clock in the morning. The village was already asleep, and looked quite black in the night. Not a gleam shone from the closed shutters, the house fronts slept, with the heavy sleep of snoring barracks. Only a cat escaped through the empty gardens. It was the end of the day, the collapse of workers falling from the table to the bed, overcome with weariness and food. At Rasseneur's, in the lighted room, an engine-man and two day-workers were drinking. But before going in Étienne stopped to throw one last glance into the darkness. He saw again the same black immensity as in the morning when he had arrived in the wind. Before him the Voreux was crouching, with its air of an evil beast, its dimness pricked with a few lantern lights. The three braziers of the bank were burning in the air, like bloody moons, now and then showing the vast silhouettes of Father Bonnemort and his yellow horse. And beyond, in the flat plain, shade had submerged everything, Montsou, Marchiennes, the forest of Vandame, the immense sea of beetroot and of wheat, in which there only shone, like distant lighthouses, the blue fires of the blast furnaces, and the red fires of the coke ovens. Gradually the night came on, the rain was now falling slowly, continuously, burying this void in its monotonous streaming. Only one voice was still heard, the thick, slow respiration of the pumping engine, breathing both by day and by night. PART THREE CHAPTER I On the next day, and the days that followed, Étienne continued his work at the pit. He grew accustomed to it; his existence became regulated by this labour and to these new habits which had seemed so hard to him at first. Only one episode interrupted the monotony of the first fortnight: a slight fever which kept him in bed for forty-eight hours with aching limbs and throbbing head, dreaming in a state of semi-delirium that he was pushing his tram in a passage that was so narrow that his body would not pass through. It was simply the exhaustion of his apprenticeship, an excess of fatigue from which he quickly recovered. And days followed days, until weeks and months had slipped by. Now, like his mates, he got up at three o'clock, drank his coffee, and carried off the double slice of bread and butter which Madame Rasseneur had prepared for him the evening before. Regularly as he went every morning to the pit, he met old Bonnemort who was going home to sleep, and on leaving in the afternoon he crossed Bouteloup who was going to his task. He had his cap, his breeches and canvas jacket, and he shivered and warmed his back in the shed before the large fire. Then came the waiting with naked feet in the receiving-room, swept by furious currents of air. But the engine, with its great steel limbs starred with copper shining up above in the shade, no longer attracted his attention, nor the cables which flew by with the black and silent motion of a nocturnal bird, nor the cages rising and plunging unceasingly in the midst of the noise of signals, of shouted orders, of trams shaking the metal floor. His lamp burnt badly, that confounded lamp-man could not have cleaned it; and he only woke up when Mouquet bundled them all off, roguishly smacking the girls' flanks. The cage was unfastened, and fell like a stone to the bottom of a hole without causing him even to lift his head to see the daylight vanish. He never thought of a possible fall; he felt himself at home as he sank into the darkness beneath the falling rain. Below at the pit-eye, when Pierron had unloaded them with his air of hypocritical mildness, there was always the same tramping as of a flock, the yard-men each going away to his cutting with trailing steps. He now knew the mine galleries better than the streets of Montsou; he knew where he had to turn, where he had to stoop, and where he had to avoid a puddle. He had grown so accustomed to these two kilometres beneath the earth, that he could have traversed them without a lamp, with his hands in his pockets. And every time the same meetings took place: a captain lighting up the faces of the passing workmen, Father Mouque leading a horse, Bébert conducting the snorting Bataille, Jeanlin running behind the tram to close the ventilation doors, and big Mouquette and lean Lydie pushing their trams. After a time, also, Étienne suffered much less from the damp and closeness of the cutting. The chimney or ascending passage seemed to him more convenient for climbing up, as if he had melted and could pass through cracks where before he would not have risked a hand. He breathed the coal-dust without difficulty, saw clearly in the obscurity, and sweated tranquilly, having grown accustomed to the sensation of wet garments on his body from morning to night. Besides, he no longer spent his energy recklessly; he had gained skill so rapidly that he astonished the whole stall. In three weeks he was named among the best putters in the pit; no one pushed a tram more rapidly to the upbrow, nor loaded it afterwards so correctly. His small figure allowed him to slip about everywhere, and though his arms were as delicate and white as a woman's, they seemed to be made of iron beneath the smooth skin, so vigorously did they perform their task. He never complained, out of pride no doubt, even when he was panting with fatigue. The only thing they had against him was that he could not take a joke, and grew angry as soon as any one trod on his toes. In all other respects he was accepted and looked upon as a real miner, reduced beneath this pressure of habit, little by little, to a machine. Maheu regarded Étienne with special friendship, for he respected work that was well done. Then, like the others, he felt that this lad had more education than himself; he saw him read, write, and draw little plans; he heard him talking of things of which he himself did not know even the existence. This caused him no astonishment, for miners are rough fellows who have thicker heads than engine-men; but he was surprised at the courage of this little chap, and at the cheerful way he had bitten into the coal to avoid dying of hunger. He had never met a workman who grew accustomed to it so quickly. So when hewing was urgent, and he did not wish to disturb a pikeman, he gave the timbering over to the young man, being sure of the neatness and solidity of his work. The bosses were always bothering him about the damned planking question; he feared every hour the appearance of the engineer Négrel, followed by Dansaert, shouting, discussing, ordering everything to be done over again, and he remarked that his putter's timbering gave greater satisfaction to these gentlemen, in spite of their air of never being pleased with anything, and their repeated assertions that the Company would one day or another take radical measures. Things dragged on; a deep discontent was fomenting in the pit, and Maheu himself, in spite of his calmness, was beginning to clench his fists. There was at first some rivalry between Zacharie and Étienne. One evening they were even coming to blows. But the former, a good lad though careless of everything but his own pleasure, was quickly appeased by the friendly offer of a glass, and soon yielded to the superiority of the new-comer. Levaque was also on good terms with him, talking politics with the putter, who, as he said, had his own ideas. The only one of the men in whom he felt a deep hostility was lanky Chaval: not that they were cool towards each other, for, on the contrary, they had become companions; only when they joked their eyes seemed to devour each other. Catherine continued to move among them as a tired, resigned girl, bending her back, pushing her tram, always good-natured with her companion in the putting, who aided her in his turn, and submissive to the wishes of her lover, whose caresses she now received openly. It was an accepted situation, a recognized domestic arrangement to which the family itself closed its eyes to such a degree that Chaval every evening led away the putter behind the pit-bank, then brought her back to her parents' door, where he finally embraced her before the whole settlement. Étienne, who believed that he had reconciled himself to the situation, often teased her about these walks, making crude remarks by way of joke, as lads and girls will at the bottom of the cuttings; and she replied in the same tone, telling in a swaggering way what her lover had done to her, yet disturbed and growing pale when the young man's eyes chanced to meet hers. Then both would turn away their heads, not speaking again, perhaps, for an hour, looking as if they hated each other because of something buried within them and which they could never explain to each other. The spring had come. On emerging from the pit one day Étienne had received in his face a warm April breeze, a good odour of young earth, of tender greenness, of large open air; and now, every time he came up the spring smelt sweeter, warmed him more, after his ten hours of labour in the eternal winter at the bottom, in the midst of that damp darkness which no summer had ever dissipated. The days grew longer and longer; at last, in May, he went down at sunrise when a vermilion sky lit up the Voreux with a mist of dawn in which the white vapour of the pumping-engine became rose-coloured. There was no more shivering, a warm breath blew across the plain, while the larks sang far above. Then at three o'clock he was dazzled by the now burning sun which set fire to the horizon, and reddened the bricks beneath the filth of the coal. In June the wheat was already high, of a blue green, which contrasted with the black green of the beetroots. It was an endless vista undulating beneath the slightest breeze; and he saw it spread and grow from day to day, and was sometimes surprised, as if he had found it in the evening more swollen with verdure than it had been in the morning. The poplars along the canal were putting on their plumes of leaves. Grass was invading the pit-bank, flowers were covering the meadows, a whole life was germinating and pushing up from this earth beneath which he was groaning in misery and fatigue. When Étienne now went for a walk in the evening he no longer startled lovers behind the pit-bank. He could follow their track in the wheat and divine their wanton birds' nests by eddies among the yellowing blades and the great red poppies. Zacharie and Philoméne came back to it out of old domestic habit; Mother Brulé, always on Lydie's heels, was constantly hunting her out with Jeanlin, buried so deeply together that one had to tread on them before they made up their minds to get up; and as to Mouquette, she lay about everywhere--one could not cross a field without seeing her head plunge down while only her feet emerged as she lay at full length. But all these were quite free; the young man found nothing guilty there except on the evenings when he met Catherine and Chaval. Twice he saw them on his approach tumble down in the midst of a field, where the motionless stalks afterwards remained dead. Another time, as he was going along a narrow path, Catherine's clear eyes appeared before him, level with the wheat, and immediately sank. Then the immense plain seemed to him too small, and he preferred to pass the evening at Rasseneur's, in the Avantage. "Give me a glass, Madame Rasseneur. No, I'm not going out to-night; my legs are too stiff." And he turned towards a comrade, who always sat at the bottom table with his head against the wall. "Souvarine, won't you have one?" "No, thanks; nothing." Étienne had become acquainted with Souvarine through living there side by side. He was an engine-man at the Voreux, and occupied the furnished room upstairs next to his own. He must have been about thirty years old, fair and slender, with a delicate face framed by thick hair and a slight beard. His white pointed teeth, his thin mouth and nose, with his rosy complexion, gave him a girlish appearance, an air of obstinate gentleness, across which the grey reflection of his steely eyes threw savage gleams. In his poor workman's room there was nothing but a box of papers and books. He was a Russian, and never spoke of himself, so that many stories were afloat concerning him. The colliers, who are very suspicious with strangers, guessing from his small middle-class hands that he belonged to another caste, had at first imagined a romance, some assassination, and that he was escaping punishment. But then he had behaved in such a fraternal way with them, without any pride, distributing to the youngsters of the settlement all the sous in his pockets, that they now accepted him, reassured by the term "political refugee" which circulated about him--a vague term, in which they saw an excuse even for crime, and, as it were, a companionship in suffering. During the first weeks, Étienne had found him timid and reserved, so that he only discovered his history later on. Souvarine was the latest born of a noble family in the Government of Tula. At St. Petersburg, where he studied medicine, the socialistic enthusiasm which then carried away all the youth in Russia had decided him to learn a manual trade, that of a mechanic, so that he could mix with the people, in order to know them and help them as a brother. And it was by this trade that he was now living after having fled, in consequence of an unsuccessful attempt against the tsar's life: for a month he had lived in a fruiterer's cellar, hollowing out a mine underneath the road, and charging bombs, with the constant risk of being blown up with the house. Renounced by his family, without money, expelled from the French workshops as a foreigner who was regarded as a spy, he was dying of starvation when the Montsou Company had at last taken him on at a moment of pressure. For a year he had laboured there as a good, sober, silent workman, doing day-work one week and night-work the next week, so regularly that the masters referred to him as an example to the others. "Are you never thirsty?" said Étienne to him, laughing. And he replied with his gentle voice, almost without an accent: "I am thirsty when I eat." His companion also joked him about the girls, declaring that he had seen him with a putter in the wheat on the Bas-de-Soie side. Then he shrugged his shoulders with tranquil indifference. What should he do with a putter? Woman was for him a boy, a comrade, when she had the fraternal feeling and the courage of a man. What was the good of having a possible act of cowardice on one's conscience? He desired no bond, either woman or friend; he would be master of his own life and those of others. Every evening towards nine o'clock, when the inn was emptying, Étienne remained thus talking with Souvarine. He drank his beer in small sips, while the engine-man smoked constant cigarettes, of which the tobacco had at last stained his slender fingers. His vague mystic's eyes followed the smoke in the midst of a dream; his left hand sought occupation by nervously twitching; and he usually ended by installing a tame rabbit on his knees, a large doe with young, who lived at liberty in the house. This rabbit, which he had named Poland, had grown to worship him; she would come and smell his trousers, fawn on him and scratch him with her paws until he took her up like a child. Then, lying in a heap against him, her ears laid back, she would close her eyes; and without growing tired, with an unconscious caressing gesture, he would pass his hand over her grey silky fur, calmed by that warm living softness. "You know I have had a letter from Pluchart," said Étienne one evening. Only Rasseneur was there. The last client had departed for the settlement, which was now going to bed. "Ah!" exclaimed the innkeeper, standing up before his two lodgers. "How are things going with Pluchart?" During the last two months, Étienne had kept up a constant correspondence with the Lille mechanician, whom he had told of his Montsou engagement, and who was now indoctrinating him, having been struck by the propaganda which he might carry on among the miners. "The association is getting on very well. It seems that they are coming in from all sides." "What have you got to say, eh, about their society?" asked Rasseneur of Souvarine. The latter, who was softly scratching Poland's head, blew out a puff of smoke and muttered, with his tranquil air: "More foolery!" But Étienne grew enthusiastic. A predisposition for revolt was throwing him, in the first illusions of his ignorance, into the struggle of labour against capital. It was the International Working Men's Association that they were concerned with, that famous International which had just been founded in London. Was not that a superb effort, a campaign in which justice would at last triumph? No more frontiers; the workers of the whole world rising and uniting to assure to the labourer the bread that he has earned. And what a simple and great organization! Below, the section which represents the commune; then the federation which groups the sections of the same province; then the nation; and then, at last, humanity incarnated in a general council in which each nation was represented by a corresponding secretary. In six months it would conquer the world, and would be able to dictate laws to the masters should they prove obstinate. "Foolery!" repeated Souvarine. "Your Karl Marx is still only thinking about letting natural forces act. No politics, no conspiracies, is it not so? Everything in the light of day, and simply to raise wages. Don't bother me with your evolution! Set fire to the four corners of the town, mow down the people, level everything, and when there is nothing more of this rotten world left standing, perhaps a better one will grow up in its place." Étienne began to laugh. He did not always take in his comrade's sayings; this theory of destruction seemed to him an affectation. Rasseneur, who was still more practical, like a man of solid common sense did not condescend to get angry. He only wanted to have things clear. "Then, what? Are you going to try and create a section at Montsou?" This was what was desired by Pluchart, who was secretary to the Federation of the Nord. He insisted especially on the services which the association would render to the miners should they go out on strike. Étienne believed that a strike was imminent: this timbering business would turn out badly; any further demands on the part of the Company would cause rebellion in all the pits. "It's the subscriptions that are the nuisance," Rasseneur declared, in a judicial tone. "Half a franc a year for the general fund, two francs for the section; it looks like nothing, but I bet that many will refuse to give it." "All the more," added Étienne, "because we must first have here a Provident Fund, which we can use if need be as an emergency fund. No matter, it is time to think about these things. I am ready if the others are." There was silence. The petroleum lamp smoked on the counter. Through the large open door they could distinctly hear the shovel of a stoker at the Voreux stoking the engine. "Everything is so dear!" began Madame Rasseneur, who had entered and was listening with a gloomy air as if she had grown up in her everlasting black dress. "When I tell you that I've paid twenty-two sous for eggs! It will have to burst up." All three men this time were of the same opinion. They spoke one after the other in a despairing voice, giving expression to their complaints. The workers could not hold out; the Revolution had only aggravated their wretchedness; only the bourgeois had grown fat since '89, so greedily that they had not even left the bottom of the plates to lick. Who could say that the workers had had their reasonable share in the extraordinary increase of wealth and comfort during the last hundred years? They had made fun of them by declaring them free. Yes, free to starve, a freedom of which they fully availed themselves. It put no bread into your cupboard to go and vote for fine fellows who went away and enjoyed themselves, thinking no more of the wretched voters than of their old boots. No! one way or another it would have to come to an end, either quietly by laws, by an understanding in good fellowship, or like savages by burning everything and devouring one another. Even if they never saw it, their children would certainly see it, for the century could not come to an end without another revolution, that of the workers this time, a general hustling which would cleanse society from top to bottom, and rebuild it with more cleanliness and justice. "It will have to burst up," Madame Rasseneur repeated energetically. "Yes, yes," they all three cried. "It will have to burst up." Souvarine was now tickling Poland's ears, and her nose was curling with pleasure. He said in a low voice, with abstracted gaze, as if to himself: "Raise wages--how can you? They're fixed by an iron law to the smallest possible sum, just the sum necessary to allow the workers to eat dry bread and get children. If they fall too low, the workers die, and the demand for new men makes them rise. If they rise too high, more men come, and they fall. It is the balance of empty bellies, a sentence to a perpetual prison of hunger." When he thus forgot himself, entering into the questions that stir an educated socialist, Étienne and Rasseneur became restless, disturbed by his despairing statements which they were unable to answer. "Do you understand?" he said again, gazing at them with his habitual calmness; "we must destroy everything, or hunger will reappear. Yes, anarchy and nothing more; the earth washed in blood and purified by fire! Then we shall see!" "Monsieur is quite right," said Madame Rasseneur, who, in her revolutionary violence, was always very polite. Étienne, in despair at his ignorance, would argue no longer. He rose, remarking: "Let's go to bed. All this won't save one from getting up at three o'clock." Souvarine, having blown away the cigarette-end which was sticking to his lips, was already gently lifting the big rabbit beneath the belly to place it on the ground. Rasseneur was shutting up the house. They separated in silence with buzzing ears, as if their heads had swollen with the grave questions they had been discussing. And every evening there were similar conversations in the bare room around the single glass which Étienne took an hour to empty. A crowd of obscure ideas, asleep within him, were stirring and expanding. Especially consumed by the need of knowledge, he had long hesitated to borrow books from his neighbour, who unfortunately had hardly any but German and Russian works. At last he had borrowed a French book on Co-operative Societies--mere foolery, said Souvarine; and he also regularly read a newspaper which the latter received, the Combat, an Anarchist journal published at Geneva. In other respects, notwithstanding their daily relations, he found him as reserved as ever, with his air of camping in life, without interests or feelings or possessions of any kind. Towards the first days of July, Étienne's situation began to improve. In the midst of this monotonous life, always beginning over again, an accident had occurred. The stalls in the Guillaume seam had come across a shifting of the strata, a general disturbance in the layers, which certainly announced that they were approaching a fault; and, in fact, they soon came across this fault which the engineers, in spite of considerable knowledge of the soil, were still ignorant of. This upset the pit; nothing was talked of but the lost seam, which was to be found, no doubt, lower down on the other side of the fault. The old miners were already expanding their nostrils, like good dogs, in a chase for coal. But, meanwhile, the hewers could not stand with folded arms, and placards announced that the Company would put up new workings to auction. Maheu, on coming out one day, accompanied Étienne and offered to take him on as a pikeman in his working, in place of Levaque who had gone to another yard. The matter had already been arranged with the head captain and the engineer, who were very pleased with the young man. So Étienne merely had to accept this rapid promotion, glad of the growing esteem in which Maheu held him. In the evening they returned together to the pit to take note of the placards. The cuttings put up to auction were in the Filonniére seam in the north gallery of the Voreux. They did not seem very advantageous, and the miner shook his head when the young man read out the conditions. On the following day when they had gone down, he took him to see the seam, and showed him how far away it was from the pit-eye, the crumbly nature of the earth, the thinness and hardness of the coal. But if they were to eat they would have to work. So on the following Sunday they went to the auction, which took place in the shed and was presided over by the engineer of the pit, assisted by the head captain, in the absence of the divisional engineer. From five to six hundred miners were there in front of the little platform, which was placed in the corner, and the bidding went on so rapidly that one only heard a deep tumult of voices, of shouted figures drowned by other figures. For a moment Maheu feared that he would not be able to obtain one of the forty workings offered by the Company. All the rivals went lower, disquieted by the rumours of a crisis and the panic of a lock-out. Négrel, the engineer, did not hurry in the face of this panic, and allowed the offers to fall to the lowest possible figures, while Dansaert, anxious to push matters still further, lied with regard to the quality of the workings. In order to get his fifty metres, Maheu struggled with a comrade who was also obstinate; in turn they each took off a centime from the tram; and if he conquered in the end it was only by lowering the wage to such an extent, that the captain Richomme, who was standing behind him, muttered between his teeth, and nudged him with his elbow, growling angrily that he could never do it at that price. When they came out Étienne was swearing. And he broke out before Chaval, who was returning from the wheatfields in company with Catherine, amusing himself while his father-in-law was absorbed in serious business. "By God!" he exclaimed, "it's simply slaughter! Today it is the worker who is forced to devour the worker!" Chaval was furious. He would never have lowered it, he wouldn't. And Zacharie, who had come out of curiosity, declared that it was disgusting. But Étienne with a violent gesture silenced them. "It will end some day, we shall be the masters!" Maheu, who had been mute since the auction, appeared to wake up. He repeated: "Masters! Ah! bad luck! it can't be too soon!" CHAPTER II It was Montsou feast-day, the last Sunday in July. Since Saturday evening the good housekeepers of the settlement had deluged their parlours with water, throwing bucketfuls over the flags and against the walls; and the floor was not yet dry, in spite of the white sand which had been strewn over it, an expensive luxury for the purses of the poor. But the day promised to be very warm; it was one of those heavy skies threatening storm, which in summer stifle this flat bare country of the Nord. Sunday upset the hours for rising, even among the Maheus. While the father, after five o'clock, grew weary of his bed and dressed himself, the children lay in bed until nine. On this day Maheu went to smoke a pipe in the garden, and then came back to eat his bread and butter alone, while waiting. He thus passed the morning in a random manner; he mended the tub, which leaked; stuck up beneath the clock a portrait of the prince imperial which had been given to the little ones. However, the others came down one by one. Father Bonnemort had taken a chair outside, to sit in the sun, while the mother and Alzire had at once set about cooking. Catherine appeared, pushing before her Lénore and Henri, whom she had just dressed. Eleven o'clock struck, and the odour of the rabbit, which was boiling with potatoes, was already filling the house when Zacharie and Jeanlin came down last, still yawning and with their swollen eyes. The settlement was now in a flutter, excited by the feast-day, and in expectation of dinner, which was being hastened for the departure in bands to Montsou. Troops of children were rushing about. Men in their shirt-sleeves were trailing their old shoes with the lazy gait of days of rest. Windows and doors, opened wide in the fine weather, gave glimpses of rows of parlours which were filled with movement and shouts and the chatter of families. And from one end to the other of the frontages, there was a smell of rabbit, a rich kitchen smell which on this day struggled with the inveterate odour of fried onion. The Maheus dined at midday. They made little noise in the midst of the chatter from door to door, in the coming and going of women in a constant uproar of calls and replies, of objects borrowed, of youngsters hunted away or brought back with a slap. Besides, they had not been on good terms during the last three weeks with their neighbours, the Levaques, on the subject of the marriage of Zacharie and Philoméne. The men passed the time of day, but the women pretended not to know each other. This quarrel had strengthened the relations with Pierronne, only Pierronne had left Pierron and Lydie with her mother, and set out early in the morning to spend the day with a cousin at Marchiennes; and they joked, for they knew this cousin; she had a moustache, and was head captain at the Voreux. Maheude declared that it was not proper to leave one's family on a feast-day Sunday. Beside the rabbit with potatoes, a rabbit which had been fattening in the shed for a month, the Maheus had meat soup and beef. The fortnight's wages had just fallen due the day before. They could not recollect such a spread. Even at the last St. Barbara's Day, the fete of the miners when they do nothing for three days, the rabbit had not been so fat nor so tender. So the ten pairs of jaws, from little Estelle, whose teeth were beginning to appear, to old Bonnemort, who was losing his, worked so heartily that the bones themselves disappeared. The meat was good, but they could not digest it well; they saw it too seldom. Everything disappeared; there only remained a piece of boiled beef for the evening. They could add bread and butter if they were hungry. Jeanlin went out first. Bébert was waiting for him behind the school, and they prowled about for a long time before they were able to entice away Lydie, whom Brulé, who had decided not to go out, was trying to keep with her. When she perceived that the child had fled, she shouted and brandished her lean arms, while Pierron, annoyed at the disturbance, strolled quietly away with the air of a husband who can amuse himself with a good conscience, knowing that his wife also has her little amusements. Old Bonnemort set out at last, and Maheu decided to have a little fresh air after asking Maheude if she would come and join him down below. No, she couldn't at all, it was nothing but drudgery with the little ones; but perhaps she would, all the same; she would think about it: they could easily find each other. When he got outside he hesitated, then he went into the neighbours' to see if Levaque was ready. There he found Zacharie, who was waiting for Philoméne, and the Levaque woman started again on that everlasting subject of marriage, saying that she was being made fun of and that she would have an explanation with Maheude once and for all. Was life worth living when one had to keep one's daughter's fatherless children while she went off with her lover? Philoméne quietly finished putting on her bonnet, and Zacharie took her off, saying that he was quite willing if his mother was willing. As Levaque had already gone, Maheu referred his angry neighbour to his wife and hastened to depart. Bouteloup, who was finishing a fragment of cheese with both elbows on the table, obstinately refused the friendly offer of a glass. He would stay in the house like a good husband. Gradually the settlement was emptied; all the men went off one behind the other, while the girls, watching at the doors, set out in the opposite direction on the arms of their lovers. As her father turned the corner of the church, Catherine perceived Chaval, and, hastening to join him, they took together the Montsou road. And the mother remained alone, in the midst of her scattered children, without strength to leave her chair, where she was pouring out a second glass of boiling coffee, which she drank in little sips. In the settlement there were only the women left, inviting each other to finish the dregs of the coffee-pots, around tables that were still warm and greasy with the dinner. Maheu had guessed that Levaque was at the Avantage, and he slowly went down to Rasseneur's. In fact, behind the bar, in the little garden shut in by a hedge, Levaque was having a game of skittles with some mates. Standing by, and not playing, Father Bonnemort and old Mouque were following the ball, so absorbed that they even forgot to nudge each other with their elbows. A burning sun struck down on them perpendicularly; there was only one streak of shade by the side of the inn; and Étienne was there drinking his glass before a table, annoyed because Souvarine had just left him to go up to his room. Nearly every Sunday the engine-man shut himself up to write or to read. "Will you have a game?" asked Levaque of Maheu. But he refused: it was too hot, he was already dying of thirst. "Rasseneur," called Étienne, "bring a glass, will you?" And turning towards Maheu: "I'll stand it, you know." They now all treated each other familiarly. Rasseneur did not hurry himself, he had to be called three times; and Madame Rasseneur at last brought some lukewarm beer. The young man had lowered his voice to complain about the house: they were worthy people, certainly, people with good ideas, but the beer was worthless and the soup abominable! He would have changed his lodgings ten times over, only the thought of the walk from Montsou held him back. One day or another he would go and live with some family at the settlement. "Sure enough!" said Maheu in his slow voice, "sure enough, you would be better in a family." But shouts now broke out. Levaque had overthrown all the skittles at one stroke. Mouque and Bonnemort, with their faces towards the ground, in the midst of the tumult preserved a silence of profound approbation. And the joy at this stroke found vent in jokes, especially when the players perceived Mouquette's radiant face behind the hedge. She had been prowling about there for an hour, and at last ventured to come near on hearing the laughter. "What! are you alone?" shouted Levaque. "Where are your sweethearts?" "My sweethearts! I've stabled them," she replied, with a fine impudent gaiety. "I'm looking for one." They all offered themselves, throwing coarse chaff at her. She refused with a gesture and laughed louder, playing the fine lady. Besides, her father was watching the game without even taking his eyes from the fallen skittles. "Ah!" Levaque went on, throwing a look towards Étienne: "one can tell where you're casting sheep's eyes, my girl! You'll have to take him by force." Then Étienne brightened up. It was in fact around him that the putter was revolving. And he refused, amused indeed, but without having the least desire for her. She remained planted behind the hedge for some minutes longer, looking at him with large fixed eyes; then she slowly went away, and her face suddenly became serious as if she were overcome by the powerful sun. In a low voice Étienne was again giving long explanations to Maheu regarding the necessity for the Montsou miners to establish a Provident Fund. "Since the Company professes to leave us free," he repeated, "what is there to fear? We only have their pensions and they distribute them according to their own idea, since they don't hold back any of our pay. Well, it will be prudent to form, outside their good pleasure, an association of mutual help on which we can count at least in cases of immediate need." And he gave details, and discussed the organization, promising to undertake the labour of it. "I am willing enough," said Maheu, at last convinced. "But there are the others; get them to make up their minds." Levaque had won, and they left the skittles to empty their glasses. But Maheu refused to drink a second glass; he would see later on, the day was not yet done. He was thinking about Pierron. Where could he be? No doubt at the Lenfant Estaminet. And, having persuaded Étienne and Levaque, the three set out for Montsou, at the same moment that a new band took possession of the skittles at the Avantage. On the road they had to pause at the Casimir Bar, and then at the Estaminet du Progrés. Comrades called them through the open doors, and there was no way of refusing. Each time it was a glass, two if they were polite enough to return the invitation. They remained there ten minutes, exchanging a few words, and then began again, a little farther on, knowing the beer, with which they could fill themselves without any other discomfort than having to piss it out again in the same measure, as clear as rock water. At the Estaminet Lenfant they came right upon Pierron, who was finishing his second glass, and who, in order not to refuse to touch glasses, swallowed a third. They naturally drank theirs also. Now there were four of them, and they set out to see if Zacharie was not at the Estaminet Tison. It was empty, and they called for a glass, in order to wait for him a moment. Then they thought of the Estaminet Saint-Éloi and accepted there a round from Captain Richomme. Then they rambled from bar to bar, without any pretext, simply saying that they were having a stroll. "We must go to the Volcan!" suddenly said Levaque, who was getting excited. The others began to laugh, and hesitated. Then they accompanied their comrade in the midst of the growing crowd. In the long narrow room of the Volcan, on a platform raised at the end, five singers, the scum of the Lille prostitutes, were walking about, low-necked and with monstrous gestures, and the customers gave ten sous when they desired to have one behind the stage. There was especially a number of putters and landers, even trammers of fourteen, all the youth of the pit, drinking more gin than beer. A few old miners also ventured there, and the worst husbands of the settlements, those whose households were falling into ruin. As soon as the band was seated round a little table, Étienne took possession of Levaque to explain to him his idea of the Provident Fund. Like all new converts who have found a mission, he had become an obstinate propagandist. "Every member," he repeated, "could easily pay in twenty sous a month. As these twenty sous accumulated they would form a nice little sum in four or five years, and when one has money one is ready, eh, for anything that turns up? Eh, what do you say to it?" "I've nothing to say against it," replied Levaque, with an abstracted air. "We will talk about it." He was excited by an enormous blonde, and determined to remain behind when Maheu and Pierron, after drinking their glasses, set out without waiting for a second song. Outside, Étienne who had gone with them found Mouquette, who seemed to be following them. She was always there, looking at him with her large fixed eyes, laughing her good-natured laugh, as if to say: "Are you willing?" The young man joked and shrugged his shoulders. Then, with a gesture of anger, she was lost in the crowd. "Where, then, is Chaval?" asked Pierron. "True!" said Maheu. "He must surely be at Piquette's. Let us go to Piquette's." But as they all three arrived at the Estaminet Piquette, sounds of a quarrel arrested them at the door; Zacharie with his fist was threatening a thick-set phlegmatic Walloon nail-maker, while Chaval, with his hands in his pockets, was looking on. "Hullo! there's Chaval," said Maheu quietly; "he is with Catherine." For five long hours the putter and her lover had been walking about the fair. All along the Montsou road, that wide road with low bedaubed houses winding downhill, a crowd of people wandered up and down in the sun, like a trail of ants, lost in the flat, bare plain. The eternal black mud had dried, a black dust was rising and floating about like a storm-cloud. On both sides the public-houses were crowded; there were rows of tables to the street, where stood a double rank of hucksters at stalls in the open air, selling neck-handkerchiefs and looking-glasses for the girls, knives and caps for the lads; to say nothing of sweetmeats, sugar-plums, and biscuits. In front of the church archery was going on. Opposite the Yards they were playing at bowls. At the corner of the Joiselle road, beside the Administration buildings, in a spot enclosed by fences, crowds were watching a cock-fight, two large red cocks, armed with steel spurs, their breasts torn and bleeding. Farther on, at Maigrat's, aprons and trousers were being won at billiards. And there were long silences; the crowd drank and stuffed itself without a sound; a mute indigestion of beer and fried potatoes was expanding in the great heat, still further increased by the frying-pans bubbling in the open air. Chaval bought a looking-glass for nineteen sous and a handkerchief for three francs, to give to Catherine. At every turn they met Mouque and Bonnemort, who had come to the fair and, in meditative mood, were plodding heavily through it side by side. Another meeting made them angry; they caught sight of Jeanlin inciting Bébert and Lydie to steal bottles of gin from an extemporized bar installed at the edge of an open piece of ground. Catherine succeeded in boxing her brother's ears; the little girl had already run away with a bottle. These imps of Satan would certainly end in a prison. Then, as they arrived before another bar, the Tête-Coupée, it occurred to Chaval to take his sweetheart in to a competition of chaffinches which had been announced on the door for the past week. Fifteen nail-makers from the Marchiennes nail works had responded to the appeal, each with a dozen cages; and the gloomy little cages in which the blinded finches sat motionless were already hung upon a paling in the inn yard. It was a question as to which, in the course of an hour, should repeat the phrase of its song the greatest number of times. Each nail-maker with a slate stood near his cages to mark, watching his neighbours and watched by them. And the chaffinches had begun, the _chichouïeux_ with the deeper note, the _batisecouics_ with their shriller note, all at first timid, and only risking a rare phrase, then, excited by each other's songs, increasing the pace; then at last carried away by such a rage of rivalry that they would even fall dead. The nail-makers violently whipped them on with their voices, shouting out to them in Walloon to sing more, still more, yet a little more, while the spectators, about a hundred people, stood by in mute fascination in the midst of this infernal music of a hundred and eighty chaffinches all repeating the same cadence out of time. It was a _batisecouic_ which gained the first prize, a metal coffee-pot. Catherine and Chaval were there when Zacharie and Philoméne entered. They shook hands, and all stayed together. But suddenly Zacharie became angry, for he discovered that a nail-maker, who had come in with his mates out of curiosity, was pinching his sister's thigh. She blushed and tried to make him be silent, trembling at the idea that all these nail-makers would throw themselves on Chaval and kill him if he objected to her being pinched. She had felt the pinch, but said nothing out of prudence. Her lover, however, merely made a grimace, and as they all four now went out the affair seemed to be finished. But hardly had they entered Piquette's to drink a glass, when the nail-maker reappeared, making fun of them and coming close up to them with an air of provocation. Zacharie, insulted in his good family feelings, threw himself on the insolent intruder. "That's my sister, you swine! Just wait a bit, and I'm damned if I don't make you respect her." The two men were separated, while Chaval, who was quite calm, only repeated: "Let be! it's my concern. I tell you I don't care a damn for him." Maheu now arrived with his party, and quieted Catherine and Philoméne who were in tears. The nail-maker had disappeared, and there was laughter in the crowd. To bring the episode to an end, Chaval, who was at home at the Estaminet Piquette, called for drinks. Étienne had touched glasses with Catherine, and all drank together--the father, the daughter and her lover, the son and his mistress--saying politely: "To your good health!" Pierron afterwards persisted in paying for more drinks. And they were all in good humour, when Zacharie grew wild again at the sight of his comrade Mouquet, and called him, as he said, to go and finish his affair with the nail-maker. "I shall have to go and do for him! Here, Chaval, keep Philoméne with Catherine. I'm coming back." Maheu offered drinks in his turn. After all, if the lad wished to avenge his sister it was not a bad example. But as soon as she had seen Mouquet, Philoméne felt at rest, and nodded her head. Sure enough the two chaps would be off to the Volcan! On the evenings of feast-days the fair was terminated in the ball-room of the Bon-Joyeux. It was a widow, Madame Désir, who kept this ball-room, a fat matron of fifty, as round as a tub, but so fresh that she still had six lovers, one for every day of the week, she said, and the six together for Sunday. She called all the miners her children; and grew tender at the thought of the flood of beer which she had poured out for them during the last thirty years; and she boasted also that a putter never became pregnant without having first stretched her legs at her establishment. There were two rooms in the Bon-Joyeux: the bar which contained the counter and tables; then, communicating with it on the same floor by a large arch, was the ball-room, a large hall only planked in the middle, being paved with bricks round the sides. It was decorated with two garlands of paper flowers which crossed one another, and were united in the middle by a crown of the same flowers; while along the walls were rows of gilt shields bearing the names of saints--St. Éloi, patron of the iron-workers; St. Crispin, patron of the shoemakers; St. Barbara, patron of the miners; the whole calendar of corporations. The ceiling was so low that the three musicians on their platform, which was about the size of a pulpit, knocked their heads against it. When it became dark four petroleum lamps were fastened to the four corners of the room. On this Sunday there was dancing from five o'clock with the full daylight through the windows, but it was not until towards seven that the rooms began to fill. Outside, a gale was rising, blowing great black showers of dust which blinded people and sleeted into the frying-pans. Maheu, Étienne, and Pierron, having come in to sit down, had found Chaval at the Bon-Joyeux dancing with Catherine, while Philoméne by herself was looking on. Neither Levaque nor Zacharie had reappeared. As there were no benches around the ball-room, Catherine came after each dance to rest at her father's table. They called Philoméne, but she preferred to stand up. The twilight was coming on; the three musicians played furiously; one could only see in the hall the movement of hips and breasts in the midst of a confusion of arms. The appearance of the four lamps was greeted noisily, and suddenly everything was lit up--the red faces, the dishevelled hair sticking to the skin, the flying skirts spreading abroad the strong odour of perspiring couples. Maheu pointed out Mouquette to Étienne: she was as round and greasy as a bladder of lard, revolving violently in the arms of a tall, lean lander. She had been obliged to console herself and take a man. At last, at eight o'clock, Maheude appeared with Estelle at her breast, followed by Alzire, Henri, and Lénore. She had come there straight to her husband without fear of missing him. They could sup later on; as yet nobody was hungry, with their stomachs soaked in coffee and thickened with beer. Other women came in, and they whispered together when they saw, behind Maheude, the Levaque woman enter with Bouteloup, who led in by the hand Achille and Désirée, Philoméne's little ones. The two neighbours seemed to be getting on well together, one turning round to chat with the other. On the way there had been a great explanation, and Maheude had resigned herself to Zacharie's marriage, in despair at the loss of her eldest son's wages, but overcome by the thought that she could not hold it back any longer without injustice. She was trying, therefore, to put a good face on it, though with an anxious heart, as a housekeeper who was asking herself how she could make both ends meet now that the best part of her purse was going. "Place yourself there, neighbour," she said, pointing to a table near that where Maheu was drinking with Étienne and Pierron. "Is not my husband with you?" asked the Levaque woman. The others told her that he would soon come. They were all seated together in a heap, Bouteloup and the youngsters so tightly squeezed among the drinkers that the two tables only formed one. There was a call for drinks. Seeing her mother and her children Philoméne had decided to come near. She accepted a chair, and seemed pleased to hear that she was at last to be married; then, as they were looking for Zacharie, she replied in her soft voice: "I am waiting for him; he is over there." Maheu had exchanged a look with his wife. She had then consented? He became serious and smoked in silence. He also felt anxiety for the morrow in face of the ingratitude of these children, who got married one by one leaving their parents in wretchedness. The dancing still went on, and the end of a quadrille drowned the ball-room in red dust; the walls cracked, a cornet produced shrill whistling sounds like a locomotive in distress; and when the dancers stopped they were smoking like horses. "Do you remember?" said the Levaque woman, bending towards Maheude's ear; "you talked of strangling Catherine if she did anything foolish!" Chaval brought Catherine back to the family table, and both of them standing behind the father finished their glasses. "Bah!" murmured Maheude, with an air of resignation, "one says things like that--. But what quiets me is that she will not have a child; I feel sure of that. You see if she is confined, and obliged to marry, what shall we do for a living then?" Now the cornet was whistling a polka, and as the deafening noise began again, Maheu, in a low voice, communicated an idea to his wife. Why should they not take a lodger? Étienne, for example, who was looking out for quarters? They would have room since Zacharie was going to leave them, and the money that they would lose in that direction would be in part regained in the other. Maheude's face brightened; certainly it was a good idea, it must be arranged. She seemed to be saved from starvation once more, and her good humour returned so quickly that she ordered a new round of drinks. Étienne, meanwhile, was seeking to indoctrinate Pierron, to whom he was explaining his plan of a Provident Fund. He had made him promise to subscribe, when he was imprudent enough to reveal his real aim. "And if we go out on strike you can see how useful that fund will be. We can snap our fingers at the Company, we shall have there a fund to fight against them. Eh? don't you think so?" Pierron lowered his eyes and grew pale; he stammered: "I'll think over it. Good conduct, that's the best Provident Fund." Then Maheu took possession of Étienne, and squarely, like a good man, proposed to take him as a lodger. The young man accepted at once, anxious to live in the settlement with the idea of being nearer to his mates. The matter was settled in three words, Maheude declaring that they would wait for the marriage of the children. Just then, Zacharie at last came back, with Mouquet and Levaque. The three brought in the odours of the Volcan, a breath of gin, a musky acidity of ill-kept girls. They were very tipsy and seemed well pleased with themselves, digging their elbows into each other and grinning. When he knew that he was at last to be married Zacharie began to laugh so loudly that he choked. Philoméne peacefully declared that she would rather see him laugh than cry. As there were no more chairs, Bouteloup had moved so as to give up half of his to Levaque. And the latter, suddenly much affected by realizing that the whole family party was there, once more had beer served out. "By the Lord! we don't amuse ourselves so often!" he roared. They remained there till ten o'clock. Women continued to arrive, either to join or to take away their men; bands of children followed in rows, and the mothers no longer troubled themselves, pulling out their long pale breasts, like sacks of oats, and smearing their chubby babies with milk; while the little ones who were already able to walk, gorged with beer and on all fours beneath the table, relieved themselves without shame. It was a rising sea of beer, from Madame Désir's disembowelled barrels, the beer enlarged every belly, flowing from noses, eyes, and everywhere. So puffed out was the crowd that every one had a shoulder or knee poking into his neighbour; all were cheerful and merry in thus feeling each other's elbows. A continuous laugh kept their mouths open from ear to ear. The heat was like an oven; they were roasting and felt themselves at ease with glistening skin, gilded in a thick smoke from the pipes; the only discomfort was when one had to move away; from time to time a girl rose, went to the other end, near the pump, lifted her clothes, and then came back. Beneath the garlands of painted paper the dancers could no longer see each other, they perspired so much; this encouraged the trammers to tumble the putters over, catching them at random by the hips. But where a girl tumbled with a man over her, the cornet covered their fall with its furious music; the swirl of feet wrapped them round as if the ball had collapsed upon them. Someone who was passing warned Pierron that his daughter Lydie was sleeping at the door, across the pavement. She had drunk her share of the stolen bottle and was tipsy. He had to carry her away in his arms while Jeanlin and Bébert, who were more sober, followed him behind, thinking it a great joke. This was the signal for departure, and several families came out of the Bon-Joyeux, the Maheus and the Levaques deciding to return to the settlement. At the same moment Father Bonnemort and old Mouque also left Montsou, walking in the same somnambulistic manner, preserving the obstinate silence of their recollections. And they all went back together, passing for the last time through the fair, where the frying-pans were coagulating, and by the estaminets, from which the last glasses were flowing in a stream towards the middle of the road. The storm was still threatening, and sounds of laughter arose as they left the lighted houses to lose themselves in the dark country around. Panting breaths arose from the ripe wheat; many children must have been made on that night. They arrived in confusion at the settlement. Neither the Levaques nor the Maheus supped with appetite, and the latter kept on dropping off to sleep while finishing their morning's boiled beef. Étienne had led away Chaval for one more drink at Rasseneur's. "I am with you!" said Chaval, when his mate had explained the matter of the Provident Fund. "Put it there! you're a fine fellow!" The beginning of drunkenness was flaming in Étienne's eyes. He exclaimed: "Yes, let's join hands. As for me, you know I would give up everything for the sake of justice, both drink and girls. There's only one thing that warms my heart, and that is the thought that we are going to sweep away these bourgeois." CHAPTER III Towards the middle of August, Étienne settled with the Maheus, Zacharie having married and obtained from the Company a vacant house in the settlement for Philoméne and the two children. During the first days, the young man experienced some constraint in the presence of Catherine. There was a constant intimacy, as he everywhere replaced the elder brother, sharing Jeanlin's bed over against the big sister's. Going to bed and getting up he had to dress and undress near her, and see her take off and put on her garments. When the last skirt fell from her, she appeared of pallid whiteness, that transparent snow of anaemic blondes; and he experienced a constant emotion in finding her, with hands and face already spoilt, as white as if dipped in milk from her heels to her neck, where the line of tan stood out sharply like a necklace of amber. He pretended to turn away; but little by little he knew her: the feet at first which his lowered eyes met; then a glimpse of a knee when she slid beneath the coverlet; then her bosom with little rigid breasts as she leant over the bowl in the morning. She would hasten without looking at him, and in ten seconds was undressed and stretched beside Alzire, with so supple and snake-like a movement that he had scarcely taken off his shoes when she disappeared, turning her back and only showing her heavy knot of hair. She never had any reason to be angry with him. If a sort of obsession made him watch her in spite of himself at the moment when she lay down, he avoided all practical jokes or dangerous pastimes. The parents were there, and besides he still had for her a feeling, half of friendship and half of spite, which prevented him from treating her as a girl to be desired, in the midst of the abandonment of their now common life in dressing, at meals, during work, where nothing of them remained secret, not even their most intimate needs. All the modesty of the family had taken refuge in the daily bath, for which the young girl now went upstairs alone, while the men bathed below one after the other. At the end of the first month, Étienne and Catherine seemed no longer to see each other when in the evening, before extinguishing the candle, they moved about the room, undressed. She had ceased to hasten, and resumed her old custom of doing up her hair at the edge of her bed, while her arms, raised in the air, lifted her chemise to her thighs, and he, without his trousers, sometimes helped her, looking for the hairpins that she had lost. Custom killed the shame of being naked; they found it natural to be like this, for they were doing no harm, and it was not their fault if there was only one room for so many people. Sometimes, however, a trouble came over them suddenly, at moments when they had no guilty thought. After some nights when he had not seen her pale body, he suddenly saw her white all over, with a whiteness which shook him with a shiver, which obliged him to turn away for fear of yielding to the desire to take her. On other evenings, without any apparent reason, she would be overcome by a panic of modesty and hasten to slip between the sheets as if she felt the hands of this lad seizing her. Then, when the candle was out, they both knew that they were not sleeping but were thinking of each other in spite of their weariness. This made them restless and sulky all the following day; they liked best the tranquil evenings when they could behave together like comrades. Étienne only complained of Jeanlin, who slept curled up. Alzire slept lightly, and Lénore and Henri were found in the morning, in each other's arms, exactly as they had gone to sleep. In the dark house there was no other sound than the snoring of Maheu and Maheude, rolling out at regular intervals like a forge bellows. On the whole, Étienne was better off than at Rasseneur's; the bed was tolerable and the sheets were changed every month. He had better soup, too, and only suffered from the rarity of meat. But they were all in the same condition, and for forty-five francs he could not demand rabbit to every meal. These forty-five francs helped the family and enabled them to make both ends meet, though always leaving some small debts and arrears; so the Maheus were grateful to their lodger; his linen was washed and mended, his buttons sewn on, and his affairs kept in order; in fact he felt all around him a woman's neatness and care. It was at this time that Étienne began to understand the ideas that were buzzing in his brain. Up till then he had only felt an instinctive revolt in the midst of the inarticulate fermentation among his mates. All sorts of confused questions came before him: Why are some miserable? why are others rich? why are the former beneath the heel of the latter without hope of ever taking their place? And his first stage was to understand his ignorance. A secret shame, a hidden annoyance, gnawed him from that time; he knew nothing, he dared not talk about these things which were working in him like a passion--the equality of all men, and the equity which demanded a fair division of the earth's wealth. He thus took to the methodless study of those who in ignorance feel the fascination of knowledge. He now kept up a regular correspondence with Pluchart, who was better educated than himself and more advanced in the Socialist movement. He had books sent to him, and his ill-digested reading still further excited his brain, especially a medical book entitled _Hygiéne du Mineur_, in which a Belgian doctor had summed up the evils of which the people in coal mines were dying; without counting treatises on political economy, incomprehensible in their technical dryness, Anarchist pamphlets which upset his ideas, and old numbers of newspapers which he preserved as irrefutable arguments for possible discussions. Souvarine also lent him books, and the work on Co-operative Societies had made him dream for a month of a universal exchange association abolishing money and basing the whole social life on work. The shame of his ignorance left him, and a certain pride came to him now that he felt himself thinking. During these first months Étienne retained the ecstasy of a novice; his heart was bursting with generous indignation against the oppressors, and looking forward to the approaching triumph of the oppressed. He had not yet manufactured a system, his reading had been too vague. Rasseneur's practical demands were mixed up in his mind with Souvarine's violent and destructive methods, and when he came out of the Avantage, where he was to be found nearly every day railing with them against the Company, he walked as if in a dream, assisting at a radical regeneration of nations to be effected without one broken window or a single drop of blood. The methods of execution remained obscure; he preferred to think that things would go very well, for he lost his head as soon as he tried to formulate a programme of reconstruction. He even showed himself full of illogical moderation; he often said that we must banish politics from the social question, a phrase which he had read and which seemed a useful one to repeat among the phlegmatic colliers with whom he lived. Every evening now, at the Maheus', they delayed half an hour before going up to bed. Étienne always introduced the same subject. As his nature became more refined he found himself wounded by the promiscuity of the settlement. Were they beasts to be thus penned together in the midst of the fields, so tightly packed that one could not change one's shirt without exhibiting one's backside to the neighbours? And how bad it was for health; and boys and girls were forced to grow corrupt together. "Lord!" replied Maheu, "if there were more money there would be more comfort. All the same it's true enough that it's good for no one to live piled up like that. It always ends with making the men drunk and the girls big-bellied." And the family began to talk, each having his say, while the petroleum lamp vitiated the air of the room, already stinking of fried onion. No, life was certainly not a joke. One had to work like a brute at labour which was once a punishment for convicts; one left one's skin there oftener than was one's turn, all that without even getting meat on the table in the evening. No doubt one had one's feed; one ate, indeed, but so little, just enough to suffer without dying, overcome with debts and pursued as if one had stolen the bread. When Sunday came one slept from weariness. The only pleasures were to get drunk and to get a child with one's wife; then the beer swelled the belly, and the child, later on, left you to go to the dogs. No, it was certainly not a joke. Then Maheude joined in. "The bother is, you see, when you have to say to yourself that it won't change. When you're young you think that happiness will come some time, you hope for things; and then the wretchedness begins always over again, and you get shut up in it. Now, I don't wish harm to any one, but there are times when this injustice makes me mad." There was silence; they were all breathing with the vague discomfort of this closed-in horizon. Father Bonnemort only, if he was there, opened his eyes with surprise, for in his time people used not to worry about things; they were born in the coal and they hammered at the seam, without asking for more; while now there was an air stirring which made the colliers ambitious. "It don't do to spit at anything," he murmured. "A good glass is a good glass. As to the masters, they're often rascals; but there always will be masters, won't there? What's the use of racking your brains over those things?" Étienne at once became animated. What! The worker was to be forbidden to think! Why! that was just it; things would change now because the worker had begun to think. In the old man's time the miner lived in the mine like a brute, like a machine for extracting coal, always under the earth, with ears and eyes stopped to outward events. So the rich, who governed, found it easy to sell him and buy him, and to devour his flesh; he did not even know what was going on. But now the miner was waking up down there, germinating in the earth just as a grain germinates; and some fine day he would spring up in the midst of the fields: yes, men would spring up, an army of men who would re-establish justice. Is it not true that all citizens are equal since the Revolution, because they vote together? Why should the worker remain the slave of the master who pays him? The big companies with their machines were crushing everything, and one no longer had against them the ancient guarantees when people of the same trade, united in a body, were able to defend themselves. It was for that, by God, and for no other reason, that all would burst up one day, thanks to education. One had only to look into the settlement itself: the grandfathers could not sign their names, the fathers could do so, and as for the sons, they read and wrote like schoolmasters. Ah! it was springing up, it was springing up, little by little, a rough harvest of men who would ripen in the sun! From the moment when they were no longer each of them stuck to his place for his whole existence, and when they had the ambition to take a neighbour's place, why should they not hit out with their fists and try for the mastery? Maheu was shaken but remained full of doubts. "As soon as you move they give you back your certificate," he said. "The old man is right; it will always be the miner who gets all the trouble, without a chance of a leg of mutton now and then as a reward." Maheude, who had been silent for a while, awoke as from a dream. "But if what the priests tell is true, if the poor people in this world become the rich ones in the next!" A burst of laughter interrupted her; even the children shrugged their shoulders, being incredulous in the open air, keeping a secret fear of ghosts in the pit, but glad of the empty sky. "Ah! bosh! the priests!" exclaimed Maheu. "If they believed that, they'd eat less and work more, so as to reserve a better place for themselves up there. No, when one's dead, one's dead." Maheude sighed deeply. "Oh, Lord, Lord!" Then her hands fell on to her knees with a gesture of immense dejection: "Then if that's true, we are done for, we are." They all looked at one another. Father Bonnemort spat into his handkerchief, while Maheu sat with his extinguished pipe, which he had forgotten, in his mouth. Alzire listened between Lénore and Henri, who were sleeping on the edge of the table. But Catherine, with her chin in her hand, never took her large clear eyes off Étienne while he was protesting, declaring his faith, and opening out the enchanting future of his social dream. Around them the settlement was asleep; one only heard the stray cries of a child or the complaints of a belated drunkard. In the parlour the clock ticked slowly, and a damp freshness arose from the sanded floor in spite of the stuffy air. "Fine ideas!" said the young man; "why do you need a good God and his paradise to make you happy? Haven't you got it in your own power to make yourselves happy on earth?" With his enthusiastic voice he spoke on and on. The closed horizon was bursting out; a gap of light was opening in the sombre lives of these poor people. The eternal wretchedness, beginning over and over again, the brutalizing labour, the fate of a beast who gives his wool and has his throat cut, all the misfortune disappeared, as though swept away by a great flood of sunlight; and beneath the dazzling gleam of fairyland justice descended from heaven. Since the good God was dead, justice would assure the happiness of men, and equality and brotherhood would reign. A new society would spring up in a day just as in dreams, an immense town with the splendour of a mirage, in which each citizen lived by his work, and took his share in the common joys. The old rotten world had fallen to dust; a young humanity purged from its crimes formed but a single nation of workers, having for their motto: "To each according to his deserts, and to each desert according to its performance." And this dream grew continually larger and more beautiful and more seductive as it mounted higher in the impossible. At first Maheude refused to listen, possessed by a deep dread. No, no, it was too beautiful; it would not do to embark upon these ideas, for they made life seem abominable afterwards, and one would have destroyed everything in the effort to be happy. When she saw Maheu's eyes shine, and that he was troubled and won over, she became restless, and exclaimed, interrupting Étienne: "Don't listen, my man! You can see he's only telling us fairy-tales. Do you think the bourgeois would ever consent to work as we do?" But little by little the charm worked on her also. Her imagination was aroused and she smiled at last, entering his marvellous world of hope. It was so sweet to forget for a while the sad reality! When one lives like the beasts with face bent towards the earth, one needs a corner of falsehood where one can amuse oneself by regaling on the things one will never possess. And what made her enthusiastic and brought her into agreement with the young man was the idea of justice. "Now, there you're right!" she exclaimed. "When a thing's just I don't mind being cut to pieces for it. And it's true enough! it would be just for us to have a turn." Then Maheu ventured to become excited. "Blast it all! I am not rich, but I would give five francs to keep alive to see that. What a hustling, eh? Will it be soon? And how can we set about it?" Étienne began talking again. The old social system was cracking; it could not last more than a few months, he affirmed roundly. As to the methods of execution, he spoke more vaguely, mixing up his reading, and fearing before ignorant hearers to enter on explanations where he might lose himself. All the systems had their share in it, softened by the certainty of easy triumph, a universal kiss which would bring to an end all class misunderstandings; without taking count, however, of the thick-heads among the masters and bourgeois whom it would perhaps be necessary to bring to reason by force. And the Maheus looked as if they understood, approving and accepting miraculous solutions with the blind faith of new believers, like those Christians of the early days of the Church, who awaited the coming of a perfect society on the dunghill of the ancient world. Little Alzire picked up a few words, and imagined happiness under the form of a very warm house, where children could play and eat as long as they liked. Catherine, without moving, her chin always resting in her hand, kept her eyes fixed on Étienne, and when he stopped a slight shudder passed over her, and she was quite pale as if she felt the cold. But Maheude looked at the clock. "Past nine! Can it be possible? We shall never get up to-morrow." And the Maheus left the table with hearts ill at ease and in despair. It seemed to them that they had just been rich and that they had now suddenly fallen back into the mud. Father Bonnemort, who was setting out for the pit, growled that those sort of stories wouldn't make the soup better; while the others went upstairs in single file, noticing the dampness of the walls and the pestiferous stuffiness of the air. Upstairs, amid the heavy slumber of the settlement when Catherine had got into bed last and blown out the candle, Étienne heard her tossing feverishly before getting to sleep. Often at these conversations the neighbours came in: Levaque, who grew excited at the idea of a general sharing; Pierron, who prudently went to bed as soon as they attacked the Company. At long intervals Zacharie came in for a moment; but politics bored him, he preferred to go off and drink a glass at the Avantage. As to Chaval, he would go to extremes and wanted to draw blood. Nearly every evening he passed an hour with the Maheus; in this assiduity there was a certain unconfessed jealousy, the fear that he would be robbed of Catherine. This girl, of whom he was already growing tired, had become precious to him now that a man slept near her and could take her at night. Étienne's influence increased; he gradually revolutionized the settlement. His propaganda was unseen, and all the more sure since he was growing in the estimation of all. Maheude, notwithstanding the caution of a prudent housekeeper, treated him with consideration, as a young man who paid regularly and neither drank nor gambled, with his nose always in a book; she spread abroad his reputation among the neighbours as an educated lad, a reputation which they abused by asking him to write their letters. He was a sort of business man, charged with correspondence and consulted by households in affairs of difficulty. Since September he had thus at last been able to establish his famous Provident Fund, which was still very precarious, only including the inhabitants of the settlement; but he hoped to be able to obtain the adhesion of the miners at all the pits, especially if the Company, which had remained passive, continued not to interfere. He had been made secretary of the association and he even received a small salary for the clerking. This made him almost rich. If a married miner can with difficulty make both ends meet, a sober lad who has no burdens can even manage to save. From this time a slow transformation took place in Étienne. Certain instincts of refinement and comfort which had slept during his poverty were now revealed. He began to buy cloth garments; he also bought a pair of elegant boots; he became a big man. The whole settlement grouped round him. The satisfaction of his self-love was delicious; he became intoxicated with this first enjoyment of popularity; to be at the head of others, to command, he who was so young, and but the day before had been a mere labourer, this filled him with pride, and enlarged his dream of an approaching revolution in which he was to play a part. His face changed: he became serious and put on airs, while his growing ambition inflamed his theories and pushed him to ideas of violence. But autumn was advancing, and the October cold had blighted the little gardens of the settlement. Behind the thin lilacs the trammers no longer tumbled the putters over on the shed, and only the winter vegetables remained, the cabbages pearled with white frost, the leeks and the salads. Once more the rains were beating down on the red tiles and flowing down into the tubs beneath the gutters with the sound of a torrent. In every house the stove piled up with coal was never cold, and poisoned the close parlours. It was the season of wretchedness beginning once more. In October, on one of the first frosty nights, Étienne, feverish after his conversation below, could not sleep. He had seen Catherine glide beneath the coverlet and then blow out the candle. She also appeared to be quite overcome, and tormented by one of those fits of modesty which still made her hasten sometimes, and so awkwardly that she only uncovered herself more. In the darkness she lay as though dead; but he knew that she also was awake, and he felt that she was thinking of him just as he was thinking of her: this mute exchange of their beings had never before filled them with such trouble. The minutes went by and neither he nor she moved, only their breathing was embarrassed in spite of their efforts to retain it. Twice over he was on the point of rising and taking her. It was idiotic to have such a strong desire for each other and never to satisfy it. Why should they thus sulk against what they desired? The children were asleep, she was quite willing; he was certain that she was waiting for him, stifling, and that she would close her arms round him in silence with clenched teeth. Nearly an hour passed. He did not go to take her, and she did not turn round for fear of calling him. The more they lived side by side, the more a barrier was raised of shames, repugnancies, delicacies of friendship, which they could not explain even to themselves. CHAPTER IV "Listen," said Maheude to her man, "when you go to Montsou for the pay, just bring me back a pound of coffee and a kilo of sugar." He was sewing one of his shoes, in order to spare the cobbling. "Good!" he murmured, without leaving his task. "I should like you to go to the butcher's too. A bit of veal, eh? It's so long since we saw it." This time he raised his head. "Do you think, then, that I've got thousands coming in? The fortnight's pay is too little as it is, with their confounded idea of always stopping work." They were both silent. It was after breakfast, one Saturday, at the end of October. The Company, under the pretext of the derangement caused by payment, had on this day once more suspended output in all their pits. Seized by panic at the growing industrial crisis, and not wishing to augment their already considerable stock, they profited by the smallest pretexts to force their ten thousand workers to rest. "You know that Étienne is waiting for you at Rasseneur's," began Maheude again. "Take him with you; he'll be more clever than you are in clearing up matters if they haven't counted all your hours." Maheu nodded approval. "And just talk to those gentlemen about your father's affair. The doctor's on good terms with the directors. It's true, isn't it, old un, that the doctor's mistaken, and that you can still work?" For ten days Father Bonnemort, with benumbed paws, as he said, had remained nailed to his chair. She had to repeat her question, and he growled: "Sure enough, I can work. One isn't done for because one's legs are bad. All that is just stories they make up, so as not to give the hundred-and-eighty-franc pension." Maheude thought of the old man's forty sous, which he would, perhaps, never bring in any more, and she uttered a cry of anguish: "My God! we shall soon be all dead if this goes on." "When one is dead," said Maheu, "one doesn't get hungry." He put some nails into his shoes, and decided to set out. The Deux-Cent-Quarante settlement would not be paid till towards four o'clock. The men did not hurry, therefore, but waited about, going off one by one, beset by the women, who implored them to come back at once. Many gave them commissions, to prevent them forgetting themselves in public-houses. At Rasseneur's Étienne had received news. Disquieting rumours were flying about; it was said that the Company were more and more discontented over the timbering. They were overwhelming the workmen with fines, and a conflict appeared inevitable. That was, however, only the avowed dispute; beneath it there were grave and secret causes of complication. Just as Étienne arrived, a comrade, who was drinking a glass on his return from Montsou, was telling that an announcement had been stuck up at the cashier's; but he did not quite know what was on the announcement. A second entered, then a third, and each brought a different story. It seemed certain, however, that the Company had taken a resolution. "What do you say about it, eh?" asked Étienne, sitting down near Souvarine at a table where nothing was to be seen but a packet of tobacco. The engine-man did not hurry, but finished rolling his cigarette. "I say that it was easy to foresee. They want to push you to extremes." He alone had a sufficiently keen intelligence to analyse the situation. He explained it in his quiet way. The Company, suffering from the crisis, had been forced to reduce their expenses if they were not to succumb, and it was naturally the workers who would have to tighten their bellies; under some pretext or another the Company would nibble at their wages. For two months the coal had been remaining at the surface of their pits, and nearly all the workshops were resting. As the Company did not dare to rest in this way, terrified at the ruinous inaction, they were meditating a middle course, perhaps a strike, from which the miners would come out crushed and worse paid. Then the new Provident Fund was disturbing them, as it was a threat for the future, while a strike would relieve them of it, by exhausting it when it was still small. Rasseneur had seated himself beside Étienne, and both of them were listening in consternation. They could talk aloud, because there was no one there but Madame Rasseneur, seated at the counter. "What an idea!" murmured the innkeeper; "what's the good of it? The Company has no interest in a strike, nor the men either. It would be best to come to an understanding." This was very sensible. He was always on the side of reasonable demands. Since the rapid popularity of his old lodger, he had even exaggerated this system of possible progress, saying they would obtain nothing if they wished to have everything at once. In his fat, good-humoured nature, nourished on beer, a secret jealousy was forming, increased by the desertion of his bar, into which the workmen from the Voreux now came more rarely to drink and to listen; and he thus sometimes even began to defend the Company, forgetting the rancour of an old miner who had been turned off. "Then you are against the strike?" cried Madame Rasseneur, without leaving the counter. And as he energetically replied, "Yes!" she made him hold his tongue. "Bah! you have no courage; let these gentlemen speak." Étienne was meditating, with his eyes fixed on the glass which she had served to him. At last he raised his head. "I dare say it's all true what our mate tells us, and we must get resigned to this strike if they force it on us. Pluchart has just written me some very sensible things on this matter. He's against the strike too, for the men would suffer as much as the masters, and it wouldn't come to anything decisive. Only it seems to him a capital chance to get our men to make up their minds to go into his big machine. Here's his letter." In fact, Pluchart, in despair at the suspicion which the International aroused among the miners at Montsou, was hoping to see them enter in a mass if they were forced to fight against the Company. In spite of his efforts, Étienne had not been able to place a single member's card, and he had given his best efforts to his Provident Fund, which was much better received. But this fund was still so small that it would be quickly exhausted, as Souvarine said, and the strikers would then inevitably throw themselves into the Working Men's Association so that their brothers in every country could come to their aid. "How much have you in the fund?" asked Rasseneur. "Hardly three thousand francs," replied Étienne, "and you know that the directors sent for me yesterday. Oh! they were very polite; they repeated that they wouldn't prevent their men from forming a reserve fund. But I quite understood that they wanted to control it. We are bound to have a struggle over that." The innkeeper was walking up and down, whistling contemptuously. "Three thousand francs! what can you do with that! It wouldn't yield six days' bread; and if we counted on foreigners, such as the people in England, one might go to bed at once and turn up one's toes. No, it was too foolish, this strike!" Then for the first time bitter words passed between these two men who usually agreed together at last, in their common hatred of capital. "We shall see! and you, what do you say about it?" repeated Étienne, turning towards Souvarine. The latter replied with his usual phrase of habitual contempt. "A strike? Foolery!" Then, in the midst of the angry silence, he added gently: "On the whole, I shouldn't say no if it amuses you; it ruins the one side and kills the other, and that is always so much cleared away. Only in that way it will take quite a thousand years to renew the world. Just begin by blowing up this prison in which you are all being done to death!" With his delicate hand he pointed out the Voreux, the buildings of which could be seen through the open door. But an unforeseen drama interrupted him: Poland, the big tame rabbit, which had ventured outside, came bounding back, fleeing from the stones of a band of trammers; and in her terror, with fallen ears and raised tail, she took refuge against his legs, scratching and imploring him to take her up. When he had placed her on his knees, he sheltered her with both hands, and fell into that kind of dreamy somnolence into which the caress of this soft warm fur always plunged him. Almost at the same time Maheu came in. He would drink nothing, in spite of the polite insistence of Madame Rasseneur, who sold her beer as though she made a present of it. Étienne had risen, and both of them set out for Montsou. On pay-day at the Company's Yards, Montsou seemed to be in the midst of a fete as on fine Sunday feast-days. Bands of miners arrived from all the settlements. The cashier's office being very small, they preferred to wait at the door, stationed in groups on the pavement, barring the way in a crowd that was constantly renewed. Hucksters profited by the occasion and installed themselves with their movable stalls that sold even pottery and cooked meats. But it was especially the estaminets and the bars which did a good trade, for the miners before being paid went to the counters to get patience, and returned to them to wet their pay as soon as they had it in their pockets. But they were very sensible, except when they finished it at the Volcan. As Maheu and Étienne advanced among the groups they felt that on that day a deep exasperation was rising up. It was not the ordinary indifference with which the money was taken and spent at the publics. Fists were clenched and violent words were passing from mouth to mouth. "Is it true, then," asked Maheu of Chaval, whom he met before the Estaminet Piquette, "that they've played the dirty trick?" But Chaval contented himself by replying with a furious growl, throwing a sidelong look on Étienne. Since the working had been renewed he had hired himself on with others, more and more bitten by envy against this comrade, the new-comer who posed as a boss and whose boots, as he said, were licked by the whole settlement. This was complicated by a lover's jealousy. He never took Catherine to Réquillart now or behind the pit-bank without accusing her in abominable language of sleeping with her mother's lodger; then, seized by savage desire, he would stifle her with caresses. Maheu asked him another question: "Is it the Voreux's turn now?" And when he turned his back after nodding affirmatively, both men decided to enter the Yards. The counting-house was a small rectangular room, divided in two by a grating. On the forms along the wall five or six miners were waiting; while the cashier assisted by a clerk was paying another who stood before the wicket with his cap in his hand. Above the form on the left, a yellow placard was stuck up, quite fresh against the smoky grey of the plaster, and it was in front of this that the men had been constantly passing all the morning. They entered two or three at a time, stood in front of it, and then went away without a word, shrugging their shoulders as if their backs were crushed. Two colliers were just then standing in front of the announcement, a young one with a square brutish head and a very thin old one, his face dull with age. Neither of them could read; the young one spelt, moving his lips, the old one contented himself with gazing stupidly. Many came in thus to look, without understanding. "Read us that there!" said Maheu, who was not very strong either in reading, to his companion. Then Étienne began to read him the announcement. It was a notice from the Company to the miners of all the pits, informing them that in consequence of the lack of care bestowed on the timbering, and being weary of inflicting useless fines, the Company had resolved to apply a new method of payment for the extraction of coal. Henceforward they would pay for the timbering separately, by the cubic metre of wood taken down and used, based on the quantity necessary for good work. The price of the tub of coal extracted would naturally be lowered, in the proportion of fifty centimes to forty, according to the nature and distance of the cuttings, and a somewhat obscure calculation endeavoured to show that this diminution of ten centimes would be exactly compensated by the price of the timbering. The Company added also that, wishing to leave every one time to convince himself of the advantages presented by this new scheme, they did not propose to apply it till Monday, the 1st of December. "Don't read so loud over there," shouted the cashier. "We can't hear what we are saying." Étienne finished reading without paying attention to this observation. His voice trembled, and when he had reached the end they all continued to gaze steadily at the placard. The old miner and the young one looked as though they expected something more; then they went away with depressed shoulders. "Good God!" muttered Maheu. He and his companions sat down absorbed, with lowered heads, and while files of men continued to pass before the yellow paper they made calculations. Were they being made fun of? They could never make up with the timbering for the ten centimes taken off the tram. At most they could only get to eight centimes, so the Company would be robbing them of two centimes, without counting the time taken by careful work. This, then, was what this disguised lowering of wages really came to. The Company was economizing out of the miners' pockets. "Good Lord! Good Lord!" repeated Maheu, raising his head. "We should be bloody fools if we took that." But the wicket being free he went up to be paid. The heads only of the workings presented themselves at the desk and then divided the money between their men to save time. "Maheu and associates," said the clerk, "Filonniére seam, cutting No. 7." He searched through the lists which were prepared from the inspection of the tickets on which the captains stated every day for each stall the number of trams extracted. Then he repeated: "Maheu and associates, Filonniére seam, cutting No. 7. One hundred and thirty-five francs." The cashier paid. "Beg pardon, sir," stammered the pikeman in surprise. "Are you sure you have not made a mistake?" He looked at this small sum of money without picking it up, frozen by a shudder which went to his heart. It was true he was expecting bad payment, but it could not come to so little or he must have calculated wrong. When he had given their shares to Zacharie, Étienne, and the other mate who replaced Chaval, there would remain at most fifty francs for himself, his father, Catherine, and Jeanlin. "No, no, I've made no mistake," replied the clerk. "There are two Sundays and four rest days to be taken off; that makes nine days of work." Maheu followed this calculation in a low voice: nine days gave him about thirty francs, eighteen to Catherine, nine to Jeanlin. As to Father Bonnemort, he only had three days. No matter, by adding the ninety francs of Zacharie and the two mates, that would surely make more. "And don't forget the fines," added the clerk. "Twenty francs for fines for defective timbering." The pikeman made a gesture of despair. Twenty francs of fines, four days of rest! That made out the account. To think that he had once brought back a fortnight's pay of full a hundred and fifty francs when Father Bonnemort was working and Zacharie had not yet set up house for himself! "Well, are you going to take it?" cried the cashier impatiently. "You can see there's someone else waiting. If you don't want it, say so." As Maheu decided to pick up the money with his large trembling hand the clerk stopped him. "Wait: I have your name here. Toussaint Maheu, is it not? The general secretary wishes to speak to you. Go in, he is alone." The dazed workman found himself in an office furnished with old mahogany, upholstered with faded green rep. And he listened for five minutes to the general secretary, a tall sallow gentleman, who spoke to him over the papers of his bureau without rising. But the buzzing in his ears prevented him from hearing. He understood vaguely that the question of his father's retirement would be taken into consideration with the pension of a hundred and fifty francs, fifty years of age and forty years' service. Then it seemed to him that the secretary's voice became harder. There was a reprimand; he was accused of occupying himself with politics; an allusion was made to his lodger and the Provident Fund; finally he was advised not to compromise himself with these follies, he, who was one of the best workmen in the mine. He wished to protest, but could only pronounce words at random, twisting his cap between his feverish fingers, and he retired, stuttering: "Certainly, sir--I can assure you, sir----" Outside, when he had found Étienne who waiting for him, he broke out: "Well, I am a bloody fool, I ought to have replied! Not enough money to get bread, and insults as well! Yes, he has been talking against you; he told me the settlement was being poisoned. And what's to be done? Good God! bend one's back and say thank you. He's right, that's the wisest plan." Maheu fell silent, overcome at once by rage and fear. Étienne was gloomily thinking. Once more they traversed the groups who blocked the road. The exasperation was growing, the exasperation of a calm race, the muttered warning of a storm, without violent gestures, terrible to see above this solid mass. A few men understanding accounts had made calculations, and the two centimes gained by the Company over the wood were rumoured about, and excited the hardest heads. But it was especially the rage over this disastrous pay, the rebellion of hunger against the rest days and the fines. Already there was not enough to eat, and what would happen if wages were still further lowered? In the estaminets the anger grew loud, and fury so dried their throats that the little money taken went over the counters. From Montsou to the settlement Étienne and Maheu never exchanged a word. When the latter entered, Maheude, who was alone with the children, noticed immediately that his hands were empty. "Well, you're a nice one!" she said. "Where's my coffee and my sugar and the meat? A bit of veal wouldn't have ruined you." He made no reply, stifled by the emotion he had been keeping back. Then the coarse face of this man hardened to work in the mines became swollen with despair, and large tears broke from his eyes and fell in a warm rain. He had thrown himself into a chair, weeping like a child, and throwing fifty francs on the table: "Here," he stammered. "That's what I've brought you back. That's our work for all of us." Maheude looked at Étienne, and saw that he was silent and overwhelmed. Then she also wept. How were nine people to live for a fortnight on fifty francs? Her eldest son had left them, the old man could no longer move his legs: it would soon mean death. Alzire threw herself round her mother's neck, overcome on hearing her weep. Estelle was howling, Lénore and Henri were sobbing. And from the entire settlement there soon arose the same cry of wretchedness. The men had come back, and each household was lamenting the disaster of this bad pay. The doors opened, women appeared, crying aloud outside, as if their complaints could not be held beneath the ceilings of these small houses. A fine rain was falling, but they did not feel it, they called one another from the pavements, they showed one another in the hollow of their hands the money they had received. "Look! they've given him this. Do they want to make fools of people?" "As for me, see, I haven't got enough to pay for the fortnight's bread with." "And just count mine! I should have to sell my shifts!" Maheude had come out like the others. A group had formed around the Levaque woman, who was shouting loudest of all, for her drunkard of a husband had not even turned up, and she knew that, large or small, the pay would melt away at the Volcan. Philoméne watched Maheu so that Zacharie should not get hold of the money. Pierronne was the only one who seemed fairly calm, for that sneak of a Pierron always arranged things, no one knew how, so as to have more hours on the captain's ticket than his mates. But Mother Brulé thought this cowardly of her son-in-law; she was among the enraged, lean and erect in the midst of the group, with her fists stretched towards Montsou. "To think," she cried, without naming the Hennebeaus, "that this morning I saw their servant go by in a carriage! Yes, the cook in a carriage with two horses, going to Marchiennes to get fish, sure enough!" A clamour arose, and the abuse began again. That servant in a white apron taken to the market of the neighbouring town in her master's carriage aroused indignation. While the workers were dying of hunger they must have their fish, at all costs! Perhaps they would not always be able to eat their fish: the turn of the poor people would come. And the ideas sown by Étienne sprang up and expanded in this cry of revolt. It was impatience before the promised age of gold, a haste to get a share of the happiness beyond this horizon of misery, closed in like the grave. The injustice was becoming too great; at last they would demand their rights, since the bread was being taken out of their mouths. The women especially would have liked at once to take by assault this ideal city of progress, in which there was to be no more wretchedness. It was almost night, and the rain increased while they were still filling the settlement with their tears in the midst of the screaming helter-skelter of the children. That evening at the Avantage the strike was decided on. Rasseneur no longer struggled against it, and Souvarine accepted it as a first step. Étienne summed up the situation in a word: if the Company really wanted a strike then the Company should have a strike. CHAPTER V A week passed, and work went on suspiciously and mournfully in expectation of the conflict. Among the Maheus the fortnight threatened to be more meagre than ever. Maheude grew bitter, in spite of her moderation and good sense. Her daughter Catherine, too, had taken it into her head to stay out one night. On the following morning she came back so weary and ill after this adventure that she was not able to go to the pit; and she told with tears how it was not her fault, for Chaval had kept her, threatening to beat her if she ran away. He was becoming mad with jealousy, and wished to prevent her from returning to Étienne's bed, where he well knew, he said, that the family made her sleep. Maheude was furious, and, after forbidding her daughter ever to see such a brute again, talked of going to Montsou to box his ears. But, all the same, it was a day lost, and the girl, now that she had this lover, preferred not to change him. Two days after there was another incident. On Monday and Tuesday Jeanlin, who was supposed to be quietly engaged on his task at the Voreux, had escaped, to run away into the marshes and the forest of Vandame with Bébert and Lydie. He had seduced them; no one knew to what plunder or to what games of precocious children they had all three given themselves up. He received a vigorous punishment, a whipping which his mother applied to him on the pavement outside before the terrified children of the settlement. Who could have thought such a thing of children belonging to her, who had cost so much since their birth, and who ought now to be bringing something in? And in this cry there was the remembrance of her own hard youth, of the hereditary misery which made of each little one in the brood a bread-winner later on. That morning, when the men and the girl set out for the pit, Maheude sat up in her bed to say to Jeanlin: "You know that if you begin that game again, you little beast, I'll take the skin off your bottom!" In Maheu's new stall the work was hard. This part of the Filonniére seam was so thin that the pikemen, squeezed between the wall and the roof, grazed their elbows at their work. It was, too, becoming very damp; from hour to hour they feared a rush of water, one of those sudden torrents which burst through rocks and carry away men. The day before, as Étienne was violently driving in his pick and drawing it out, he had received a jet of water in his face; but this was only an alarm; the cutting simply became damper and more unwholesome. Besides, he now thought nothing of possible accidents; he forgot himself there with his mates, careless of peril. They lived in fire-damp without even feeling its weight on their eyelids, the spider's-web veil which it left on the eyelashes. Sometimes when the flame of the lamps grew paler and bluer than usual it attracted attention, and a miner would put his head against the seam to listen to the low noise of the gas, a noise of air-bubbles escaping from each crack. But the constant threat was of landslips; for, besides the insufficiency of the timbering, always patched up too quickly, the soil, soaked with water, would not hold. Three times during the day Maheu had been obliged to add to the planking. It was half-past two, and the men would soon have to ascend. Lying on his side, Étienne was finishing the cutting of a block, when a distant growl of thunder shook the whole mine. "What's that, then?" he cried, putting down his axe to listen. He had at first thought that the gallery was falling in behind his back. But Maheu had already glided along the slope of the cutting, saying: "It's a fall! Quick, quick!" All tumbled down and hastened, carried away by an impulse of anxious fraternity. Their lamps danced at their wrists in the deathly silence which had fallen; they rushed in single file along the passages with bent backs, as though they were galloping on all fours; and without slowing this gallop they asked each other questions and threw brief replies. Where was it, then? In the cuttings, perhaps. No, it came from below; no, from the haulage. When they arrived at the chimney passage, they threw themselves into it, tumbling one over the other without troubling about bruises. Jeanlin, with skin still red from the whipping of the day before, had not run away from the pit on this day. He was trotting with naked feet behind his tram, closing the ventilation doors one by one; when he was not afraid of meeting a captain he jumped on to the last tram, which he was not allowed to do for fear he should go to sleep. But his great amusement was, whenever the tram was shunted to let another one pass, to go and join Bébert, who was holding the reins in front. He would come up slyly without his lamp and vigorously pinch his companion, inventing mischievous monkey tricks, with his yellow hair, his large ears, his lean muzzle, lit up by little green eyes shining in the darkness. With morbid precocity, he seemed to have the obscure intelligence and the quick skill of a human abortion which had returned to its animal ways. In the afternoon, Mouque brought Bataille, whose turn it was, to the trammers; and as the horse was snuffing in the shunting, Jeanlin, who had glided up to Bébert, asked him: "What's the matter with the old hack to stop short like that? He'll break my legs." Bébert could not reply; he had to hold in Bataille, who was growing lively at the approach of the other tram. The horse had smelled from afar his comrade, Trompette, for whom he had felt great tenderness ever since the day when he had seen him disembarked in the pit. One might say that it was the affectionate pity of an old philosopher anxious to console a young friend by imparting to him his own resignation and patience; for Trompette did not become reconciled, drawing his trams without any taste for the work, standing with lowered head blinded by the darkness, and for ever regretting the sun. So every time that Bataille met him he put out his head snorting, and moistened him with an encouraging caress. "By God!" swore Bébert, "there they are, licking each other's skins again!" Then, when Trompette had passed, he replied, on the subject of Bataille: "Oh, he's a cunning old beast! When he stops like that it's because he guesses there's something in the way, a stone or a hole, and he takes care of himself; he doesn't want to break his bones. To-day I don't know what was the matter with him down there after the door. He pushed it, and stood stock-still. Did you see anything?" "No," said Jeanlin. "There's water, I've got it up to my knees." The tram set out again. And, on the following journey, when he had opened the ventilation door with a blow from his head, Bataille again refused to advance, neighing and trembling. At last he made up his mind, and set off with a bound. Jeanlin, who closed the door, had remained behind. He bent down and looked at the mud through which he was paddling, then, raising his lamp, he saw that the wood had given way beneath the continual bleeding of a spring. Just then a pikeman, one Berloque, who was called Chicot, had arrived from his cutting, in a hurry to go to his wife who had just been confined. He also stopped and examined the planking. And suddenly, as the boy was starting to rejoin his train, a tremendous cracking sound was heard, and a landslip engulfed the man and the child. There was deep silence. A thick dust raised by the wind of the fall passed through the passages. Blinded and choked, the miners came from every part, even from the farthest stalls, with their dancing lamps which feebly lighted up this gallop of black men at the bottom of these molehills. When the first men tumbled against the landslip, they shouted out and called their mates. A second band, come from the cutting below, found themselves on the other side of the mass of earth which stopped up the gallery. It was at once seen that the roof had fallen in for a dozen metres at most. The damage was not serious. But all hearts were contracted when a death-rattle was heard from the ruins. Bébert, leaving his tram, ran up, repeating: "Jeanlin is underneath! Jeanlin is underneath!" Maheu, at this very moment, had come out of the passage with Zacharie and Étienne. He was seized with the fury of despair, and could only utter oaths: "My God! my God! my God!" Catherine, Lydie, and Mouquette, who had also rushed up, began to sob and shriek with terror in the midst of the fearful disorder, which was increased by the darkness. The men tried to make them be silent, but they shrieked louder as each groan was heard. The captain, Richomme, had come up running, in despair that neither Négrel, the engineer, nor Dansaert was at the pit. With his ear pressed against the rocks he listened; and, at last, said those sounds could not come from a child. A man must certainly be there. Maheu had already called Jeanlin twenty times over. Not a breath was heard. The little one must have been smashed up. And still the groans continued monotonously. They spoke to the agonized man, asking him his name. The groaning alone replied. "Look sharp!" repeated Richomme, who had already organized a rescue, "we can talk afterwards." From each end the miners attacked the landslip with pick and shovel. Chaval worked without a word beside Maheu and Étienne, while Zacharie superintended the removal of the earth. The hour for ascent had come, and no one had touched food; but they could not go up for their soup while their mates were in peril. They realized, however, that the settlement would be disturbed if no one came back, and it was proposed to send off the women. But neither Catherine nor Mouquette, nor even Lydie, would move, nailed to the spot with a desire to know what had happened, and to help. Levaque then accepted the commission of announcing the landslip up above--a simple accident, which was being repaired. It was nearly four o'clock; in less than an hour the men had done a day's work; half the earth would have already been removed if more rocks had not slid from the roof. Maheu persisted with such energy that he refused, with a furious gesture, when another man approached to relieve him for a moment. "Gently!" said Richomme at last, "we are getting near. We must not finish them off." In fact the groaning was becoming more and more distinct. It was a continuous rattling which guided the workers; and now it seemed to be beneath their very picks. Suddenly it stopped. In silence they all looked at one another, and shuddered as they felt the coldness of death pass in the darkness. They dug on, soaked in sweat, their muscles tense to breaking. They came upon a foot, and then began to remove the earth with their hands, freeing the limbs one by one. The head was not hurt. They turned their lamps on it, and Chicot's name went round. He was quite warm, with his spinal column broken by a rock. "Wrap him up in a covering, and put him in a tram," ordered the captain. "Now for the lad; look sharp." Maheu gave a last blow, and an opening was made, communicating with the men who were clearing away the soil from the other side. They shouted out that they had just found Jeanlin, unconscious, with both legs broken, still breathing. It was the father who took up the little one in his arms, with clenched jaws constantly uttering "My God!" to express his grief, while Catherine and the other women again began to shriek. A procession was quickly formed. Bébert had brought back Bataille, who was harnessed to the trams. In the first lay Chicot's corpse, supported by Étienne; in the second, Maheu was seated with Jeanlin, still unconscious, on his knees, covered by a strip of wool torn from the ventilation door. They started at a walking pace. On each tram was a lamp like a red star. Then behind followed the row of miners, some fifty shadows in single file. Now that they were overcome by fatigue, they trailed their feet, slipping in the mud, with the mournful melancholy of a flock stricken by an epidemic. It took them nearly half an hour to reach the pit-eye. This procession beneath the earth, in the midst of deep darkness, seemed never to end through galleries which bifurcated and turned and unrolled. At the pit-eye Richomme, who had gone on before, had ordered an empty cage to be reserved. Pierron immediately loaded the two trams. In the first Maheu remained with his wounded little one on his knees, while in the other Étienne kept Chicot's corpse between his arms to hold it up. When the men had piled themselves up in the other decks the cage rose. It took two minutes. The rain from the tubbing fell very cold, and the men looked up towards the air impatient to see daylight. Fortunately a trammer sent to Dr. Vanderhaghen's had found him and brought him back. Jeanlin and the dead man were placed in the captains' room, where, from year's end to year's end, a large fire burnt. A row of buckets with warm water was ready for washing feet; and, two mattresses having been spread on the floor, the man and the child were placed on them. Maheu and Étienne alone entered. Outside, putters, miners, and boys were running about, forming groups and talking in a low voice. As soon as the doctor had glanced at Chicot: "Done for! You can wash him." Two overseers undressed and then washed with a sponge this corpse blackened with coal and still dirty with the sweat of work. "Nothing wrong with the head," said the doctor again, kneeling on Jeanlin's mattress. "Nor the chest either. Ah! it's the legs which have given." He himself undressed the child, unfastening the cap, taking off the jacket, drawing off the breeches and shirt with the skill of a nurse. And the poor little body appeared, as lean as an insect, stained with black dust and yellow earth, marbled by bloody patches. Nothing could be made out, and they had to wash him also. He seemed to grow leaner beneath the sponge, the flesh so pallid and transparent that one could see the bones. It was a pity to look on this last degeneration of a wretched race, this mere nothing that was suffering and half crushed by the falling of the rocks. When he was clean they perceived the bruises on the thighs, two red patches on the white skin. Jeanlin, awaking from his faint, moaned. Standing up at the foot of the mattress with hands hanging down, Maheu was looking at him and large tears rolled from his eyes. "Eh, are you the father?" said the doctor, raising his eyes; "no need to cry then, you can see he is not dead. Help me instead." He found two simple fractures. But the right leg gave him some anxiety, it would probably have to be cut off. At this moment the engineer, Négrel, and Dansaert, who had been informed, came up with Richomme. The first listened to the captain's narrative with an exasperated air. He broke out: Always this cursed timbering! Had he not repeated a hundred times that they would leave their men down there! and those brutes who talked about going out on strike if they were forced to timber more solidly. The worst was that now the Company would have to pay for the broken pots. M. Hennebeau would be pleased! "Who is it?" he asked of Dansaert, who was standing in silence before the corpse which was being wrapped up in a sheet. "Chicot! one of our good workers," replied the chief captain. "He has three children. Poor chap!" Dr. Vanderhaghen ordered Jeanlin's immediate removal to his parents'. Six o'clock struck, twilight was already coming on, and they would do well to remove the corpse also; the engineer gave orders to harness the van and to bring a stretcher. The wounded child was placed on the stretcher while the mattress and the dead body were put into the van. Some putters were still standing at the door talking with some miners who were waiting about to look on. When the door reopened there was silence in the group. A new procession was then formed, the van in front, then the stretcher, and then the train of people. They left the mine square and went slowly up the road to the settlement. The first November cold had denuded the immense plain; the night was now slowly burying it like a shroud fallen from the livid sky. Étienne then in a low voice advised Maheu to send Catherine on to warn Maheude so as to soften the blow. The overwhelmed father, who was following the stretcher, agreed with a nod; and the young girl set out running, for they were now near. But the van, that gloomy well-known box, was already signalled. Women ran out wildly on to the paths; three or four rushed about in anguish, without their bonnets. Soon there were thirty of them, then fifty, all choking with the same terror. Then someone was dead? Who was it? The story told by Levaque after first reassuring them, now exaggerated their nightmare: it was not one man, it was ten who had perished, and who were now being brought back in the van one by one. Catherine found her mother agitated by a presentiment; and after hearing the first stammered words Maheude cried: "The father's dead!" The young girl protested in vain, speaking of Jeanlin. Without hearing her, Maheude had rushed forward. And on seeing the van, which was passing before the church, she grew faint and pale. The women at their doors, mute with terror, were stretching out their necks, while others followed, trembling as they wondered before whose house the procession would stop. The vehicle passed; and behind it Maheude saw Maheu, who was accompanying the stretcher. Then, when they had placed the stretcher at her door and when she saw Jeanlin alive with his legs broken, there was so sudden a reaction in her that she choked with anger, stammering, without tears: "Is this it? They cripple our little ones now! Both legs! My God! What do they want me to do with him?" "Be still, then," said Dr. Vanderhaghen, who had followed to attend to Jeanlin. "Would you rather he had remained below?" But Maheude grew more furious, while Alzire, Lénore, and Henri were crying around her. As she helped to carry up the wounded boy and to give the doctor what he needed, she cursed fate, and asked where she was to find money to feed invalids. The old man was not then enough, now this rascal too had lost his legs! And she never ceased; while other cries, more heart-breaking lamentations, were heard from a neighbouring house: Chicot's wife and children were weeping over the body. It was now quite night, the exhausted miners were at last eating their soup, and the settlement had fallen into a melancholy silence, only disturbed by these loud outcries. Three weeks passed. It was found possible to avoid amputation; Jeanlin kept both his legs, but he remained lame. On investigation the Company had resigned itself to giving a donation of fifty francs. It had also promised to find employment for the little cripple at the surface as soon as he was well. All the same their misery was aggravated, for the father had received such a shock that he was seriously ill with fever. Since Thursday Maheu had been back at the pit and it was now Sunday. In the evening Étienne talked of the approaching date of the 1st of December, preoccupied in wondering if the Company would execute its threat. They sat up till ten o'clock waiting for Catherine, who must have been delaying with Chaval. But she did not return. Maheude furiously bolted the door without a word. Étienne was long in going to sleep, restless at the thought of that empty bed in which Alzire occupied so little room. Next morning she was still absent; and it was only in the afternoon, on returning from the pit, that the Maheus learnt that Chaval was keeping Catherine. He created such abominable scenes with her that she had decided to stay with him. To avoid reproaches he had suddenly left the Voreux and had been taken on at Jean-Bart, M. Deneulin's mine, and she had followed him as a putter. The new household still lived at Montsou, at Piquette's. Maheu at first talked of going to fight the man and of bringing his daughter back with a kick in the backside. Then he made a gesture of resignation: what was the good? It always turned out like that; one could not prevent a girl from sticking to a man when she wanted to. It was much better to wait quietly for the marriage. But Maheude did not take things so easily. "Did I beat her when she took this Chaval?" she cried to Étienne, who listened in silence, very pale. "See now, tell me! you, who are a sensible man. We have left her free, haven't we? because, my God! they all come to it. Now, I was in the family way when the father married me. But I didn't run away from my parents, and I should never have done so dirty a trick as to carry the money I earned to a man who had no want of it before the proper age. Ah! it's disgusting, you know. People will leave off getting children!" And as Étienne still replied only by nodding his head, she insisted: "A girl who went out every evening where she wanted to! What has she got in her skin, then, not to be able to wait till I married her after she had helped to get us out of difficulties? Eh? it's natural, one has a daughter to work. But there! we have been too good, we ought not to let her go and amuse herself with a man. Give them an inch and they take an ell." Alzire nodded approvingly. Lénore and Henri, overcome by this storm, cried quietly, while the mother now enumerated their misfortunes: first Zacharie who had had to get married; then old Bonnemort who was there on his chair with his twisted feet; then Jeanlin who could not leave the room for ten days with his badly-united bones; and now, as a last blow, this jade Catherine, who had gone away with a man! The whole family was breaking up. There was only the father left at the pit. How were they to live, seven persons without counting Estelle, on his three francs? They might as well jump into the canal in a band. "It won't do any good to worry yourself," said Maheu in a low voice, "perhaps we have not got to the end." Étienne, who was looking fixedly at the flags on the floor, raised his head, and murmured with eyes lost in a vision of the future: "Ah! it is time! it is time!" PART FOUR CHAPTER I On that Monday the Hennebeaus had invited the Grégoires and their daughter Cécile to lunch. They had formed their plans: on rising from table, Paul Négrel was to take the ladies to a mine, Saint-Thomas, which had been luxuriously reinstalled. But this was only an amiable pretext; this party was an invention of Madame Hennebeau's to hasten the marriage of Cécile and Paul. Suddenly, on this very Monday, at four o'clock in the morning, the strike broke out. When, on the 1st of December, the Company had adopted the new wage system, the miners remained calm. At the end of the fortnight not one made the least protest on pay-day. Everybody, from the manager down to the last overseer, considered the tariff as accepted; and great was their surprise in the morning at this declaration of war, made with a tactical unity which seemed to indicate energetic leadership. At five o'clock Dansaert woke M. Hennebeau to inform him that not a single man had gone down at the Voreux. The settlement of the Deux-Cent-Quarante, which he had passed through, was sleeping deeply, with closed windows and doors. And as soon as the manager had jumped out of bed, his eyes still swollen with sleep, he was overwhelmed. Every quarter of an hour messengers came in, and dispatches fell on his desk as thick as hail. At first he hoped that the revolt was limited to the Voreux; but the news became more serious every minute. There was the Mirou, the Crévecoeur, the Madeleine, where only the grooms had appeared; the Victoire and Feutry-Cantel, the two best disciplined pits, where the men had been reduced by a third; Saint-Thomas alone numbered all its people, and seemed to be outside the movement. Up to nine o'clock he dictated dispatches, telegraphing in all directions, to the prefect of Lille, to the directors of the Company, warning the authorities and asking for orders. He had sent Négrel to go round the neighbouring pits to obtain precise information. Suddenly M. Hennebeau recollected the lunch; and he was about to send the coachman to tell the Grégoires that the party had been put off, when a certain hesitation and lack of will stopped him--the man who in a few brief phrases had just made military preparations for a field of battle. He went up to Madame Hennebeau, whose hair had just been done by her lady's maid, in her dressing-room. "Ah! they are on strike," she said quietly, when he had told her. "Well, what has that to do with us? We are not going to leave off eating, I suppose?" And she was obstinate; it was vain to tell her that the lunch would be disturbed, and that the visit to Saint-Thomas could not take place. She found an answer to everything. Why lose a lunch that was already cooking? And as to visiting the pit, they could give that up afterwards if the walk was really imprudent. "Besides," she added, when the maid had gone out, "you know that I am anxious to receive these good people. This marriage ought to affect you more than the follies of your men. I want to have it, don't contradict me." He looked at her, agitated by a slight trembling, and the hard firm face of the man of discipline expressed the secret grief of a wounded heart. She had remained with naked shoulders, already over-mature, but still imposing and desirable, with the broad bust of a Ceres gilded by the autumn. For a moment he felt a brutal desire to seize her, and to roll his head between the breasts she was exposing in this warm room, which exhibited the private luxury of a sensual woman and had about it an irritating perfume of musk, but he recoiled; for ten years they had occupied separate rooms. "Good!" he said, leaving her. "Do not make any alterations." M. Hennebeau had been born in the Ardennes. In his early life he had undergone the hardships of a poor boy thrown as an orphan on the Paris streets. After having painfully followed the courses of the École des Mines, at the age of twenty-four he had gone to the Grand' Combe as engineer to the Sainte-Barbe mine. Three years later he became divisional engineer in the Pas-de-Calais, at the Marles mines. It was there that he married, wedding, by one of those strokes of fortune which are the rule among the Corps des Mines, the daughter of the rich owner of a spinning factory at Arras. For fifteen years they lived in the same small provincial town, and no event broke the monotony of existence, not even the birth of a child. An increasing irritation detached Madame Hennebeau, who had been brought up to respect money, and was disdainful of this husband who gained a small salary with such difficulty, and who enabled her to gratify none of the satisfactions of vanity which she had dreamed of at school. He was a man of strict honesty, who never speculated, but stood at his post like a soldier. The lack of harmony had only increased, aggravated by one of those curious misunderstandings of the flesh which freeze the most ardent; he adored his wife, she had the sensuality of a greedy blonde, and already they slept apart, ill at ease and wounded. From that time she had a lover of whom he was ignorant. At last he left the Pas-de-Calais to occupy a situation in an office at Paris, with the idea that she would be grateful to him. But Paris only completed their separation, that Paris which she had desired since her first doll, and where she washed away her provincialism in a week, becoming a woman of fashion at once, and throwing herself into all the luxurious follies of the period. The ten years which she spent there were filled by a great passion, a public intrigue with a man whose desertion nearly killed her. This time the husband had not been able to keep his ignorance, and after some abominable scenes he resigned himself, disarmed by the quiet unconsciousness of this woman who took her happiness where she found it. It was after the rupture, and when he saw that she was ill with grief, that he had accepted the management of the Montsou mines, still hoping also that she would reform down there in that desolate black country. The Hennebeaus, since they had lived at Montsou, returned to the irritated boredom of their early married days. At first she seemed consoled by the great quiet, soothed by the flat monotony of the immense plain; she buried herself in it as a woman who has done with the world; she affected a dead heart, so detached from life that she did not even mind growing stout. Then, beneath this indifference a final fever declared itself, the need to live once more, and she deluded herself for six months by organizing and furnishing to her taste the little villa belonging to the management. She said it was frightful, and filled it with upholstery, bric-a-brac, and all sorts of artistic luxuries which were talked of as far as Lille. Now the country exasperated her, those stupid fields spread out to infinity, those eternal black roads without a tree, swarming with a horrid population which disgusted and frightened her. Complaints of exile began; she accused her husband of having sacrificed her to a salary of forty thousand francs, a trifle which hardly sufficed to keep the house up. Why could he not imitate others, demand a part for himself, obtain shares, succeed in something at last? And she insisted with the cruelty of an heiress who had brought her own fortune. He, always restrained, and taking refuge in the deceptive coldness of a man of business, was torn by desire for this creature, one of those late desires which are so violent and which increase with age. He had never possessed her as a lover; he was haunted by a continual image, to have her once to himself as she had given herself to another. Every morning he dreamed of winning her in the evening; then, when she looked at him with her cold eyes, and when he felt that everything within her denied itself to him, he even avoided touching her hand. It was a suffering without possible cure, hidden beneath the stiffness of his attitude, the suffering of a tender nature in secret anguish at the lack of domestic happiness. At the end of six months, when the house, being definitely furnished, no longer occupied Madame Hennebeau, she fell into the languor of boredom, a victim who was being killed by exile, and who said that she was glad to die of it. Just then Paul Négrel arrived at Montsou. His mother, the widow of a Provence captain, living at Avignon on a slender income, had had to content herself with bread and water to enable him to reach the École Polytechnique. He had come out low in rank, and his uncle, M. Hennebeau, had enabled him to leave by offering to take him as engineer at the Voreux. From that time he was treated as one of the family; he even had his room there, his meals there, lived there, and was thus enabled to send to his mother half his salary of three thousand francs. To disguise this kindness M. Hennebeau spoke of the embarrassment to a young man of setting up a household in one of those little villas reserved for the mine engineers. Madame Hennebeau had at once taken the part of a good aunt, treating her nephew with familiarity and watching over his comfort. During the first months, especially, she exhibited an overwhelming maternity with her advice regarding the smallest subjects. But she remained a woman, however, and slid into personal confidences. This lad, so young and so practical, with his unscrupulous intelligence, professing a philosopher's theory of love, amused her with the vivacity of the pessimism which had sharpened his thin face and pointed nose. One evening he naturally found himself in her arms, and she seemed to give herself up out of kindness, while saying to him that she had no heart left, and wished only to be his friend. In fact, she was not jealous; she joked him about the putters, whom he declared to be abominable, and she almost sulked because he had no young man's pranks to narrate to her. Then she was carried away by the idea of getting him married; she dreamed of sacrificing herself and of finding a rich girl for him. Their relations continued a plaything, a recreation, in which she felt the last tenderness of a lazy woman who had done with the world. Two years had passed by. One night M. Hennebeau had a suspicion when he heard naked feet passing his door. But this new adventure revolted him, in his own house, between this mother and this son! And besides, on the following day his wife spoke to him about the choice of Cécile Grégoire which she had made for her nephew. She occupied herself over this marriage with such ardour that he blushed at his own monstrous imagination. He only felt gratitude towards the young man who, since his arrival, had made the house less melancholy. As he came down from the dressing-room, M. Hennebeau found that Paul, who had just returned, was in the vestibule. He seemed to be quite amused by the story of this strike. "Well?" asked his uncle. "Well, I've been round the settlements. They seem to be quite sensible in there. I think they will first send you a deputation." But at that moment Madame Hennebeau's voice called from the first story: "Is that you, Paul? Come up, then, and tell me the news. How queer they are to make such a fuss, these people who are so happy!" And the manager had to renounce further information, since his wife had taken his messenger. He returned and sat before his desk, on which a new packet of dispatches was placed. At eleven o'clock the Grégoires arrived, and were astonished when Hippolyte, the footman, who was placed as sentinel, hustled them in after an anxious glance at the two ends of the road. The drawing-room curtains were drawn, and they were taken at once into the study, where M. Hennebeau apologized for their reception; but the drawing-room looked over the street and it was undesirable to seem to offer provocations. "What! you don't know?" he went on, seeing their surprise. M. Grégoire, when he heard that the strike had at last broken out, shrugged his shoulders in his placid way. Bah! it would be nothing, the people were honest. With a movement of her chin, Madame Grégoire approved his confidence in the everlasting resignation of the colliers; while Cécile, who was very cheerful that day, feeling that she looked well in her capuchin cloth costume, smiled at the word "strike," which reminded her of visits to the settlements and the distribution of charities. Madame Hennebeau now appeared in black silk, followed by Négrel. "Ah! isn't it annoying!" she said, at the door. "As if they couldn't wait, those men! You know that Paul refuses to take us to Saint-Thomas." "We can stay here," said M. Grégoire, obligingly. "We shall be quite pleased." Paul had contented himself with formally saluting Cécile and her mother. Angry at this lack of demonstrativeness, his aunt sent him with a look to the young girl; and when she heard them laughing together she enveloped them in a maternal glance. M. Hennebeau, however, finished reading his dispatches and prepared a few replies. They talked near him; his wife explained that she had not done anything to this study, which, in fact, retained its faded old red paper, its heavy mahogany furniture, its cardboard files, scratched by use. Three-quarters of an hour passed and they were about to seat themselves at table when the footman announced M. Deneulin. He entered in an excited way and bowed to Madame Hennebeau. "Ah! you here!" he said, seeing the Grégoires. And he quickly spoke to the manager: "It has come, then? I've just heard of it through my engineer. With me, all the men went down this morning. But the thing may spread. I'm not at all at ease. How is it with you?" He had arrived on horseback, and his anxiety betrayed itself in his loud speech and abrupt gestures, which made him resemble a retired cavalry officer. M. Hennebeau was beginning to inform him regarding the precise situation, when Hippolyte opened the dining-room door. Then he interrupted himself to say: "Lunch with us. I will tell you more at dessert." "Yes, as you please," replied Deneulin, so full of his thoughts that he accepted without ceremony. He was, however, conscious of his impoliteness and turned towards Madame Hennebeau with apologies. She was very charming, however. When she had had a seventh plate laid she placed her guests: Madame Grégoire and Cécile by her husband, then M. Grégoire and Deneulin at her own right and left; then Paul, whom she put between the young girl and her father. As they attacked the _hors-d'oeuvre_ she said, with a smile: "You must excuse me; I wanted to give you oysters. On Monday, you know, there was an arrival of Ostend oysters at Marchiennes, and I meant to send the cook with the carriage. But she was afraid of being stoned--" They all interrupted her with a great burst of gaiety. They thought the story very funny. "Hush!" said M. Hennebeau, vexed, looking at the window, through which the road could be seen. "We need not tell the whole country that we have company this morning." "Well, here is a slice of sausage which they shan't have," M. Grégoire declared. The laughter began again, but with greater restraint. Each guest made himself comfortable, in this room upholstered with Flemish tapestry and furnished with old oak chests. The silver shone behind the panes of the sideboards; and there was a large hanging lamp of red copper, whose polished surfaces reflected a palm and an aspidistra growing in majolica pots. Outside, the December day was frozen by a keen north-east wind. But not a breath of it entered; a green-house warmth developed the delicate odour of the pineapple, sliced in a crystal bowl. "Suppose we were to draw the curtains," proposed Négrel, who was amused at the idea of frightening the Grégoires. The housemaid, who was helping the footman, treated this as an order and went and closed one of the curtains. This led to interminable jokes: not a glass or a plate could be put down without precaution; every dish was hailed as a waif escaped from the pillage in a conquered town; and behind this forced gaiety there was a certain fear which betrayed itself in involuntary glances towards the road, as though a band of starvelings were watching the table from outside. After the scrambled eggs with truffles, trout came on. The conversation then turned to the industrial crisis, which had become aggravated during the last eighteen months. "It was inevitable," said Deneulin, "the excessive prosperity of recent years was bound to bring us to it. Think of the enormous capital which has been sunk, the railways, harbours, and canals, all the money buried in the maddest speculations. Among us alone sugar works have been set up as if the department could furnish three beetroot harvests. Good heavens! and to-day money is scarce, and we have to wait to catch up the interest of the expended millions; so there is a mortal congestion and a final stagnation of business." M. Hennebeau disputed this theory, but he agreed that the fortunate years had spoilt the men. "When I think," he exclaimed, "that these chaps in our pits used to gain six francs a day, double what they gain now! And they lived well, too, and acquired luxurious tastes. To-day, naturally, it seems hard to them to go back to their old frugality." "Monsieur Grégoire," interrupted Madame Hennebeau, "let me persuade you, a little more trout. They are delicious, are they not?" The manager went on: "But, as a matter of fact, is it our fault? We, too, are cruelly struck. Since the factories have closed, one by one, we have had a deuce of a difficulty in getting rid of our stock; and in face of the growing reduction in demand we have been forced to lower our net prices. It is just this that the men won't understand." There was silence. The footman presented roast partridge, while the housemaid began to pour out Chambertin for the guests. "There has been a famine in India," said Deneulin in a low voice, as though he were speaking to himself. "America, by ceasing to order iron, has struck a heavy blow at our furnaces. Everything holds together; a distant shock is enough to disturb the world. And the empire, which was so proud of this hot fever of industry!" He attacked his partridge wing. Then, raising his voice: "The worst is that to lower the net prices we ought logically to produce more; otherwise the reduction bears on wages, and the worker is right in saying that he has to pay the damage." This confession, the outcome of his frankness, raised a discussion. The ladies were not at all interested. Besides, all were occupied with their plates, in the first zest of appetite. When the footman came back, he seemed about to speak, then he hesitated. "What is it?" asked M. Hennebeau. "If there are letters, give them to me. I am expecting replies." "No, sir. It is Monsieur Dansaert, who is in the hall. But he doesn't wish to disturb you." The manager excused himself, and had the head captain brought in. The latter stood upright, a few paces from the table, while all turned to look at him, huge, out of breath with the news he was bringing. The settlements were quiet; only it had now been decided to send a deputation. It would, perhaps, be there in a few minutes. "Very well; thank you," said M. Hennebeau. "I want a report morning and evening, you understand." And as soon as Dansaert had gone, they began to joke again, and hastened to attack the Russian salad, declaring that not a moment was to be lost if they wished to finish it. The mirth was unbounded when Négrel, having asked the housemaid for bread, she replied, "Yes, sir," in a voice as low and terrified as if she had behind her a troop ready for murder and rape. "You may speak," said Madame Hennebeau complacently. "They are not here yet." The manager, who now received a packet of letters and dispatches, wished to read one of his letters aloud. It was from Pierron, who, in respectful phrases, gave notice that he was obliged to go out on strike with his comrades, in order to avoid ill-treatment; and he added that he had not even been able to avoid taking part in the deputation, although he blamed that step. "So much for liberty of work!" exclaimed M. Hennebeau. Then they returned to the strike, and asked him his opinion. "Oh!" he replied, "we have had them before. It will be a week, or, at most, a fortnight, of idleness, as it was last time. They will go and wallow in the public-houses, and then, when they are hungry, they will go back to the pits." Deneulin shook his head: "I'm not so satisfied; this time they appear to be better organized. Have they not a Provident Fund?" "Yes, scarcely three thousand francs. What do you think they can do with that? I suspect a man called Étienne Lantier of being their leader. He is a good workman; it would vex me to have to give him his certificate back, as we did of old to the famous Rasseneur, who still poisons the Voreux with his ideas and his beer. No matter, in a week half the men will have gone down, and in a fortnight the ten thousand will be below." He was convinced. His only anxiety was concerning his own possible disgrace should the directors put the responsibility of the strike on him. For some time he had felt that he was diminishing in favour. So leaving the spoonful of Russian salad which he had taken, he read over again the dispatches received from Paris, endeavouring to penetrate every word. His guests excused him; the meal was becoming a military lunch, eaten on the field of battle before the first shots were fired. The ladies then joined in the conversation. Madame Grégoire expressed pity for the poor people who would suffer from hunger; and Cécile was already making plans for distributing gifts of bread and meat. But Madame Hennebeau was astonished at hearing of the wretchedness of the Montsou colliers. Were they not very fortunate? People who were lodged and warmed and cared for at the expense of the Company! In her indifference for the herd, she only knew the lessons she had learnt, and with which she had surprised the Parisians who came on a visit. She believed them at last, and was indignant at the ingratitude of the people. Négrel, meanwhile, continued to frighten M. Grégoire. Cécile did not displease him, and he was quite willing to marry her to be agreeable to his aunt, but he showed no amorous fever; like a youth of experience, who, he said, was not easily carried away now. He professed to be a Republican, which did not prevent him from treating his men with extreme severity, or from making fun of them in the company of the ladies. "Nor have I my uncle's optimism, either," he continued. "I fear there will be serious disturbances. So I should advise you, Monsieur Grégoire, to lock up Piolaine. They may pillage you." Just then, still retaining the smile which illuminated his good-natured face, M. Grégoire was going beyond his wife in paternal sentiments with regard to the miners. "Pillage me!" he cried, stupefied. "And why pillage me?" "Are you not a shareholder in Montsou! You do nothing; you live on the work of others. In fact you are an infamous capitalist, and that is enough. You may be sure that if the revolution triumphs, it will force you to restore your fortune as stolen money." At once he lost his child-like tranquillity, his serene unconsciousness. He stammered: "Stolen money, my fortune! Did not my great-grandfather gain, and hardly, too, the sum originally invested? Have we not run all the risks of the enterprise, and do I today make a bad use of my income?" Madame Hennebeau, alarmed at seeing the mother and daughter also white with fear, hastened to intervene, saying: "Paul is joking, my dear sir." But M. Grégoire was carried out of himself. As the servant was passing round the crayfish he took three of them without knowing what he was doing and began to break their claws with his teeth. "Ah! I don't say but what there are shareholders who abuse their position. For instance, I have been told that ministers have received shares in Montsou for services rendered to the Company. It is like a nobleman whom I will not name, a duke, the biggest of our shareholders, whose life is a scandal of prodigality, millions thrown into the street on women, feasting, and useless luxury. But we who live quietly, like good citizens as we are, who do not speculate, who are content to live wholesomely on what we have, giving a part to the poor: Come, now! your men must be mere brigands if they came and stole a pin from us!" Négrel himself had to calm him, though amused at his anger. The crayfish were still going round; the little crackling sound of their carapaces could be heard, while the conversation turned to politics, M. Grégoire, in spite of everything and though still trembling, called himself a Liberal and regretted Louis Philippe. As for Deneulin, he was for a strong Government; he declared that the Emperor was gliding down the slope of dangerous concessions. "Remember '89," he said. "It was the nobility who made the Revolution possible, by their complicity and taste for philosophic novelties. Very well! the middle class to-day are playing the same silly game with their furious Liberalism, their rage for destruction, their flattery of the people. Yes, yes, you are sharpening the teeth of the monster that will devour us. It will devour us, rest assured!" The ladies bade him be silent, and tried to change the conversation by asking him news of his daughters. Lucie was at Marchiennes, where she was singing with a friend; Jeanne was painting an old beggar's head. But he said these things in a distracted way; he constantly looked at the manager, who was absorbed in the reading of his dispatches and forgetful of his guests. Behind those thin leaves he felt Paris and the directors' orders, which would decide the strike. At last he could not help yielding to his preoccupation. "Well, what are you going to do?" he asked suddenly. M. Hennebeau started; then turned off the question with a vague phrase. "We shall see." "No doubt you are solidly placed, you can wait," Deneulin began to think aloud. "But as for me, I shall be done for if the strike reaches Vandame. I shall have reinstalled Jean-Bart in vain; with a single pit, I can only get along by constant production. Ah! I am not in a very pleasant situation, I can assure you!" This involuntary confession seemed to strike M. Hennebeau. He listened and a plan formed within him: in case the strike turned out badly, why not utilize it by letting things run down until his neighbour was ruined, and then buy up his concession at a low price? That would be the surest way of regaining the good graces of the directors, who for years had dreamed of possessing Vandame. "If Jean-Bart bothers you as much as that," said he, laughing, "why don't you give it up to us?" But Deneulin was already regretting his complaints. He exclaimed: "Never, never!" They were amused at his vigour and had already forgotten the strike by the time the dessert appeared. An apple-charlotte meringue was overwhelmed with praise. Afterwards the ladies discussed a recipe with respect to the pineapple which was declared equally exquisite. The grapes and pears completed their happy abandonment at the end of this copious lunch. All talked excitedly at the same time, while the servant poured out Rhine wine in place of champagne which was looked upon as commonplace. And the marriage of Paul and Cécile certainly made a forward step in the sympathy produced by the dessert. His aunt had thrown such urgent looks in his direction, that the young man showed himself very amiable, and in his wheedling way reconquered the Grégoires, who had been cast down by his stories of pillage. For a moment M. Hennebeau, seeing the close understanding between his wife and his nephew, felt that abominable suspicion again revive, as if in this exchange of looks he had surprised a physical contact. But again the idea of the marriage, made here before his face, reassured him. Hippolyte was serving the coffee when the housemaid entered in a fright. "Sir, sir, they are here!" It was the delegates. Doors banged; a breath of terror was passing through the neighbouring rooms. Around the table the guests were looking at one another with uneasy indecision. There was silence. Then they tried to resume their jokes: they pretended to put the rest of the sugar in their pockets, and talked of hiding the plate. But the manager remained grave; and the laughter fell and their voices sank to a whisper, while the heavy feet of the delegates who were being shown in tramped over the carpet of the next room. Madame Hennebeau said to her husband, lowering her voice: "I hope you will drink your coffee." "Certainly," he replied. "Let them wait." He was nervous, listening to every sound, though apparently occupied with his cup. Paul and Cécile got up, and he made her venture an eye to the keyhole. They were stifling their laughter and talking in a low voice. "Do you see them?" "Yes, I see a big man and two small ones behind." "Haven't they ugly faces?" "Not at all; they are very nice." Suddenly M. Hennebeau left his chair, saying the coffee was too hot and he would drink it afterwards. As he went out he put a finger to his lips to recommend prudence. They all sat down again and remained at table in silence, no longer daring to move, listening from afar with intent ears jarred by these coarse male voices. CHAPTER II The previous day, at a meeting held at Rasseneur's, Étienne and some comrades had chosen the delegates who were to proceed on the following day to the manager's house. When, in the evening, Maheude learnt that her man was one of them, she was in despair, and asked him if he wanted them to be thrown on the street. Maheu himself had agreed with reluctance. Both of them, when the moment of action came, in spite of the injustice of their wretchedness fell back on the resignation of their race, trembling before the morrow, preferring still to bend their backs to the yoke. In the management of affairs he usually gave way to his wife, whose advice was sound. This time, however, he grew angry at last, all the more so since he secretly shared her fears. "Just leave me alone, will you?" he said, going to bed and turning his back. "A fine thing to leave the mates now! I'm doing my duty." She went to bed in her turn. Neither of them spoke. Then, after a long silence, she replied: "You're right; go. Only, poor old man, we are done for." Midday struck while they were at lunch, for the rendezvous was at one o'clock at the Avantage, from which they were to go together to M. Hennebeau's. They were eating potatoes. As there was only a small morsel of butter left, no one touched it. They would have bread and butter in the evening. "You know that we reckon on you to speak," said Étienne suddenly to Maheu. The latter was so overcome that he was silent from emotion. "No, no! that's too much," cried Maheude. "I'm quite willing he should go there, but I don't allow him to go at the head. Why him, more than any one else?" Then Étienne, with his fiery eloquence, began to explain. Maheu was the best worker in the pit, the most liked, and the most respected; whose good sense was always spoken of. In his mouth the miners' claims would carry decisive weight. At first Étienne had arranged to speak, but he had been at Montsou for too short a time. One who belonged to the country would be better listened to. In fact, the comrades were confiding their interests to the most worthy; he could not refuse, it would be cowardly. Maheude made a gesture of despair. "Go, go, my man; go and be killed for the others. I'm willing, after all!" "But I could never do it," stammered Maheu. "I should say something stupid." Étienne, glad to have persuaded him, struck him on the shoulder. "Say what you feel, and you won't go wrong." Father Bonnemort, whose legs were now less swollen, was listening with his mouth full, shaking his head. There was silence. When potatoes were being eaten, the children were subdued and behaved well. Then, having swallowed his mouthful, the old man muttered slowly: "You can say what you like, and it will be all the same as if you said nothing. Ah! I've seen these affairs, I've seen them! Forty years ago they drove us out of the manager's house, and with sabres too! Now they may receive you, perhaps, but they won't answer you any more than that wall. Lord! they have money, why should they care?" There was silence again; Maheu and Étienne rose, and left the family in gloom before the empty plates. On going out they called for Pierron and Levaque, and then all four went to Rasseneur's, where the delegates from the neighbouring settlements were arriving in little groups. When the twenty members of the deputation had assembled there, they settled on the terms to be opposed to the Company's, and then set out for Montsou. The keen north-east wind was sweeping the street. As they arrived, it struck two. At first the servant told them to wait, and shut the door on them; then, when he came back, he introduced them into the drawing-room, and opened the curtains. A soft daylight entered, sifted through the lace. And the miners, when left alone, in their embarrassment did not dare to sit; all of them very clean, dressed in cloth, shaven that morning, with their yellow hair and moustaches. They twisted their caps between their fingers, and looked sideways at the furniture, which was in every variety of style, as a result of the taste for the old-fashioned: Henry II easy-chairs, Louis XV chairs, an Italian cabinet of the seventeenth century, a Spanish contador of the fifteenth century, with an altar-front serving as a chimney-piece, and ancient chasuble trimming reapplied to the curtains. This old gold and these old silks, with their tawny tones, all this luxurious church furniture, had overwhelmed them with respectful discomfort. The eastern carpets with their long wool seemed to bind their feet. But what especially suffocated them was the heat, heat like that of a hot-air stove, which surprised them as they felt it with cheeks frozen from the wind of the road. Five minutes passed by and their awkwardness increased in the comfort of this rich room, so pleasantly warm. At last M. Hennebeau entered, buttoned up in a military manner and wearing on his frock-coat the correct little bow of his decoration. He spoke first. "Ah! here you are! You are in rebellion, it seems." He interrupted himself to add with polite stiffness: "Sit down, I desire nothing better than to talk things over." The miners turned round looking for seats. A few of them ventured to place themselves on chairs, while the others, disturbed by the embroidered silks, preferred to remain standing. There was a period of silence. M. Hennebeau, who had drawn his easy-chair up to the fireplace, was rapidly looking them over and endeavouring to recall their faces. He had recognized Pierron, who was hidden in the last row, and his eyes rested on Étienne who was seated in front of him. "Well," he asked, "what have you to say to me?" He had expected to hear the young man speak and he was so surprised to see Maheu come forward that he could not avoid adding: "What! you, a good workman who have always been so sensible, one of the old Montsou people whose family has worked in the mine since the first stroke of the axe! Ah! it's a pity, I'm sorry that you are at the head of the discontented." Maheu listened with his eyes down. Then he began, at first in a low and hesitating voice. "It is just because I am a quiet man, sir, whom no one has anything against, that my mates have chosen me. That ought to show you that it isn't just a rebellion of blusterers, badly-disposed men who want to create disorder. We only want justice, we are tired of starving, and it seems to us that the time has come when things ought to be arranged so that we can at least have bread every day." His voice grew stronger. He lifted his eyes and went on, while looking at the manager. "You know quite well that we cannot agree to your new system. They accuse us of bad timbering. It's true we don't give the necessary time to the work. But if we gave it, our day's work would be still smaller, and as it doesn't give us enough food at present, that would mean the end of everything, the sweep of the clout that would wipe off all your men. Pay us more and we will timber better, we will give the necessary hours to the timbering instead of putting all our strength into the picking, which is the only work that pays. There's no other arrangement possible; if the work is to be done it must be paid for. And what have you invented instead? A thing which we can't get into our heads, don't you see? You lower the price of the tram and then you pretend to make up for it by paying for all timbering separately. If that was true we should be robbed all the same, for the timbering would still take us more time. But what makes us mad is that it isn't even true; the Company compensates for nothing at all, it simply puts two centimes a tram into its pocket, that's all." "Yes, yes, that's it," murmured the other deputies, noticing M. Hennebeau make a violent movement as if to interrupt. But Maheu cut the manager short. Now that he had set out his words came by themselves. At times he listened to himself with surprise as though a stranger were speaking within him. It was the things amassed within his breast, things he did not even know were there, and which came out in an expansion of his heart. He described the wretchedness that was common to all of them, the hard toil, the brutal life, the wife and little ones crying from hunger in the house. He quoted the recent disastrous payments, the absurd fortnightly wages, eaten up by fines and rest days and brought back to their families in tears. Was it resolved to destroy them? "Then, sir," he concluded, "we have come to tell you that if we've got to starve we would rather starve doing nothing. It will be a little less trouble. We have left the pits and we don't go down again unless the Company agrees to our terms. The Company wants to lower the price of the tram and to pay for the timbering separately. We ask for things to be left as they were, and we also ask for five centimes more the tram. Now it is for you to see if you are on the side of justice and work." Voices rose among the miners. "That's it--he has said what we all feel--we only ask what's reason." Others, without speaking, showed their approval by nodding their heads. The luxurious room had disappeared, with its gold and its embroideries, its mysterious piling up of ancient things; and they no longer even felt the carpet which they crushed beneath their heavy boots. "Let me reply, then," at last exclaimed M. Hennebeau, who was growing angry. "First of all, it is not true that the Company gains two centimes the tram. Let us look at the figures." A confused discussion followed. The manager, trying to divide them, appealed to Pierron, who hid himself, stammering. Levaque, on the contrary, was at the head of the more aggressive, muddling up things and affirming facts of which he was ignorant. The loud murmurs of their voices were stifled beneath the hangings in the hot-house atmosphere. "If you all talk at the same time," said M. Hennebeau, "we shall never come to an understanding." He had regained his calmness, the rough politeness, without bitterness, of an agent who has received his instructions, and means that they shall be respected. From the first word he never took his eye off Étienne, and manoeuvred to draw the young man out of his obstinate silence. Leaving the discussion about the two centimes, he suddenly enlarged the question. "No, acknowledge the truth: you are yielding to abominable incitations. It is a plague which is now blowing over the workers everywhere, and corrupting the best. Oh! I have no need for any one to confess. I can see well that you have been changed, you who used to be so quiet. Is it not so? You have been promised more butter than bread, and you have been told that now your turn has come to be masters. In fact, you have been enrolled in that famous International, that army of brigands who dream of destroying society." Then Étienne interrupted him. "You are mistaken, sir. Not a single Montsou collier has yet enrolled. But if they are driven to it, all the pits will enroll themselves. That depends on the Company." From that moment the struggle went on between M. Hennebeau and Étienne as though the other miners were no longer there. "The Company is a Providence for the men, and you are wrong to threaten it. This year it has spent three hundred thousand francs in building settlements which only return two per cent, and I say nothing of the pensions which it pays, nor of the coals and medicines which it gives. You who seem to be intelligent, and who have become in a few months one of our most skilful workmen, would it not be better if you were to spread these truths, rather than ruin yourself by associating with people of bad reputation? Yes, I mean Rasseneur, whom we had to turn off in order to save our pits from socialistic corruption. You are constantly seen with him, and it is certainly he who has induced you to form this Provident Fund, which we would willingly tolerate if it were merely a means of saving, but which we feel to be a weapon turned against us, a reserve fund to pay the expenses of the war. And in this connection I ought to add that the Company means to control that fund." Étienne allowed him to continue, fixing his eyes on him, while a slight nervous quiver moved his lips. He smiled at the last remark, and simply replied: "Then that is a new demand, for until now, sir, you have neglected to claim that control. Unfortunately, we wish the Company to occupy itself less with us, and instead of playing the part of Providence to be merely just with us, giving us our due, the profits which it appropriates. Is it honest, whenever a crisis comes, to leave the workers to die with hunger in order to save the shareholders' dividends? Whatever you may say, sir, the new system is a disguised reduction of wages, and that is what we are rebelling against, for if the Company wants to economize it acts very badly by only economizing on the men." "Ah! there we are!" cried M. Hennebeau. "I was expecting that--the accusation of starving the people and living by their sweat. How can you talk such folly, you who ought to know the enormous risks which capital runs in industry--in the mines, for example? A well-equipped pit today costs from fifteen hundred thousand francs to two millions; and it is difficult enough to get a moderate interest on the vast sum that is thus swallowed. Nearly half the mining companies in France are bankrupt. Besides, it is stupid to accuse those who succeed of cruelty. When their workers suffer, they suffer themselves. Can you believe that the Company has not as much to lose as you have in the present crisis? It does not govern wages; it obeys competition under pain of ruin. Blame the facts, not the Company. But you don't wish to hear, you don't wish to understand." "Yes," said the young man, "we understand very well that our lot will never be bettered as long as things go on as they are going; and that is the reason why some day or another the workers will end by arranging that things shall go differently." This sentence, so moderate in form, was pronounced in a low voice, but with such conviction, tremulous in its menace, that a deep silence followed. A certain constraint, a breath of fear passed through the polite drawing-room. The other delegates, though scarcely understanding, felt that their comrade had been demanding their share of this comfort; and they began to cast sidelong looks over the warm hangings, the comfortable seats, all this luxury of which the least knick-knack would have bought them soup for a month. At last M. Hennebeau, who had remained thoughtful, rose as a sign for them to depart. All imitated him. Étienne had lightly pushed Maheu's elbow, and the latter, his tongue once more thick and awkward, again spoke. "Then, sir, that is all that you reply? We must tell the others that you reject our terms." "I, my good fellow!" exclaimed the manager, "I reject nothing. I am paid just as you are. I have no more power in the matter than the smallest of your trammers. I receive my orders, and my only duty is to see that they are executed. I have told you what I thought I ought to tell you, but it is not for me to decide. You have brought me your demands. I will make them known to the directors, then I will tell you their reply." He spoke with the correct air of a high official avoiding any passionate interest in the matter, with the courteous dryness of a simple instrument of authority. And the miners now looked at him with distrust, asking themselves what interest he might have in lying, and what he would get by thus putting himself between them and the real masters. A schemer, perhaps, this man who was paid like a worker, and who lived so well! Étienne ventured to intervene again. "You see, sir, how unfortunate it is that we cannot plead our cause in person. We could explain many things, and bring forward many reasons of which you could know nothing, if we only knew where we ought to go." M. Hennebeau was not at all angry. He even smiled. "Ah! it gets complicated as soon as you have no confidence in me; you will have to go over there." The delegates had followed the vague gesture of his hand toward one of the windows. Where was it, over there? Paris, no doubt. But they did not know exactly; it seemed to fall back into a terrible distance, in an inaccessible religious country, where an unknown god sat on his throne, crouching down at the far end of his tabernacle. They would never see him; they only felt him as a force far off, which weighed on the ten thousand colliers of Montsou. And when the director spoke he had that hidden force behind him delivering oracles. They were overwhelmed with discouragement; Étienne himself signified by a shrug of the shoulders that it would be best to go; while M. Hennebeau touched Maheu's arm in a friendly way and asked after Jeanlin. "That is a severe lesson now, and it is you who defend bad timbering. You must reflect, my friends; you must realize that a strike would be a disaster for everybody. Before a week you would die of hunger. What would you do? I count on your good sense, anyhow; and I am convinced that you will go down on Monday, at the latest." They all left, going out of the drawing-room with the tramping of a flock and rounded backs, without replying a word to this hope of submission. The manager, who accompanied them, was obliged to continue the conversation. The Company, on the one side, had its new tariff; the workers, on the other, their demand for an increase of five centimes the tram. In order that they might have no illusions, he felt he ought to warn them that their terms would certainly be rejected by the directors. "Reflect before committing any follies," he repeated, disturbed at their silence. In the porch Pierron bowed very low, while Levaque pretended to adjust his cap. Maheu was trying to find something to say before leaving, when Étienne again touched his elbow. And they all left in the midst of this threatening silence. The door closed with a loud bang. When M. Hennebeau re-entered the dining-room he found his guests motionless and silent before the liqueurs. In two words he told his story to Deneulin, whose face grew still more gloomy. Then, as he drank his cold coffee, they tried to speak of other things. But the Grégoires themselves returned to the subject of the strike, expressing their astonishment that no laws existed to prevent workmen from leaving their work. Paul reassured Cécile, stating that they were expecting the police. At last Madame Hennebeau called the servant: "Hippolyte, before we go into the drawing-room just open the windows and let in a little air." CHAPTER III A fortnight had passed, and on the Monday of the third week the lists sent up to the managers showed a fresh decrease in the number of the miners who had gone down. It was expected that on that morning work would be resumed, but the obstinacy of the directors in not yielding exasperated the miners. The Voreux, Crévecoeur, Mirou, and Madeleine were not the only pits resting; at the Victoire and at Feutry-Cantel only about a quarter of the men had gone down; even Saint-Thomas was affected. The strike was gradually becoming general. At the Voreux a heavy silence hung over the pit-mouth. It was a dead workshop, these great empty abandoned Yards where work was sleeping. In the grey December sky, along the high foot-bridges three or four empty trams bore witness to the mute sadness of things. Underneath, between the slender posts of the platforms, the stock of coal was diminishing, leaving the earth bare and black; while the supplies of wood were mouldering beneath the rain. At the quay on the canal a barge was moored, half-laden, lying drowsily in the murky water; and on the deserted pit-bank, in which the decomposed sulphates smoked in spite of the rain, a melancholy cart showed its shafts erect. But the buildings especially were growing torpid, the screening-shed with closed shutters, the steeple in which the rumbling of the receiving-room no more arose, and the machine-room grown cold, and the giant chimney too large for the occasional smoke. The winding-engine was only heated in the morning. The grooms sent down fodder for the horses, and the captains worked alone at the bottom, having become labourers again, watching over the damages that took place in the passages as soon as they ceased to be repaired; then, after nine o'clock the rest of the service was carried on by the ladders. And above these dead buildings, buried in their garment of black dust, there was only heard the escapement of the pumping-engine, breathing with its thick, long breath all that was left of the life of the pit, which the water would destroy if that breathing should cease. On the plain opposite, the settlement of the Deux-Cent-Quarante seemed also to be dead. The prefect of Lille had come in haste and the police had tramped all the roads; but in face of the calmness of the strikers, prefect and police had decided to go home again. Never had the settlement given so splendid an example in the vast plain. The men, to avoid going to the public-house, slept all day long; the women while dividing the coffee became reasonable, less anxious to gossip and quarrel; and even the troops of children seemed to understand it all, and were so good that they ran about with naked feet, smacking each other silently. The word of command had been repeated and circulated from mouth to mouth; they wished to be sensible. There was, however, a continuous coming and going of people in the Maheus' house. Étienne, as secretary, had divided the three thousand francs of the Provident Fund among the needy families; afterwards from various sides several hundred francs had arrived, yielded by subscriptions and collections. But now all their resources were exhausted; the miners had no more money to keep up the strike, and hunger was there, threatening them. Maigrat, after having promised credit for a fortnight, had suddenly altered his mind at the end of a week and cut off provisions. He usually took his orders from the Company; perhaps the latter wished to bring the matter to an end by starving the settlements. He acted besides like a capricious tyrant, giving or refusing bread according to the look of the girl who was sent by her parents for provisions; and he especially closed his door spitefully to Maheude, wishing to punish her because he had not been able to get Catherine. To complete their misery it was freezing very hard, and the women watched their piles of coal diminish, thinking anxiously that they could no longer renew them at the pits now that the men were not going down. It was not enough to die of hunger, they must also die of cold. Among the Maheus everything was already running short. The Levaques could still eat on the strength of a twenty-franc piece lent by Bouteloup. As to the Pierrons, they always had money; but in order to appear as needy as the others, for fear of loans, they got their supplies on credit from Maigrat, who would have thrown his shop at Pierronne if she had held out her petticoat to him. Since Saturday many families had gone to bed without supper, and in face of the terrible days that were beginning not a complaint was heard, all obeyed the word of command with quiet courage. There was an absolute confidence in spite of everything, a religious faith, the blind gift of a population of believers. Since an era of justice had been promised to them they were willing to suffer for the conquest of universal happiness. Hunger exalted their heads; never had the low horizon opened a larger beyond to these people in the hallucination of their misery. They saw again over there, when their eyes were dimmed by weakness, the ideal city of their dream, but now growing near and seeming to be real, with its population of brothers, its golden age of labour and meals in common. Nothing overcame their conviction that they were at last entering it. The fund was exhausted; the Company would not yield; every day must aggravate the situation; and they preserved their hope and showed a smiling contempt for facts. If the earth opened beneath them a miracle would save them. This faith replaced bread and warmed their stomachs. When the Maheus and the others had too quickly digested their soup, made with clear water, they thus rose into a state of semi-vertigo, that ecstasy of a better life which has flung martyrs to the wild beasts. Étienne was henceforth the unquestioned leader. In the evening conversations he gave forth oracles, in the degree to which study had refined him and made him able to enter into difficult matters. He spent the nights reading, and received a large number of letters; he even subscribed to the _Vengeur_, a Belgian Socialist paper, and this journal, the first to enter the settlement, gained for him extraordinary consideration among his mates. His growing popularity excited him more every day. To carry on an extensive correspondence, to discuss the fate of the workers in the four corners of the province, to give advice to the Voreux miners, especially to become a centre and to feel the world rolling round him--continually swelled the vanity of the former engine-man, the pikeman with greasy black hands. He was climbing a ladder, he was entering this execrated middle class, with a satisfaction to his intelligence and comfort which he did not confess to himself. He had only one trouble, the consciousness of his lack of education, which made him embarrassed and timid as soon as he was in the presence of a gentleman in a frock-coat. If he went on instructing himself, devouring everything, the lack of method would render assimilation very slow, and would produce such confusion that at last he would know much more than he could understand. So at certain hours of good sense he experienced a restlessness with regard to his mission--a fear that he was not the man for the task. Perhaps it required a lawyer, a learned man, able to speak and act without compromising the mates? But an outcry soon restored his assurance. No, no; no lawyers! They are all rascals; they profit by their knowledge to fatten on the people. Let things turn out how they will, the workers must manage their own affairs. And his dream of popular leadership again soothed him: Montsou at his feet, Paris in the misty distance, who knows? The elections some day, the tribune in a gorgeous hall, where he could thunder against the middle class in the first speech pronounced by a workman in a parliament. During the last few days Étienne had been perplexed. Pluchart wrote letter after letter, offering to come to Montsou to quicken the zeal of the strikers. It was a question of organizing a private meeting over which the mechanic would preside; and beneath this plan lay the idea of exploiting the strike, to gain over to the International these miners who so far had shown themselves suspicious. Étienne feared a disturbance, but he would, however, have allowed Pluchart to come if Rasseneur had not violently blamed this proceeding. In spite of his power, the young man had to reckon with the innkeeper, whose services were of older date, and who had faithful followers among his clients. So he still hesitated, not knowing what to reply. On this very Monday, towards four o'clock, a new letter came from Lille as Étienne was alone with Maheude in the lower room. Maheu, weary of idleness, had gone fishing; if he had the luck to catch a fine fish under the sluice of the canal, they could sell it to buy bread. Old Bonnemort and little Jeanlin had just gone off to try their legs, which were now restored; while the children had departed with Alzire, who spent hours on the pit-bank collecting cinders. Seated near the miserable fire, which they no longer dared to keep up, Maheude, with her dress unbuttoned and one breast hanging out of her dress and falling to her belly, was suckling Estelle. When the young man had folded the letter, she questioned him: "Is the news good? Are they going to send us any money?" He shook his head, and she went on: "I don't know what we shall do this week. However, we'll hold on all the same. When one has right on one's side, don't you think it gives you heart, and one ends always by being the strongest?" At the present time she was, to a reasonable extent, in favour of the strike. It would have been better to force the Company to be just without leaving off work. But since they had left it they ought not to go back to it without obtaining justice. On this point she was relentless. Better to die than to show oneself in the wrong when one was right! "Ah!" exclaimed Étienne, "if a fine old cholera was to break out, that would free us of all these Company exploiters." "No, no," she replied, "we must not wish any one dead. That wouldn't help us at all; plenty more would spring up. Now I only ask that they should get sensible ideas, and I expect they will, for there are worthy people everywhere. You know I'm not at all for your politics." In fact she always blamed his violent language, and thought him aggressive. It was good that they should want their work paid for at what it was worth, but why occupy oneself with such things as the bourgeois and Government? Why mix oneself up with other people's affairs, when one would get nothing out of it but hard knocks? And she kept her esteem for him because he did not get drunk, and regularly paid his forty-five francs for board and lodging. When a man behaves well one can forgive him the rest. Étienne then talked about the Republic, which would give bread to everybody. But Maheude shook her head, for she remembered 1848, an awful year, which had left them as bare as worms, her and her man, in their early housekeeping years. She forgot herself in describing its horrors, in a mournful voice, her eyes lost in space, her breast open; while her infant, Estelle, without letting it go, had fallen asleep on her knees. And Étienne, also absorbed in thought, had his eyes fixed on this enormous breast, of which the soft whiteness contrasted with the muddy yellowish complexion of her face. "Not a farthing," she murmured, "nothing to put between one's teeth, and all the pits stopped. Just the same destruction of poor people as to-day." But at that moment the door opened, and they remained mute with surprise before Catherine, who then came in. Since her flight with Chaval she had not reappeared at the settlement. Her emotion was so great that, trembling and silent, she forgot to shut the door. She expected to find her mother alone, and the sight of the young man put out of her head the phrases she had prepared on the way. "What on earth have you come here for?" cried Maheude, without even moving from her chair. "I don't want to have anything more to do with you; get along." Then Catherine tried to find words: "Mother, it's some coffee and sugar; yes, for the children. I've been thinking of them and done overtime." She drew out of her pockets a pound of coffee and a pound of sugar, and took courage to place them on the table. The strike at the Voreux troubled her while she was working at Jean-Bart, and she had only been able to think of this way of helping her parents a little, under the pretext of caring for the little ones. But her good nature did not disarm her mother, who replied: "Instead of bringing us sweets, you would have done better to stay and earn bread for us." She overwhelmed her with abuse, relieving herself by throwing in her daughter's face all that she had been saying against her for the past month. To go off with a man, to hang on to him at sixteen, when the family was in want! Only the most degraded of unnatural children could do it. One could forgive a folly, but a mother never forgot a trick like that. There might have been some excuse if they had been strict with her. Not at all; she was as free as air, and they only asked her to come in to sleep. "Tell me, what have you got in your skin, at your age?" Catherine, standing beside the table, listened with lowered head. A quiver shook her thin under-developed girlish body, and she tried to reply in broken words: "Oh! if it was only me, and the amusement that I get! It's him. What he wants I'm obliged to want too, aren't I? because, you see, he's the strongest. How can one tell how things are going to turn out? Anyhow it's done and can't be undone; it may as well be him as another now. He'll have to marry me." She defended herself without a struggle, with the passive resignation of a girl who has submitted to the male at an early age. Was it not the common lot? She had never dreamed of anything else; violence behind the pit-bank, a child at sixteen, and then a wretched household if her lover married her. And she did not blush with shame; she only quivered like this at being treated like a slut before this lad, whose presence oppressed her to despair. Étienne had risen, however, and was pretending to stir up the nearly extinct fire in order not to interrupt the explanation. But their looks met; he found her pale and exhausted; pretty, indeed, with her clear eyes in the face which had grown tanned, and he experienced a singular feeling; his spite had vanished; he simply desired that she should be happy with this man whom she had preferred to him. He felt the need to occupy himself with her still, a longing to go to Montsou and force the other man to his duty. But she only saw pity in his constant tenderness; he must feel contempt for her to gaze at her like that. Then her heart contracted so that she choked, without being able to stammer any more words of excuse. "That's it, you'd best hold your tongue," began the implacable Maheude. "If you come back to stay, come in; else get along with you at once, and think yourself lucky that I'm not free just now, or I should have put my foot into you somewhere before now." As if this threat had suddenly been realized, Catherine received a vigorous kick right behind, so violent that she was stupefied with surprise and pain. It was Chaval who had leapt in through the open door to give her this lunge of a vicious beast. For a moment he had watched her from outside. "Ah! slut," he yelled, "I've followed you. I knew well enough you were coming back here to get him to fill you. And it's you that pay him, eh? You pour coffee down him with my money!" Maheude and Étienne were stupefied, and did not stir. With a furious movement Chaval chased Catherine towards the door. "Out you go, by God!" And as she took refuge in a corner he turned on her mother. "A nice business, keeping watch while your whore of a daughter is kicking her legs upstairs!" At last he caught Catherine's wrist, shaking her and dragging her out. At the door he again turned towards Maheude, who was nailed to her chair. She had forgotten to fasten up her breast. Estelle had gone to sleep, and her face had slipped down into the woollen petticoat; the enormous breast was hanging free and naked like the udder of a great cow. "When the daughter is not at it, it's the mother who gets herself plugged," cried Chaval. "Go on, show him your meat! He isn't disgusted--your dirty lodger!" At this Étienne was about to strike his mate. The fear of arousing the settlement by a fight had kept him back from snatching Catherine from Chaval's hands. But rage was now carrying him away, and the two men were face to face with inflamed eyes. It was an old hatred, a jealousy long unacknowledged, which was breaking out. One of them now must do for the other. "Take care!" stammered Étienne, with clenched teeth. "I'll do for you." "Try!" replied Chaval. They looked at one another for some seconds longer, so close that their hot breaths burnt each other's faces. And it was Catherine who suppliantly took her lover's hand again to lead him away. She dragged him out of the settlement, fleeing without turning her head. "What a brute!" muttered Étienne, banging the door, and so shaken by anger that he was obliged to sit down. Maheude, in front of him, had not stirred. She made a vague gesture, and there was silence, a silence which was painful and heavy with unspoken things. In spite of an effort his gaze again returned to her breast, that expanse of white flesh, the brilliance of which now made him uncomfortable. No doubt she was forty, and had lost her shape, like a good female who had produced too much; but many would still desire her, strong and solid, with the large long face of a woman who had once been beautiful. Slowly and quietly she was putting back her breast with both hands. A rosy corner was still obstinate, and she pushed it back with her finger, and then buttoned herself up, and was now quite black and shapeless in her old gown. "He's a filthy beast," she said at last. "Only a filthy beast could have such nasty ideas. I don't care a hang what he says; it isn't worth notice." Then in a frank voice she added, fixing her eyes on the young man: "I have my faults, sure enough, but not that one. Only two men have touched me--a putter, long ago, when I was fifteen, and then Maheu. If he had left me like the other, Lord! I don't quite know what would have happened; and I don't pride myself either on my good conduct with him since our marriage, because, when one hasn't gone wrong, it's often because one hasn't the chance. Only I say things as they are, and I know neighbours who couldn't say as much, don't you think?" "That's true enough," replied Étienne. And he rose and went out, while she decided to light the fire again, after having placed the sleeping Estelle on two chairs. If the father caught and sold a fish they could manage to have some soup. Outside, night was already coming on, a frosty night; and with lowered head Étienne walked along, sunk in dark melancholy. It was no longer anger against the man, or pity for the poor ill-treated girl. The brutal scene was effaced and lost, and he was thrown back on to the sufferings of all, the abominations of wretchedness. He thought of the settlement without bread, these women and little ones who would not eat that evening, all this struggling race with empty bellies. And the doubt which sometimes touched him awoke again in the frightful melancholy of the twilight, and tortured him with a discomfort which he had never felt so strongly before. With what a terrible responsibility he had burdened himself! Must he still push them on in obstinate resistance, now that there was neither money nor credit? And what would be the end of it all if no help arrived, and starvation came to beat down their courage? He had a sudden vision of disaster; of dying children and sobbing mothers, while the men, lean and pale, went down once more into the pits. He went on walking, his feet stumbling against the stones, and the thought that the Company would be found strongest, and that he would have brought misfortune on his comrades, filled him with insupportable anguish. When he raised his head he saw that he was in front of the Voreux. The gloomy mass of buildings looked sombre beneath the growing darkness. The deserted square, obstructed by great motionless shadows, seemed like the corner of an abandoned fortress. As soon as the winding-engine stopped, the soul left the place. At this hour of the night nothing was alive, not a lantern, not a voice; and the sound of the pump itself was only a distant moan, coming one could not say whence, in this annihilation of the whole pit. As Étienne gazed the blood flowed back to his heart. If the workers were suffering hunger, the Company was encroaching on its millions. Why should it prove the stronger in this war of labour against gold? In any case, the victory would cost it dear. They would have their corpses to count. He felt the fury of battle again, the fierce desire to have done with misery, even at the price of death. It would be as well for the settlement to die at one stroke as to go on dying in detail of famine and injustice. His ill-digested reading came back to him, examples of nations who had burnt their towns to arrest the enemy, vague histories of mothers who had saved their children from slavery by crushing their heads against the pavement, of men who had died of want rather than eat the bread of tyrants. His head became exalted, a red gaiety arose out of his crisis of black sadness, chasing away doubt, and making him ashamed of this passing cowardice of an hour. And in this revival of his faith, gusts of pride reappeared and carried him still higher; the joy of being leader, of seeing himself obeyed, even to sacrifice, the enlarged dream of his power, the evening of triumph. Already he imagined a scene of simple grandeur, his refusal of power, authority placed in the hands of the people, when it would be master. But he awoke and started at the voice of Maheu, who was narrating his luck, a superb trout which he had fished up and sold for three francs. They would have their soup. Then he left his mate to return alone to the settlement, saying that he would follow him; and he entered and sat down in the Avantage, awaiting the departure of a client to tell Rasseneur decisively that he should write to Pluchart to come at once. His resolution was taken; he would organize a private meeting, for victory seemed to him certain if the Montsou colliers adhered in a mass to the International. CHAPTER IV It was at the Bon-Joyeux, Widow Désir's, that the private meeting was organized for Thursday at two o'clock. The widow, incensed at the miseries inflicted on her children the colliers, was in a constant state of anger, especially as her inn was emptying. Never had there been a less thirsty strike; the drunkards had shut themselves up at home for fear of disobeying the sober word of command. Thus Montsou, which swarmed with people on feast-days, now exhibited its wide street in mute and melancholy desolation. No beer flowed from counters or bellies, the gutters were dry. On the pavement at the Casimir Bar and the Estaminet du Progrés one only saw the pale faces of the landladies, looking inquiringly into the street; then in Montsou itself the deserted doors extended from the Estaminet Lenfant to the Estaminet Tison, passing by the Estaminet Piquette and the Tête-Coupée Bar; only the Estaminet Saint-Éloi, which was frequented by captains, still drew occasional glasses; the solitude even extended to the Volcan, where the ladies were resting for lack of admirers, although they had lowered their price from ten sous to five in view of the hard times. A deep mourning was breaking the heart of the entire country. "By God!" exclaimed Widow Désir, slapping her thighs with both hands, "it's the fault of the gendarmes! Let them run me in, devil take them, if they like, but I must plague them." For her, all authorities and masters were gendarmes; it was a term of general contempt in which she enveloped all the enemies of the people. She had greeted Étienne's request with transport; her whole house belonged to the miners, she would lend her ball-room gratuitously, and would herself issue the invitations since the law required it. Besides, if the law was not pleased, so much the better! She would give them a bit of her mind. Since yesterday the young man had brought her some fifty letters to sign; he had them copied by neighbours in the settlement who knew how to write, and these letters were sent around among the pits to delegates and to men of whom they were sure. The avowed order of the day was a discussion regarding the continuation of the strike; but in reality they were expecting Pluchart, and reckoning on a discourse from him which would cause a general adhesion to the International. On Thursday morning Étienne was disquieted by the non-appearance of his old foreman, who had promised by letter to arrive on Wednesday evening. What, then, was happening? He was annoyed that he would not be able to come to an understanding with him before the meeting. At nine o'clock he went to Montsou, with the idea that the mechanic had, perhaps, gone there direct without stopping at the Voreux. "No, I've not seen your friend," replied Widow Désir. "But everything is ready. Come and see." She led him into the ball-room. The decorations were the same, the garlands which supported at the ceiling a crown of painted paper flowers, and the gilt cardboard shields in a line along the wall with the names of saints, male and female. Only the musicians' platform had been replaced by a table and three chairs in one corner; and the room was furnished with forms ranged along the floor. "It's perfect," Étienne declared. "And you know," said the widow, "that you're at home here. Yell as much as you like. The gendarmes will have to pass over my body if they do come!" In spite of his anxiety, he could not help smiling when he looked at her, so vast did she appear, with a pair of breasts so huge that one alone would require a man to embrace it, which now led to the saying that of her six weekday lovers she had to take two every evening on account of the work. But Étienne was astonished to see Rasseneur and Souvarine enter; and as the widow left them all three in the large empty hall he exclaimed: "What! you here already!" Souvarine, who had worked all night at the Voreux, the engine-men not being on strike, had merely come out of curiosity. As to Rasseneur, he had seemed constrained during the last two days, and his fat round face had lost its good-natured laugh. "Pluchart has not arrived, and I am very anxious," added Étienne. The innkeeper turned away his eyes, and replied between his teeth: "I'm not surprised; I don't expect him." "What!" Then he made up his mind, and looking the other man in the face bravely: "I, too, have sent him a letter, if you want me to tell you; and in that letter I have begged him not to come. Yes, I think we ought to manage our own affairs ourselves, without turning to strangers." Étienne, losing his self-possession and trembling with anger, turned his eyes on his mate's and stammered: "You've done that, you've done that?" "I have done that, certainly! and you know that I trust Pluchart; he's a knowing fellow and reliable, one can get on with him. But you see I don't care a damn for your ideas, I don't! Politics, Government, and all that, I don't care a damn for it! What I want is for the miner to be better treated. I have worked down below for twenty years, I've sweated down there with fatigue and misery, and I've sworn to make it easier for the poor beggars who are there still; and I know well enough you'll never get anything with all your ideas, you'll only make the men's fate more miserable still. When they are forced by hunger to go down again, they will be more crushed than ever; the Company will pay them with strokes of the stick, like a runaway dog who is brought back to his kennel. That's what I want to prevent, do you see!" He raised his voice, protruding his belly and squarely planted on his big legs. The man's whole patient, reasonable nature was revealed in clear phrases, which flowed abundantly without an effort. Was it not absurd to believe that with one stroke one could change the world, putting the workers in the place of the masters and dividing gold as one divides an apple? It would, perhaps, take thousands and thousands of years for that to be realized. There, hold your tongue, with your miracles! The most sensible plan was, if one did not wish to break one's nose, to go straight forward, to demand possible reforms, in short, to improve the lot of the workers on every occasion. He did his best, so far as he occupied himself with it, to bring the Company to better terms; if not, damn it all! they would only starve by being obstinate. Étienne had let him speak, his own speech cut short by indignation. Then he cried: "Haven't you got any blood in your veins, by God?" At one moment he would have struck him, and to resist the temptation he rushed about the hall with long strides, venting his fury on the benches through which he made a passage. "Shut the door, at all events," Souvarine remarked. "There is no need to be heard." Having himself gone to shut it, he quietly sat down in one of the office chairs. He had rolled a cigarette, and was looking at the other two men with his mild subtle eye, his lips drawn by a slight smile. "You won't get any farther by being angry," said Rasseneur judiciously. "I believed at first that you had good sense. It was sensible to recommend calmness to the mates, to force them to keep indoors, and to use your power to maintain order. And now you want to get them into a mess!" At each turn in his walks among the benches, Étienne returned towards the innkeeper, seizing him by the shoulders, shaking him, and shouting out his replies in his face. "But, blast it all! I mean to be calm. Yes, I have imposed order on them! Yes, I do advise them still not to stir! only it doesn't do to be made a joke of after all! You are lucky to remain cool. Now there are hours when I feel that I am losing my head." This was a confession on his part. He railed at his illusions of a novice, his religious dream of a city in which justice would soon reign among the men who had become brothers. A fine method truly! to cross one's arms and wait, if one wished to see men eating each other to the end of the world like wolves. No! one must interfere, or injustice would be eternal, and the rich would for ever suck the blood of the poor. Therefore he could not forgive himself the stupidity of having said formerly that politics ought to be banished from the social question. He knew nothing then; now he had read and studied, his ideas were ripe, and he boasted that he had a system. He explained it badly, however, in confused phrases which contained a little of all the theories he had successively passed through and abandoned. At the summit Karl Marx's idea remained standing: capital was the result of spoliation, it was the duty and the privilege of labour to reconquer that stolen wealth. In practice he had at first, with Proudhon, been captured by the chimera of a mutual credit, a vast bank of exchange which suppressed middlemen; then Lassalle's cooperative societies, endowed by the state, gradually transforming the earth into a single industrial town, had aroused his enthusiasm until he grew disgusted in face of the difficulty of controlling them; and he had arrived recently at collectivism, demanding that all the instruments of production should be restored to the community. But this remained vague; he knew not how to realize this new dream, still hindered by scruples of reason and good sense, not daring to risk the secretary's absolute affirmations. He simply said that it was a question of getting possession of the government first of all. Afterwards they would see. "But what has taken you? Why are you going over to the bourgeois?" he continued violently, again planting himself before the innkeeper. "You said yourself it would have to burst up!" Rasseneur blushed slightly. "Yes, I said so. And if it does burst up, you will see that I am no more of a coward than any one else. Only I refuse to be among those who increase the mess in order to fish out a position for themselves." Étienne blushed in his turn. The two men no longer shouted, having become bitter and spiteful, conquered by the coldness of their rivalry. It was at bottom that which always strains systems, making one man revolutionary in the extreme, pushing the other to an affectation of prudence, carrying them, in spite of themselves, beyond their true ideas into those fatal parts which men do not choose for themselves. And Souvarine, who was listening, exhibited on his pale, girlish face a silent contempt--the crushing contempt of the man who was willing to yield his life in obscurity without even gaining the splendour of martyrdom. "Then it's to me that you're saying that?" asked Étienne; "you're jealous!" "Jealous of what?" replied Rasseneur. "I don't pose as a big man; I'm not trying to create a section at Montsou for the sake of being made secretary." The other man wanted to interrupt him, but he added: "Why don't you be frank? You don't care a damn for the International; you're only burning to be at our head, the gentleman who corresponds with the famous Federal Council of the Nord!" There was silence. Étienne replied, quivering: "Good! I don't think I have anything to reproach myself with. I always asked your advice, for I knew that you had fought here long before me. But since you can't endure any one by your side, I'll act alone in future. And first I warn you that the meeting will take place even if Pluchart does not come, and the mates will join in spite of you." "Oh! join!" muttered the innkeeper; "that's not enough. You'll have to get them to pay their subscriptions." "Not at all. The International grants time to workers on strike. It will at once come to our help, and we shall pay later on." Rasseneur was carried beyond himself. "Well, we shall see. I belong to this meeting of yours, and I shall speak. I shall not let you turn our friends' heads, I shall let them know where their real interests lie. We shall see whom they mean to follow--me, whom they have known for thirty years, or you, who have turned everything upside down among us in less than a year. No, no! damn it all! We shall see which of us is going to crush the other." And he went out, banging the door. The garlands of flowers swayed from the ceiling, and the gilt shields jumped against the walls. Then the great room fell back into its heavy calm. Souvarine was smoking in his quiet way, seated before the table. After having paced for a moment in silence, Étienne began to relieve his feelings at length. Was it his fault if they had left that fat lazy fellow to come to him? And he defended himself from having ought popularity. He knew not even how it had happened, this friendliness of the settlement, the confidence of the miners, the power which he now had over them. He was indignant at being accused of wishing to bring everything to confusion out of ambition; he struck his chest, protesting his brotherly feelings. Suddenly he stopped before Souvarine and exclaimed: "Do you know, if I thought I should cost a drop of blood to a friend, I would go off at once to America!" The engine-man shrugged his shoulders, and a smile again came on his lips. "Oh! blood!" he murmured. "What does that matter? The earth has need of it." Étienne, growing calm, took a chair, and put his elbows on the other side of the table. This fair face, with the dreamy eyes, which sometimes grew savage with a red light, disturbed him, and exercised a singular power over his will. In spite of his comrade's silence, conquered even by that silence, he felt himself gradually absorbed. "Well," he asked, "what would you do in my place? Am I not right to act as I do? Isn't it best for us to join this association?" Souvarine, after having slowly ejected a jet of smoke, replied by his favourite word: "Oh, foolery! but meanwhile it's always so. Besides, their International will soon begin to move. He has taken it up." "Who, then?" "He!" He had pronounced this word in a whisper, with religious fervour, casting a glance towards the east. He was speaking of the master, Bakunin the destroyer. "He alone can give the thunderclap," he went on, "while your learned men, with their evolution, are mere cowards. Before three years are past, the International, under his orders, will crush the old world." Étienne pricked up his ears in attention. He was burning to gain knowledge, to understand this worship of destruction, regarding which the engine-man only uttered occasional obscure words, as though he kept certain mysteries to himself. "Well, but explain to me. What is your aim?" "To destroy everything. No more nations, no more governments, no more property, no more God nor worship." "I quite understand. Only what will that lead you to?" "To the primitive formless commune, to a new world, to the renewal of everything." "And the means of execution? How do you reckon to set about it?" "By fire, by poison, by the dagger. The brigand is the true hero, the popular avenger, the revolutionary in action, with no phrases drawn out of books. We need a series of tremendous outrages to frighten the powerful and to arouse the people." As he talked, Souvarine grew terrible. An ecstasy raised him on his chair, a mystic flame darted from his pale eyes, and his delicate hands gripped the edge of the table almost to breaking. The other man looked at him in fear, and thought of the stories of which he had received vague intimation, of mines charged beneath the tsar's palace, of chiefs of police struck down by knives like wild boars, of his mistress, the only woman he had loved, hanged at Moscow one rainy morning, while in the crowd he kissed her with his eyes for the last time. "No! no!" murmured Étienne, as with a gesture he pushed away these abominable visions, "we haven't got to that yet over here. Murder and fire, never! It is monstrous, unjust, all the mates would rise and strangle the guilty one!" And besides, he could not understand; the instincts of his race refused to accept this sombre dream of the extermination of the world, mown level like a rye-field. Then what would they do afterwards? How would the nations spring up again? He demanded a reply. "Tell me your programme. We like to know where we are going to." Then Souvarine concluded peacefully, with his gaze fixed on space: "All reasoning about the future is criminal, because it prevents pure destruction, and interferes with the progress of revolution." This made Étienne laugh, in spite of the cold shiver which passed over his flesh. Besides, he willingly acknowledged that there was something in these ideas, which attracted him by their fearful simplicity. Only it would be playing into Rasseneur's hands if he were to repeat such things to his comrades. It was necessary to be practical. Widow Désir proposed that they should have lunch. They agreed, and went into the inn parlour, which was separated from the ball-room on weekdays by a movable partition. When they had finished their omelette and cheese, the engine-man proposed to depart, and as the other tried to detain him: "What for? To listen to you talking useless foolery? I've seen enough of it. Good day." He went off in his gentle, obstinate way, with a cigarette between his lips. Étienne's anxiety increased. It was one o'clock, and Pluchart was decidedly breaking his promise. Towards half-past one the delegates began to appear, and he had to receive them, for he wished to see who entered, for fear that the Company might send its usual spies. He examined every letter of invitation, and took note of those who entered; many came in without a letter, as they were admitted provided he knew them. As two o'clock struck Rasseneur entered, finishing his pipe at the counter, and chatting without haste. This provoking calmness still further disturbed Étienne, all the more as many had come merely for fun--Zacharie, Mouquet, and others. These cared little about the strike, and found it a great joke to do nothing. Seated at tables, and spending their last two sous on drink, they grinned and bantered their mates, the serious ones, who had come to make fools of themselves. Another quarter of an hour passed; there was impatience in the hall. Then Étienne, in despair, made a gesture of resolution. And he decided to enter, when Widow Désir, who was putting her head outside, exclaimed: "But here he is, your gentleman!" It was, in fact, Pluchart. He came in a cab drawn by a broken-winded horse. He jumped at once on to the pavement, a thin, insipidly handsome man, with a large square head;--in his black cloth frock-coat he had the Sunday air of a well-to-do workman. For five years he had not done a stroke with the file, and he took care of his appearance, especially combing his hair in a correct manner, vain of his successes on the platform; but his limbs were still stiff, and the nails of his large hands, eaten by the iron, had not grown again. Very active, he worked out his ambitions, scouring the province unceasingly in order to place his ideas. "Ah! don't be angry with me," he said, anticipating questions and reproaches. "Yesterday, lecture at Preuilly in the morning, meeting in the evening at Valencay. Today, lunch at Marchiennes with Sauvagnat. Then I had to take a cab. I'm worn out; you can tell by my voice. But that's nothing; I shall speak all the same." He was on the threshold of the Bon-Joyeux, when he bethought himself. "By jingo! I'm forgetting the tickets. We should have been in a fine fix!" He went back to the cab, which the cabman drew up again, and he pulled out a little black wooden box, which he carried off under his arm. Étienne walked radiantly in his shadow, while Rasseneur, in consternation, did not dare to offer his hand. But the other was already pressing it, and saying a rapid word or two about the letter. What a rum idea! Why not hold this meeting? One should always hold a meeting when possible. Widow Désir asked if he would take anything, but he refused. No need; he spoke without drinking. Only he was in a hurry, because in the evening he reckoned on pushing as far as Joiselle, where he wished to come to an understanding with Legoujeux. Then they all entered the ball-room together. Maheu and Levaque, who had arrived late, followed them. The door was then locked, in order to be in privacy. This made the jokers laugh even more, Zacharie shouting to Mouquet that perhaps they were going to get them all with child in there. About a hundred miners were waiting on the benches in the close air of the room, with the warm odours of the last ball rising from the floor. Whispers ran round and all heads turned, while the new-comers sat down in the empty places. They gazed at the Lille gentleman, and the black frock-coat caused a certain surprise and discomfort. But on Étienne's proposition the meeting was at once constituted. He gave out the names, while the others approved by lifting their hands. Pluchart was nominated chairman, and Maheu and Étienne himself were voted stewards. There was a movement of chairs and the officers were installed; for a moment they watched the chairman disappear beneath the table under which he slid the box, which he had not let go. When he reappeared he struck lightly with his fist to call for attention; then he began in a hoarse voice: "Citizens!" A little door opened and he had to stop. It was Widow Désir who, coming round by the kitchen, brought in six glasses on a tray. "Don't put yourselves out," she said. "When one talks one gets thirsty." Maheu relieved her of the tray and Pluchart was able to go on. He said how very touched he was at his reception by the Montsou workers, he excused himself for his delay, mentioning his fatigue and his sore throat, then he gave place to Citizen Rasseneur, who wished to speak. Rasseneur had already planted himself beside the table near the glasses. The back of a chair served him as a rostrum. He seemed very moved, and coughed before starting in a loud voice: "Mates!" What gave him his influence over the workers at the pit was the facility of his speech, the good-natured way in which he could go on talking to them by the hour without ever growing weary. He never ventured to gesticulate, but stood stolid and smiling, drowning them and dazing them, until they all shouted: "Yes, yes, that's true enough, you're right!" However, on this day, from the first word, he felt that there was a sullen opposition. This made him advance prudently. He only discussed the continuation of the strike, and waited for applause before attacking the International. Certainly honour prevented them from yielding to the Company's demands; but how much misery! what a terrible future if it was necessary to persist much longer! and without declaring for submission he damped their courage, he showed them the settlements dying of hunger, he asked on what resources the partisans of resistance were counting. Three or four friends tried to applaud him, but this accentuated the cold silence of the majority, and the gradually rising disapprobation which greeted his phrases. Then, despairing of winning them over, he was carried away by anger, he foretold misfortune if they allowed their heads to be turned at the instigation of strangers. Two-thirds of the audience had risen indignantly, trying to silence him, since he insulted them by treating them like children unable to act for themselves. But he went on speaking in spite of the tumult, taking repeated gulps of beer, and shouting violently that the man was not born who would prevent him from doing his duty. Pluchart had risen. As he had no bell he struck his fist on the table, repeating in his hoarse voice: "Citizens, citizens!" At last he obtained a little quiet and the meeting, when consulted, brought Rasseneur's speech to an end. The delegates who had represented the pits in the interview with the manager led the others, all enraged by starvation and agitated by new ideas. The voting was decided in advance. "You don't care a damn, you don't! you can eat!" yelled Levaque, thrusting out his fist at Rasseneur. Étienne leaned over behind the chairman's back to appease Maheu, who was very red, and carried out of himself by this hypocritical discourse. "Citizens!" said Pluchart, "allow me to speak!" There was deep silence. He spoke. His voice sounded painful and hoarse; but he was used to it on his journeys, and took his laryngitis about with him like his programme. Gradually his voice expanded and he produced pathetic effects with it. With open arms and accompanying his periods with a swaying of his shoulders, he had an eloquence which recalled the pulpit, a religious fashion of sinking the ends of his sentences whose monotonous roll at last carried conviction. His discourse centred on the greatness and the advantages of the International; it was that with which he always started in every new locality. He explained its aim, the emancipation of the workers; he showed its imposing structure--below the commune, higher the province, still higher the nation, and at the summit humanity. His arms moved slowly, piling up the stages, preparing the immense cathedral of the future world. Then there was the internal administration: he read the statutes, spoke of the congresses, pointed out the growing importance of the work, the enlargement of the programme, which, starting from the discussion of wages, was now working towards a social liquidation, to have done with the wage system. No more nationalities. The workers of the whole world would be united by a common need for justice, sweeping away the middle-class corruption, founding, at last, a free society, in which he who did not work should not reap! He roared; his breath startled the flowers of painted paper beneath the low smoky ceiling which sent back the sound of his voice. A wave passed through the audience. Some of them cried: "That's it! We're with you." He went on. The world would be conquered before three years. And he enumerated the nations already conquered. From all sides adhesions were raining in. Never had a young religion counted so many disciples. Then, when they had the upper hand they would dictate terms to the masters, who, in their turn, would have a fist at their throats. "Yes, yes! they'll have to go down!" With a gesture he enforced silence. Now he was entering on the strike question. In principle he disapproved of strikes; it was a slow method, which aggravated the sufferings of the worker. But before better things arrived, and when they were inevitable, one must make up one's mind to them, for they had the advantage of disorganizing capital. And in this case he showed the International as providence for strikers, and quoted examples: in Paris, during the strike of the bronze-workers, the masters had granted everything at once, terrified at the news that the International was sending help; in London it had saved the miners at a colliery, by sending back, at its own expense, a ship-load of Belgians who had been brought over by the coal-owner. It was sufficient to join and the companies trembled, for the men entered the great army of workers who were resolved to die for one another rather than to remain the slaves of a capitalistic society. Applause interrupted him. He wiped his forehead with his handkerchief, at the same time refusing a glass which Maheu passed to him. When he was about to continue fresh applause cut short his speech. "It's all right," he said rapidly to Étienne. "They've had enough. Quick! the cards!" He had plunged beneath the table, and reappeared with the little black wooden box. "Citizens!" he shouted, dominating the disturbance, "here are the cards of membership. Let your delegates come up, and I will give them to them to be distributed. Later on we can arrange everything." Rasseneur rushed forward and again protested. Étienne was also agitated; having to make a speech. Extreme confusion followed. Levaque jumped up with his fists out, as if to fight. Maheu was up and speaking, but nobody could distinguish a single word. In the growing tumult the dust rose from the floor, a floating dust of former balls, poisoning the air with a strong odour of putters and trammers. Suddenly the little door opened, and Widow Désir filled it with her belly and breast, shouting in a thundering voice: "For God's sake, silence! The gendarmes!" It was the commissioner of the district, who had arrived rather late to prepare a report and to break up the meeting. Four gendarmes accompanied him. For five minutes the widow had delayed them at the door, replying that she was at home, and that she had a perfect right to entertain her friends. But they had hustled her away, and she had rushed in to warn her children. "Must clear out through here," she said again. "There's a dirty gendarme guarding the court. It doesn't matter; my little wood-house opens into the alley. Quick, then!" The commissioner was already knocking with his fist, and as the door was not opened, he threatened to force it. A spy must have talked, for he cried that the meeting was illegal, a large number of miners being there without any letter of invitation. In the hall the trouble was growing. They could not escape thus; they had not even voted either for adhesion or for the continuation of the strike. All persisted in talking at the same time. At last the chairman suggested a vote by acclamation. Arms were raised, and the delegates declared hastily that they would join in the name of their absent mates. And it was thus that the ten thousand colliers of Montsou became members of the International. Meanwhile, the retreat began. In order to cover it, Widow Désir had propped herself up against the door, which the butt-ends of the gendarmes' muskets were forcing at her back. The miners jumped over the benches, and escaped, one by one, through the kitchen and the wood-yard. Rasseneur disappeared among the first, and Levaque followed him, forgetful of his abuse, and planning how he could get an offer of a glass to pull himself together. Étienne, after having seized the little box, waited with Pluchart and Maheu, who considered it a point of honour to emerge last. As they disappeared the lock gave, and the commissioner found himself in the presence of the widow, whose breast and belly still formed a barricade. "It doesn't help you much to smash everything in my house," she said. "You can see there's nobody here." The commissioner, a slow man who did not care for scenes, simply threatened to take her off to prison. And he then went away with his four gendarmes to prepare a report, beneath the jeers of Zacharie and Mouquet, who were full of admiration for the way in which their mates had humbugged this armed force, for which they themselves did not care a hang. In the alley outside, Étienne, embarrassed by the box, was rushing along, followed by the others. He suddenly thought of Pierron, and asked why he had not turned up. Maheu, also running, replied that he was ill--a convenient illness, the fear of compromising himself. They wished to retain Pluchart, but, without stopping, he declared that he must set out at once for Joiselle, where Legoujeux was awaiting orders. Then, as they ran, they shouted out to him their wishes for a pleasant journey, and rushed through Montsou with their heels in the air. A few words were exchanged, broken by the panting of their chests. Étienne and Maheu were laughing confidently, henceforth certain of victory. When the International had sent help, it would be the Company that would beg them to resume work. And in this burst of hope, in this gallop of big boots sounding over the pavement of the streets, there was something else also, something sombre and fierce, a gust of violence which would inflame the settlements in the four corners of the country. CHAPTER V Another fortnight had passed by. It was the beginning of January and cold mists benumbed the immense plain. The misery had grown still greater, and the settlements were in agony from hour to hour beneath the increasing famine. Four thousand francs sent by the International from London had scarcely supplied bread for three days, and then nothing had come. This great dead hope was beating down their courage. On what were they to count now since even their brothers had abandoned them? They felt themselves separated from the world and lost in the midst of this deep winter. On Tuesday no resources were left in the Deux-Cent-Quarante settlement. Étienne and the delegates had multiplied their energies. New subscriptions were opened in the neighbouring towns, and even in Paris; collections were made and lectures organized. These efforts came to nothing. Public opinion, which had at first been moved, grew indifferent now that the strike dragged on for ever, and so quietly, without any dramatic incidents. Small charities scarcely sufficed to maintain the poorer families. The others lived by pawning their clothes and selling up the household piece by piece. Everything went to the brokers, the wool of the mattresses, the kitchen utensils, even the furniture. For a moment they thought themselves saved, for the small retail shopkeepers of Montsou, killed out by Maigrat, had offered credit to try and get back their custom; and for a week Verdonck, the grocer, and the two bakers, Carouble and Smelten, kept open shop, but when their advances were exhausted all three stopped. The bailiffs were rejoicing; there only resulted a piling up of debts which would for a long time weigh upon the miners. There was no more credit to be had anywhere and not an old saucepan to sell; they might lie down in a corner to die like mangy dogs. Étienne would have sold his flesh. He had given up his salary and had gone to Marchiennes to pawn his trousers and cloth coat, happy to set the Maheus' pot boiling once more. His boots alone remained, and he retained these to keep a firm foothold, he said. His grief was that the strike had come on too early, before the Provident Fund had had time to swell. He regarded this as the only cause of the disaster, for the workers would surely triumph over the masters on the day when they had saved enough money to resist. And he recalled Souvarine's words accusing the Company of pushing forward the strike to destroy the fund at the beginning. The sight of the settlement and of these poor people without bread or fire overcame him. He preferred to go out and to weary himself with distant walks. One evening, as he was coming back and passing near Réquillart, he perceived an old woman who had fainted by the roadside. No doubt she was dying of hunger; and having raised her he began to shout to a girl whom he saw on the other side of the paling. "Why! is it you?" he said, recognizing Mouquette. "Come and help me then, we must give her something to drink." Mouquette, moved to tears, quickly went into the shaky hovel which her father had set up in the midst of the ruins. She came back at once with gin and a loaf. The gin revived the old woman, who without speaking bit greedily into the bread. She was the mother of a miner who lived at a settlement on the Cougny side, and she had fallen there on returning from Joiselle, where she had in vain attempted to borrow half a franc from a sister. When she had eaten she went away dazed. Étienne stood in the open field of Réquillart, where the crumbling sheds were disappearing beneath the brambles. "Well, won't you come in and drink a little glass?" asked Mouquette merrily. And as he hesitated: "Then you're still afraid of me?" He followed her, won by her laughter. This bread, which she had given so willingly, moved him. She would not take him into her father's room, but led him into her own room, where she at once poured out two little glasses of gin. The room was very neat and he complimented her on it. Besides, the family seemed to want for nothing; the father continued his duties as a groom at the Voreux while she, saying that she could not live with folded arms, had become a laundress, which brought her in thirty sous a day. One may amuse oneself with men but one isn't lazy for all that. "I say," she murmured, all at once coming and putting her arms round him prettily, "why don't you like me?" He could not help laughing, she had done this in so charming a way. "But I like you very much," he replied. "No, no, not like I mean. You know that I am dying of longing. Come, it would give me so much pleasure." It was true, she had desired him for six months. He still looked at her as she clung to him, pressing him with her two tremulous arms, her face raised with such supplicating love that he was deeply moved. There was nothing beautiful in her large round face, with its yellow complexion eaten by the coal; but her eyes shone with flame, a charm rose from her skin, a trembling of desire which made her rosy and young. In face of this gift which was so humble and so ardent he no longer dared to refuse. "Oh! you are willing," she stammered, delighted. "Oh! you are willing!" And she gave herself up with the fainting awkwardness of a virgin, as if it was for the first time, and she had never before known a man. Then when he left her, it was she who was overcome with gratitude; she thanked him and kissed his hands. Étienne remained rather ashamed of this good fortune. Nobody boasted of having had Mouquette. As he went away he swore that it should not occur again, but he preserved a friendly remembrance of her; she was a capital girl. When he got back to the settlement, he found serious news which made him forget the adventure. The rumour was circulating that the Company would, perhaps, agree to make a concession if the delegates made a fresh attempt with the manager. At all events some captains had spread this rumour. The truth was, that in this struggle the mine was suffering even more than the miners. On both sides obstinacy was piling up ruin: while labour was dying of hunger, capital was being destroyed. Every day of rest carried away hundreds of thousands of francs. Every machine which stops is a dead machine. Tools and material are impaired, the money that is sunk melts away like water drunk by the sand. Since the small stock of coal at the surface of the pits was exhausted, customers talked of going to Belgium, so that in future they would be threatened from that quarter. But what especially frightened the Company, although the matter was carefully concealed, was the increasing damage to the galleries and workings. The captains could not cope with the repairs, the timber was falling everywhere, and landslips were constantly taking place. Soon the disasters became so serious that long months would be needed for repairs before hewing could be resumed. Already stories were going about the country: at Crévecoeur three hundred metres of road had subsided in a mass, stopping up access to the Cinq-Paumes; at Madeleine the Maugrétout seam was crumbling away and filling with water. The management refused to admit this, but suddenly two accidents, one after the other, had forced them to avow it. One morning, near Piolaine, the ground was found cracked above the north gallery of Mirou which had fallen in the day before; and on the following day the ground subsided within the Voreux, shaking a corner of a suburb to such an extent that two houses nearly disappeared. Étienne and the delegates hesitated to risk any steps without knowing the directors' intentions. Dansaert, whom they questioned, avoided replying: certainly, the misunderstanding was deplored, and everything would be done to bring about an agreement; but he could say nothing definitely. At last, they decided that they would go to M. Hennebeau in order to have reason on their side; for they did not wish to be accused, later on, of having refused the Company an opportunity of acknowledging that it had been in the wrong. Only they vowed to yield nothing and to maintain, in spite of everything, their terms, which were alone just. The interview took place on Tuesday morning, when the settlement was sinking into desperate wretchedness. It was less cordial than the first interview. Maheu was still the speaker, and he explained that their mates had sent them to ask if these gentlemen had anything new to say. At first M. Hennebeau affected surprise: no order had reached him, nothing could be changed so long as the miners persisted in their detestable rebellion; and this official stiffness produced the worst effects, so that if the delegates had gone out of their way to offer conciliation, the way in which they were received would only have served to make them more obstinate. Afterwards the manager tried to seek a basis of mutual concession; thus, if the men would accept the separate payment for timbering, the Company would raise that payment by the two centimes which they were accused of profiting by. Besides, he added that he would take the offer on himself, that nothing was settled, but that he flattered himself he could obtain this concession from Paris. But the delegates refused, and repeated their demands: the retention of the old system, with a rise of five centimes a tram. Then he acknowledged that he could treat with them at once, and urged them to accept in the name of their wives and little ones dying of hunger. And with eyes on the ground and stiff heads they said no, always no, with fierce vigour. They separated curtly. M. Hennebeau banged the doors. Étienne, Maheu, and the others went off stamping with their great heels on the pavement in the mute rage of the vanquished pushed to extremes. Towards two o'clock the women of the settlement, on their side, made an application to Maigrat. There was only this hope left, to bend this man and to wrench from him another week's credit. The idea originated with Maheude, who often counted too much on people's good-nature. She persuaded the Brulé and the Levaque to accompany her; as to Pierronne, she excused herself, saying that she could not leave Pierron, whose illness still continued. Other women joined the band till they numbered quite twenty. When the inhabitants of Montsou saw them arrive, gloomy and wretched, occupying the whole width of the road, they shook their heads anxiously. Doors were closed, and one lady hid her plate. It was the first time they had been seen thus, and there could not be a worse sign: usually everything was going to ruin when the women thus took to the roads. At Maigrat's there was a violent scene. At first, he had made them go in, jeering and pretending to believe that they had come to pay their debts: that was nice of them to have agreed to come and bring the money all at once. Then, as soon as Maheude began to speak he pretended to be enraged. Were they making fun of people? More credit! Then they wanted to turn him into the street? No, not a single potato, not a single crumb of bread! And he told them to be off to the grocer Verdonck, and to the bakers Carouble and Smelten, since they now dealt with them. The women listened with timid humility, apologizing, and watching his eyes to see if he would relent. He began to joke, offering his shop to the Brulé if she would have him as a lover. They were all so cowardly that they laughed at this; and the Levaque improved on it, declaring that she was willing, she was. But he at once became abusive, and pushed them towards the door. As they insisted, suppliantly, he treated one brutally. The others on the pavement shouted that he had sold himself to the Company, while Maheude, with her arms in the air, in a burst of avenging indignation, cried out for his death, exclaiming that such a man did not deserve to eat. The return to the settlement was melancholy. When the women came back with empty hands, the men looked at them and then lowered their heads. There was nothing more to be done, the day would end without a spoonful of soup; and the other days extended in an icy shadow, without a ray of hope. They had made up their minds to it, and no one spoke of surrender. This excess of misery made them still more obstinate, mute as tracked beasts, resolved to die at the bottom of their hole rather than come out. Who would dare to be first to speak of submission? They had sworn with their mates to hold together, and hold together they would, as they held together at the pit when one of them was beneath a landslip. It was as it ought to be; it was a good school for resignation down there. They might well tighten their belts for a week, when they had been swallowing fire and water ever since they were twelve years of age; and their devotion was thus augmented by the pride of soldiers, of men proud of their profession, who in their daily struggle with death had gained a pride in sacrifice. With the Maheus it was a terrible evening. They were all silent, seated before the dying fire in which the last cinders were smoking. After having emptied the mattresses, handful by handful, they had decided the day before to sell the clock for three francs and the room seemed bare and dead now that the familiar tick-tack no longer filled it with sound. The only object of luxury now, in the middle of the sideboard, was the rose cardboard box, an old present from Maheu, which Maheude treasured like a jewel. The two good chairs had gone; Father Bonnemort and the children were squeezed together on an old mossy bench brought in from the garden. And the livid twilight now coming on seemed to increase the cold. "What's to be done?" repeated Maheude, crouching down in the corner by the oven. Étienne stood up, looking at the portraits of the Emperor and Empress stuck against the wall. He would have torn them down long since if the family had not preserved them for ornament. So he murmured, with clenched teeth: "And to think that we can't get two sous out of these damned idiots, who are watching us starve!" "If I were to take the box?" said the woman, very pale, after some hesitation. Maheu, seated on the edge of the table, with his legs dangling and his head on his chest, sat up. "No! I won't have it!" Maheude painfully rose and walked round the room. Good God! was it possible that they were reduced to such misery? The cupboard without a crumb, nothing more to sell, no notion where to get a loaf! And the fire, which was nearly out! She became angry with Alzire, whom she had sent in the morning to glean on the pit-bank, and who had come back with empty hands, saying that the Company would not allow gleaning. Did it matter a hang what the Company wanted? As if they were robbing any one by picking up the bits of lost coal! The little girl, in despair, told how a man had threatened to hit her; then she promised to go back next day, even if she was beaten. "And that imp, Jeanlin," cried the mother; "where is he now, I should like to know? He ought to have brought the salad; we can browse on that like beasts, at all events! You will see, he won't come back. Yesterday, too, he slept out. I don't know what he's up to; the rascal always looks as though his belly were full." "Perhaps," said Étienne, "he picks up sous on the road." She suddenly lifted both fists furiously. "If I knew that! My children beg! I'd rather kill them and myself too." Maheu had again sunk down on the edge of the table. Lénore and Henri, astonished that they had nothing to eat, began to moan; while old Bonnemort, in silence, philosophically rolled his tongue in his mouth to deceive his hunger. No one spoke any more; all were becoming benumbed beneath this aggravation of their evils; the grandfather, coughing and spitting out the black phlegm, taken again by rheumatism which was turning to dropsy; the father asthmatic, and with knees swollen with water; the mother and the little ones scarred by scrofula and hereditary anaemia. No doubt their work made this inevitable; they only complained when the lack of food killed them off; and already they were falling like flies in the settlement. But something must be found for supper. My God! where was it to be found, what was to be done? Then, in the twilight, which made the room more and more gloomy with its dark melancholy, Étienne, who had been hesitating for a moment, at last decided with aching heart. "Wait for me," he said. "I'll go and see somewhere." And he went out. The idea of Mouquette had occurred to him. She would certainly have a loaf, and would give it willingly. It annoyed him to be thus forced to return to Réquillart; this girl would kiss his hands with her air of an amorous servant; but one did not leave one's friends in trouble; he would still be kind with her if need be. "I will go and look round, too," said Maheude, in her turn. "It's too stupid." She reopened the door after the young man and closed it violently, leaving the others motionless and mute in the faint light of a candle-end which Alzire had just lighted. Outside she stopped and thought for a moment. Then she entered the Levaque's house. "Tell me: I lent you a loaf the other day. Could you give it me back?" But she stopped herself. What she saw was far from encouraging; the house spoke of misery even more than her own. The Levaque woman, with fixed eyes, was gazing into her burnt-out fire, while Levaque, made drunk on his empty stomach by some nail-makers, was sleeping on the table. With his back to the wall, Bouteloup was mechanically rubbing his shoulders with the amazement of a good-natured fellow who has eaten up his savings, and is astonished at having to tighten his belt. "A loaf! ah! my dear," replied the Levaque woman, "I wanted to borrow another from you!" Then, as her husband groaned with pain in his sleep, she pushed his face against the table. "Hold your row, bloody beast! So much the better if it burns your guts! Instead of getting people to pay for your drinks, you ought to have asked twenty sous from a friend." She went on relieving herself by swearing, in the midst of this dirty household, already abandoned so long that an unbearable smell was exhaling from the floor. Everything might smash up, she didn't care a hang! Her son, that rascal Bébert, had also disappeared since morning, and she shouted that it would be a good riddance if he never came back. Then she said that she would go to bed. At least she could get warm. She hustled Bouteloup. "Come along, up we go. The fire's out. No need to light the candle to see the empty plates. Well, are you coming, Louis? I tell you that we must go to bed. We can cuddle up together there, that's a comfort. And let this damned drunkard die here of cold by himself!" When she found herself outside again, Maheude struck resolutely across the gardens towards Pierron's house. She heard laughter. As she knocked there was sudden silence. It was a full minute before the door was opened. "What! is it you?" exclaimed Pierronne with affected surprise. "I thought it was the doctor." Without allowing her to speak, she went on, pointing to Pierron, who was seated before a large coal fire: "Ah! he makes no progress, he makes no progress at all. His face looks all right; it's in his belly that it takes him. Then he must have warmth. We burn all that we've got." Pierron, in fact, looked very well; his complexion was good and his flesh fat. It was in vain that he breathed hard in order to play the sick man. Besides, as Maheude came in she perceived a strong smell of rabbit; they had certainly put the dish out of the way. There were crumbs strewed over the table, and in the very midst she saw a forgotten bottle of wine. "Mother has gone to Montsou to try and get a loaf," said Pierronne again. "We are cooling our heels waiting for her." But her voice choked; she had followed her neighbour's glance, and her eyes also fell on the bottle. Immediately she began again, and narrated the story. Yes, it was wine; the Piolaine people had brought her that bottle for her man, who had been ordered by the doctor to take claret. And her thankfulness poured forth in a stream. What good people they were! The young lady especially; she was not proud, going into workpeople's houses and distributing her charities herself. "I see," said Maheude; "I know them." Her heart ached at the idea that the good things always go to the least poor. It was always so, and these Piolaine people had carried water to the river. Why had she not seen them in the settlement? Perhaps, all the same, she might have got something out of them. "I came," she confessed at last, "to know if there was more going with you than with us. Have you just a little vermicelli by way of loan?" Pierronne expressed her grief noisily. "Nothing at all, my dear. Not what you can call a grain of semolina. If mother hasn't come back, it's because she hasn't succeeded. We must go to bed supperless." At this moment crying was heard from the cellar, and she grew angry and struck her fist against the door. It was that gadabout Lydie, whom she had shut up, she said, to punish her for not having returned until five o'clock, after having been roaming about the whole day. One could no longer keep her in order; she was constantly disappearing. Maheude, however, remained standing; she could not make up her mind to leave. This large fire filled her with a painful sensation of comfort; the thought that they were eating there enlarged the void in her stomach. Evidently they had sent away the old woman and shut up the child, to blow themselves out with their rabbit. Ah! whatever people might say, when a woman behaved ill, that brought luck to her house. "Good night," she said, suddenly. Outside night had come on, and the moon behind the clouds was lighting up the earth with a dubious glow. Instead of traversing the gardens again, Maheude went round, despairing, afraid to go home again. But along the dead frontages all the doors smelled of famine and sounded hollow. What was the good of knocking? There was wretchedness everywhere. For weeks since they had had nothing to eat. Even the odour of onion had gone, that strong odour which revealed the settlement from afar across the country; now there was nothing but the smell of old vaults, the dampness of holes in which nothing lives. Vague sounds were dying out, stifled tears, lost oaths; and in the silence which slowly grew heavier one could hear the sleep of hunger coming on, the collapse of bodies thrown across beds in the nightmares of empty bellies. As she passed before the church she saw a shadow slip rapidly by. A gleam of hope made her hasten, for she had recognized the Montsou priest, Abbé Joire, who said mass on Sundays at the settlement chapel. No doubt he had just come out of the sacristy, where he had been called to settle some affair. With rounded back he moved quickly on, a fat meek man, anxious to live at peace with everybody. If he had come at night it must have been in order not to compromise himself among the miners. It was said, too, that he had just obtained promotion. He had even been seen walking about with his successor, a lean man, with eyes like live coals. "Sir, sir!" stammered Maheude. But he would not stop. "Good night, good night, my good woman." She found herself before her own door. Her legs would no longer carry her, and she went in. No one had stirred. Maheu still sat dejected on the edge of the table. Old Bonnemort and the little ones were huddled together on the bench for the sake of warmth. And they had not said a word, and the candle had burnt so low that even light would soon fail them. At the sound of the door the children turned their heads; but seeing that their mother brought nothing back, they looked down on the ground again, repressing the longing to cry, for fear of being scolded. Maheude fell back into her place near the dying fire. They asked her no questions, and the silence continued. All had understood, and they thought it useless to weary themselves more by talking; they were now waiting, despairing and without courage, in the last expectation that perhaps Étienne would unearth help somewhere. The minutes went by, and at last they no longer reckoned on this. When Étienne reappeared, he held a cloth containing a dozen potatoes, cooked but cold. "That's all that I've found," he said. With Mouquette also bread was wanting; it was her dinner which she had forced him to take in this cloth, kissing him with all her heart. "Thanks," he said to Maheude, who offered him his share; "I've eaten over there." It was not true, and he gloomily watched the children throw themselves on the food. The father and mother also restrained themselves, in order to leave more; but the old man greedily swallowed everything. They had to take a potato away from him for Alzire. Then Étienne said that he had heard news. The Company, irritated by the obstinacy of the strikers, talked of giving back their certificates to the compromised miners. Certainly, the Company was for war. And a more serious rumour circulated: they boasted of having persuaded a large number of men to go down again. On the next day the Victoire and Feutry-Cantel would be complete; even at Madeleine and Mirou there would be a third of the men. The Maheus were furious. "By God!" shouted the father, "if there are traitors, we must settle their account." And standing up, yielding to the fury of his suffering: "To-morrow evening, to the forest! Since they won't let us come to an understanding at the Bon-Joyeux, we can be at home in the forest!" This cry had aroused old Bonnemort, who had grown drowsy after his gluttony. It was the old rallying-cry, the rendezvous where the miners of old days used to plot their resistance to the king's soldiers. "Yes, yes, to Vandame! I'm with you if you go there!" Maheude made an energetic gesture. "We will all go. That will finish these injustices and treacheries." Étienne decided that the rendezvous should be announced to all the settlements for the following evening. But the fire was dead, as with the Levaques, and the candle suddenly went out. There was no more coal and no more oil; they had to feel their way to bed in the intense cold which contracted the skin. The little ones were crying. CHAPTER VI Jeanlin was now well and able to walk; but his legs had united so badly that he limped on both the right and left sides, and moved with the gait of a duck, though running as fast as formerly with the skill of a mischievous and thieving animal. On this evening, in the dusk on the Réquillart road, Jeanlin, accompanied by his inseparable friends, Bébert and Lydie, was on the watch. He had taken ambush in a vacant space, behind a paling opposite an obscure grocery shop, situated at the corner of a lane. An old woman who was nearly blind displayed there three or four sacks of lentils and haricots, black with dust; and it was an ancient dried codfish, hanging by the door and stained with fly-blows, to which his eyes were directed. Twice already he had sent Bébert to unhook it. But each time someone had appeared at the bend in the road. Always intruders in the way, one could not attend to one's affairs. A gentleman went by on horseback, and the children flattened themselves at the bottom of the paling, for they recognized M. Hennebeau. Since the strike he was often thus seen along the roads, riding alone amid the rebellious settlements, ascertaining, with quiet courage, the condition of the country. And never had a stone whistled by his ears; he only met men who were silent and slow to salute him; most often he came upon lovers, who cared nothing for politics and took their fill of pleasure in holes and corners. He passed by on his trotting mare with head directed straight forward, so as to disturb nobody, while his heart was swelling with an unappeased desire amid this gormandizing of free love. He distinctly saw these small rascals, the little boys on the little girl in a heap. Even the youngsters were already amusing themselves in their misery! His eyes grew moist, and he disappeared, sitting stiffly on his saddle, with his frock-coat buttoned up in a military manner. "Damned luck!" said Jeanlin. "This will never finish. Go on, Bébert! Hang on to its tail!" But two men once more appeared, and the child again stifled an oath when he heard the voice of his brother Zacharie narrating to Mouquet how he had discovered a two-franc piece sewn into one of his wife's petticoats. They both grinned with satisfaction, slapping each other on the shoulder. Mouquet proposed a game of crosse for the next day; they would leave the Avantage at two o'clock, and go to the Montoire side, near Marchiennes. Zacharie agreed. What was the good of bothering over the strike? as well amuse oneself, since there's nothing to do. And they turned the corner of the road, when Étienne, who was coming along the canal, stopped them and began to talk. "Are they going to bed here?" said Jeanlin, in exasperation. "Nearly night; the old woman will be taking in her sacks." Another miner came down towards Réquillart. Étienne went off with him, and as they passed the paling the child heard them speak of the forest; they had been obliged to put off the rendezvous to the following day, for fear of not being able to announce it in one day to all the settlements. "I say, there," he whispered to his two mates, "the big affair is for to-morrow. We'll go, eh? We can get off in the afternoon." And the road being at last free, he sent Bébert off. "Courage! hang on to its tail. And look out! the old woman's got her broom." Fortunately the night had grown dark. Bébert, with a leap, hung on to the cod so that the string broke. He ran away, waving it like a kite, followed by the two others, all three galloping. The woman came out of her shop in astonishment, without understanding or being able to distinguish this band now lost in the darkness. These scoundrels had become the terror of the country. They gradually spread themselves over it like a horde of savages. At first they had been satisfied with the yard at the Voreux, tumbling into the stock of coal, from which they would emerge looking like Negroes, playing at hide-and-seek amid the supply of wood, in which they lost themselves as in the depths of a virgin forest. Then they had taken the pit-bank by assault; they would seat themselves on it and slide down the bare portions still boiling with interior fires; they glided among the briers in the older parts, hiding for the whole day, occupied in the quiet little games of mischievous mice. And they were constantly enlarging their conquests, scuffling among the piles of bricks until blood came, running about the fields and eating without bread all sorts of milky herbs, searching the banks of the canals to take fish from the mud and swallow them raw and pushing still farther, they travelled for kilometres as far as the thickets of Vandame, under which they gorged themselves with strawberries in the spring, with nuts and bilberries in summer. Soon the immense plain belonged to them. What drove them thus from Montsou to Marchiennes, constantly on the roads with the eyes of young wolves, was the growing love of plunder. Jeanlin remained the captain of these expeditions, leading the troop on to all sorts of prey, ravaging the onion fields, pillaging the orchards, attacking shop windows. In the country, people accused the miners on strike, and talked of a vast organized band. One day, even, he had forced Lydie to steal from her mother, and made her bring him two dozen sticks of barley-sugar, which Pierronne kept in a bottle on one of the boards in her window; and the little girl, who was well beaten, had not betrayed him because she trembled so before his authority. The worst was that he always gave himself the lion's share. Bébert also had to bring him the booty, happy if the captain did not hit him and keep it all. For some time Jeanlin had abused his authority. He would beat Lydie as one beats one's lawful wife, and he profited by Bébert's credulity to send him on unpleasant adventures, amused at making a fool of this big boy, who was stronger than himself, and could have knocked him over with a blow of his fist. He felt contempt for both of them and treated them as slaves, telling them that he had a princess for his mistress and that they were unworthy to appear before her. And, in fact, during the past week he would suddenly disappear at the end of a road or a turning in a path, no matter where it might be, after having ordered them with a terrible air to go back to the settlement. But first he would pocket the booty. This was what happened on the present occasion. "Give it up," he said, snatching the cod from his mate's hands when they stopped, all three, at a bend in the road near Réquillart. Bébert protested. "I want some, you know. I took it." "Eh! what!" he cried. "You'll have some if I give you some. Not to-night, sure enough; to-morrow, if there's any left." He pushed Lydie, and placed both of them in line like soldiers shouldering arms. Then, passing behind them: "Now, you must stay there five minutes without turning. By God! if you do turn, there will be beasts that will eat you up. And then you will go straight back, and if Bébert touches Lydie on the way, I shall know it and I shall hit you." Then he disappeared in the shadow, so lightly that the sound of his naked feet could not be heard. The two children remained motionless for the five minutes without looking round, for fear of receiving a blow from the invisible. Slowly a great affection had grown up between them in their common terror. He was always thinking of taking her and pressing her very tight between his arms, as he had seen others do and she, too, would have liked it, for it would have been a change for her to be so nicely caressed. But neither of them would have allowed themselves to disobey. When they went away, although the night was very dark, they did not even kiss each other; they walked side by side, tender and despairing, certain that if they touched one another the captain would strike them from behind. Étienne, at the same hour, had entered Réquillart. The evening before Mouquette had begged him to return, and he returned, ashamed, feeling an inclination which he refused to acknowledge, for this girl who adored him like a Christ. It was, besides, with the intention of breaking it off. He would see her, he would explain to her that she ought no longer to pursue him, on account of the mates. It was not a time for pleasure; it was dishonest to amuse oneself thus when people were dying of hunger. And not having found her at home, he had decided to wait and watch the shadows of the passers-by. Beneath the ruined steeple the old shaft opened, half blocked up. Above the black hole a beam stood erect, and with a fragment of roof at the top it had the profile of a gallows; in the broken walling of the curbs stood two trees--a mountain ash and a plane--which seemed to grow from the depths of the earth. It was a corner of abandoned wildness, the grassy and fibrous entry of a gulf, embarrassed with old wood, planted with hawthorns and sloe-trees, which were peopled in the spring by warblers in their nests. Wishing to avoid the great expense of keeping it up, the Company, for the last ten years, had proposed to fill up this dead pit; but they were waiting to install an air-shaft in the Voreux, for the ventilation furnace of the two pits, which communicated, was placed at the foot of Réquillart, of which the former winding-shaft served as a conduit. They were content to consolidate the tubbing by beams placed across, preventing extraction, and they had neglected the upper galleries to watch only over the lower gallery, in which blazed the furnace, the enormous coal fire, with so powerful a draught that the rush of air produced the wind of a tempest from one end to the other of the neighbouring mine. As a precaution, in order that they could still go up and down, the order had been given to furnish the shaft with ladders; only, as no one took charge of them, the ladders were rotting with dampness, and in some places had already given way. Above, a large brier stopped the entry of the passage, and, as the first ladder had lost some rungs, it was necessary, in order to reach it, to hang on to a root of the mountain ash, and then to take one's chance and drop into the blackness. Étienne was waiting patiently, hidden behind a bush, when he heard a long rustling among the branches. He thought at first that it was the scared flight of a snake. But the sudden gleam of a match astonished him, and he was stupefied on recognizing Jeanlin, who was lighting a candle and burying himself in the earth. He was seized with curiosity, and approached the hole; the child had disappeared, and a faint gleam came from the second ladder. Étienne hesitated a moment, and then let himself go, holding on to the roots. He thought for a moment that he was about to fall down the whole five hundred and eighty metres of the mine, but at last he felt a rung, and descended gently. Jeanlin had evidently heard nothing. Étienne constantly saw the light sinking beneath him, while the little one's shadow, colossal and disturbing, danced with the deformed gait of his distorted limbs. He kicked his legs about with the skill of a monkey, catching on with hands, feet, or chin where the rungs were wanting. Ladders, seven metres in length, followed one another, some still firm, others shaky, yielding and almost broken; the steps were narrow and green, so rotten that one seemed to walk in moss; and as one went down the heat grew suffocating, the heat of an oven proceeding from the air-shaft which was, fortunately, not very active now the strike was on, or when the furnace devoured its five thousand kilograms of coal a day, one could not have risked oneself here without scorching one's hair. "What a dammed little toad!" exclaimed Étienne in a stifled voice; "where the devil is he going to?" Twice he had nearly fallen. His feet slid on the damp wood. If he had only had a candle like the child! but he struck himself every minute; he was only guided by the vague gleam that fled beneath him. He had already reached the twentieth ladder, and the descent still continued. Then he counted them: twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three, and he still went down and down. His head seemed to be swelling with the heat, and he thought that he was falling into a furnace. At last he reached a landing-place, and he saw the candle going off along a gallery. Thirty ladders, that made about two hundred and ten metres. "Is he going to drag me about long?" he thought. "He must be going to bury himself in the stable." But on the left, the path which led to the stable was closed by a landslip. The journey began again, now more painful and more dangerous. Frightened bats flew about and clung to the roof of the gallery. He had to hasten so as not to lose sight of the light; only where the child passed with ease, with the suppleness of a serpent, he could not glide through without bruising his limbs. This gallery, like all the older passages, was narrow, and grew narrower every day from the constant fall of soil; at certain places it was a mere tube which would eventually be effaced. In this strangling labour the torn and broken wood became a peril, threatening to saw into his flesh, or to run him through with the points of splinters, sharp as swords. He could only advance with precaution, on his knees or belly, feeling in the darkness before him. Suddenly a band of rats stamped over him, running from his neck to his feet in their galloping flight. "Blast it all! haven't we got to the end yet?" he grumbled, with aching back and out of breath. They were there. At the end of a kilometre the tube enlarged, they reached a part of the gallery which was admirably preserved. It was the end of the old haulage passage cut across the bed like a natural grotto. He was obliged to stop, he saw the child afar, placing his candle between two stones, and putting himself at ease with the quiet and relieved air of a man who is glad to be at home again. This gallery-end was completely changed into a comfortable dwelling. In a corner on the ground a pile of hay made a soft couch; on some old planks, placed like a table, there were bread, potatoes, and bottles of gin already opened; it was a real brigand's cavern, with booty piled up for weeks, even useless booty like soap and blacking, stolen for the pleasure of stealing. And the child, quite alone in the midst of this plunder, was enjoying it like a selfish brigand. "I say, then, is this how you make fun of people?" cried Étienne, when he had breathed for a moment. "You come and gorge yourself here, when we are dying of hunger up above?" Jeanlin, astounded, was trembling. But recognizing the young man, he quickly grew calm. "Will you come and dine with me?" he said at last. "Eh? a bit of grilled cod? You shall see." He had not let go his cod, and he began to scrape off the fly-blows properly with a fine new knife, one of those little dagger knives, with bone handles, on which mottoes are inscribed. This one simply bore the word "Amour." "You have a fine knife," remarked Étienne. "It's a present from Lydie," replied Jeanlin, who neglected to add that Lydie had stolen it, by his orders, from a huckster at Montsou, stationed before the Tête-Coupée Bar. Then, as he still scraped, he added proudly: "Isn't it comfortable in my house? It's a bit warmer than up above, and it feels a lot better!" Étienne had seated himself, and was amused in making him talk. He was no longer angry, he felt interested in this debauched child, who was so brave and so industrious in his vices. And, in fact, he tasted a certain comfort in the bottom of this hole; the heat was not too great, an equal temperature reigned here at all seasons, the warmth of a bath, while the rough December wind was chapping the skins of the miserable people on the earth. As they grew old, the galleries became purified from noxious gases, all the fire-damp had gone, and one only smelled now the odour of old fermented wood, a subtle ethereal odour, as if sharpened with a dash of cloves. This wood, besides, had become curious to look at, with a yellowish pallor of marble, fringed with whitish thread lace, flaky vegetations which seemed to drape it with an embroidery of silk and pearls. In other places the timber was bristling with toadstools. And there were flights of white butterflies, snowy flies and spiders, a decolorized population for ever ignorant of the sun. "Then you're not afraid?" asked Étienne. Jeanlin looked at him in astonishment. "Afraid of what? I am quite alone." But the cod was at last scraped. He lighted a little fire of wood, brought out the pan and grilled it. Then he cut a loaf into two. It was a terribly salt feast, but exquisite all the same for strong stomachs. Étienne had accepted his share. "I am not astonished you get fat, while we are all growing lean. Do you know that it is beastly to stuff yourself like this? And the others? you don't think of them!" "Oh! why are the others such fools?" "Well, you're right to hide yourself, for if your father knew you stole he would settle you." "What! when the bourgeois are stealing from us! It's you who are always saying so. If I nabbed this loaf at Maigrat's you may be pretty sure it's a loaf he owed us." The young man was silent, with his mouth full, and felt troubled. He looked at him, with his muzzle, his green eyes, his large ears, a degenerate abortion, with an obscure intelligence and savage cunning, slowly slipping back into the animality of old. The mine which had made him had just finished him by breaking his legs. "And Lydie?" asked Étienne again; "do you bring her here sometimes?" Jeanlin laughed contemptuously. "The little one? Ah, no, not I; women blab." And he went on laughing, filled with immense disdain for Lydie and Bébert. Who had ever seen such boobies? To think that they swallowed all his humbug, and went away with empty hands while he ate the cod in this warm place, tickled his sides with amusement. Then he concluded, with the gravity of a little philosopher: "Much better be alone, then there's no falling out." Étienne had finished his bread. He drank a gulp of the gin. For a moment he asked himself if he ought not to make a bad return for Jeanlin's hospitality by bringing him up to daylight by the ear, and forbidding him to plunder any more by the threat of telling everything to his father. But as he examined this deep retreat, an idea occurred to him. Who knows if there might not be need for it, either for mates or for himself, in case things should come to the worst up above! He made the child swear not to sleep out, as had sometimes happened when he forgot himself in his hay, and taking a candle-end, he went away first, leaving him to pursue quietly his domestic affairs. Mouquette, seated on a beam in spite of the great cold, had grown desperate in waiting for him. When she saw him she leapt on to his neck; and it was as though he had plunged a knife into her heart when he said that he wished to see her no more. Good God! why? Did she not love him enough? Fearing to yield to the desire to enter with her, he drew her towards the road, and explained to her as gently as possible that she was compromising him in the eyes of his mates, that she was compromising the political cause. She was astonished; what had that got to do with politics? At last the thought occurred to her that he blushed at being seen with her. She was not wounded, however; it was quite natural; and she proposed that he should rebuff her before people, so as to seem to have broken with her. But he would see her just once sometimes. In distraction she implored him; she swore to keep out of sight; she would not keep him five minutes. He was touched, but still refused. It was necessary. Then, as he left her, he wished at least to kiss her. They had gradually reached the first houses of Montsou, and were standing with their arms round one another beneath a large round moon, when a woman passed near them with a sudden start, as though she had knocked against a stone. "Who is that?" asked Étienne, anxiously. "It's Catherine," replied Mouquette. "She's coming back from Jean-Bart." The woman now was going away, with lowered head and feeble limbs, looking very tired. And the young man gazed at her, in despair at having been seen by her, his heart aching with an unreasonable remorse. Had she not been with a man? Had she not made him suffer with the same suffering here, on this Réquillart road, when she had given herself to that man? But, all the same, he was grieved to have done the like to her. "Shall I tell you what it is?" whispered Mouquette, in tears, as she left him. "If you don't want me it's because you want someone else." On the next day the weather was superb; it was one of those clear frosty days, the beautiful winter days when the hard earth rings like crystal beneath the feet. Jeanlin had gone off at one o'clock, but he had to wait for Bébert behind the church, and they nearly set out without Lydie, whose mother had again shut her up in the cellar, and only now liberated her to put a basket on her arm, telling her that if she did not bring it back full of dandelions she should be shut up with the rats all night long. She was frightened, therefore, and wished to go at once for salad. Jeanlin dissuaded her; they would see later on. For a long time Poland, Rasseneur's big rabbit, had attracted his attention. He was passing before the Avantage when, just then, the rabbit came out on to the road. With a leap he seized her by the ears, stuffed her into the little girl's basket, and all three rushed away. They would amuse themselves finely by making her run like a dog as far as the forest. But they stopped to gaze at Zacharie and Mouquet, who, after having drunk a glass with two other mates, had begun their big game of crosse. The stake was a new cap and a red handkerchief, deposited with Rasseneur. The four players, two against two, were bidding for the first turn from the Voreux to the Paillot farm, nearly three kilometres; and it was Zacharie who won, with seven strokes, while Mouquet required eight. They had placed the ball, the little boxwood egg, on the pavement with one end up. Each was holding his crosse, the mallet with its bent iron, long handle, and tight-strung network. Two o'clock struck as they set out. Zacharie, in a masterly manner, at his first stroke, composed of a series of three, sent the ball more than four hundred yards across the beetroot fields; for it was forbidden to play in the villages and on the streets, where people might be killed. Mouquet, who was also a good player, sent off the ball with so vigorous an arm that his single stroke brought the ball a hundred and fifty metres behind. And the game went on, backwards and forwards, always running, their feet bruised by the frozen ridges of the ploughed fields. At first Jeanlin, Bébert, and Lydie had trotted behind the players, delighted with their vigorous strokes. Then they remembered Poland, whom they were shaking up in the basket; and, leaving the game in the open country, they took out the rabbit, inquisitive to see how fast she could run. She went off, and they fled after her; it was a chase lasting an hour at full speed, with constant turns, with shouts to frighten her, and arms opened and closed on emptiness. If she had not been at the beginning of pregnancy they would never have caught her again. As they were panting the sound of oaths made them turn their heads. They had just come upon the crosse party again, and Zacharie had nearly split open his brother's skull. The players were now at their fourth turn. From the Paillot farm they had gone off to the Quatre-Chemins, then from the Quatre-Chemins to Montoire; and now they were going in six strokes from Montoire to Pré-des-Vaches. That made two leagues and a half in an hour; and, besides, they had had drinks at the Estaminet Vincent and at the Trois-Sages Bar. Mouquet this time was ahead. He had two more strokes to play, and his victory was certain, when Zacharie, grinning as he availed himself of his privilege, played with so much skill that the ball rolled into a deep pit. Mouquet's partner could not get it out; it was a disaster. All four shouted; the party was excited, for they were neck to neck; it was necessary to begin again. From the Pré-des-Vaches it was not two kilometres to the point of Herbes-Rousses, in five strokes. There they would refresh themselves at Lerenard's. But Jeanlin had an idea. He let them go on, and pulled out of his pocket a piece of string which he tied to one of Poland's legs, the left hind leg. And it was very amusing. The rabbit ran before the three young rascals, waddling along in such an extraordinary manner that they had never laughed so much before. Afterwards they fastened it round her neck, and let her run off; and, as she grew tired, they dragged her on her belly or on her back, just like a little carriage. That lasted for more than an hour. She was moaning when they quickly put her back into the basket, near the wood at Cruchot, on hearing the players whose game they had once more came across. Zacharie, Mouquet, and the two others were getting over the kilometres, with no other rest than the time for a drink at all the inns which they had fixed on as their goals. From the Herbes-Rousses they had gone on to Buchy, then to Croix-de-Pierre, then to Chamblay. The earth rang beneath the helter-skelter of their feet, rushing untiringly after the ball, which bounded over the ice; the weather was good, they did not fall in, they only ran the risk of breaking their legs. In the dry air the great crosse blows exploded like firearms. Their muscular hands grasped the strung handle; their entire bodies were bent forward, as though to slay an ox. And this went on for hours, from one end of the plain to the other, over ditches and hedges and the slopes of the road, the low walls of the enclosures. One needed to have good bellows in one's chest and iron hinges in one's knees. The pikemen thus rubbed off the rust of the mine with impassioned zeal. There were some so enthusiastic at twenty-five that they could do ten leagues. At forty they played no more; they were too heavy. Five o'clock struck; the twilight was already coming on. One more turn to the Forest of Vandame, to decide who had gained the cap and the handkerchief. And Zacharie joked, with his chaffing indifference for politics; it would be fine to tumble down over there in the midst of the mates. As to Jeanlin, ever since leaving the settlement he had been aiming at the forest, though apparently only scouring the fields. With an indignant gesture he threatened Lydie, who was full of remorse and fear, and talked of going back to the Voreux to gather dandelions. Were they going to abandon the meeting? he wanted to know what the old people would say. He pushed Bébert, and proposed to enliven the end of the journey as far as the trees by detaching Poland and pursuing her with stones. His real idea was to kill her; he wanted to take her off and eat her at the bottom of his hole at Réquillart. The rabbit ran ahead, with nose in the air and ears back; a stone grazed her back, another cut her tail, and, in spite of the growing darkness, she would have been done for if the young rogues had not noticed Étienne and Maheu standing in the middle of a glade. They threw themselves on the animal in desperation, and put her back in the basket. Almost at the same minute Zacharie, Mouquet, and the two others, with their last blow at crosse, drove the ball within a few metres of the glade. They all came into the midst of the rendezvous. Through the whole country, by the roads and pathways of the flat plain, ever since twilight, there had been a long procession, a rustling of silent shadows, moving separately or in groups towards the violet thickets of the forest. Every settlement was emptied, the women and children themselves set out as if for a walk beneath the great clear sky. Now the roads were growing dark; this walking crowd, all gliding towards the same goal, could no longer be distinguished. But one felt it, the confused tramping moved by one soul. Between the hedges, among the bushes, there was only a light rustling, a vague rumour of the voices of the night. M. Hennebeau, who was at this hour returning home mounted on his mare, listened to these vague sounds. He had met couples, long rows of strollers, on this beautiful winter night. More lovers, who were going to take their pleasure, mouth to mouth, behind the walls. Was it not what he always met, girls tumbled over at the bottom of every ditch, beggars who crammed themselves with the only joy that cost nothing? And these fools complained of life, when they could take their supreme fill of this happiness of love! Willingly would he have starved as they did if he could begin life again with a woman who would give herself to him on a heap of stones, with all her strength and all her heart. His misfortune was without consolation, and he envied these wretches. With lowered head he went back, riding his horse at a slackened pace, rendered desperate by these long sounds, lost in the depth of the black country, in which he heard only kisses. CHAPTER VII It was the Plan-des-Dames, that vast glade just opened up by the felling of trees. It spread out in a gentle slope, surrounded by tall thickets and superb beeches with straight regular trunks, which formed a white colonnade patched with green lichens; fallen giants were also lying in the grass, while on the left a mass of logs formed a geometrical cube. The cold was sharpening with the twilight and the frozen moss crackled beneath the feet. There was black darkness on the earth while the tall branches showed against the pale sky, where a full moon coming above the horizon would soon extinguish the stars. Nearly three thousand colliers had come to the rendezvous, a swarming crowd of men, women, and children, gradually filling the glade and spreading out afar beneath the trees. Late arrivals were still coming up, a flood of heads drowned in shadow and stretching as far as the neighbouring copses. A rumbling arose from them, like that of a storm, in this motionless and frozen forest. At the top, dominating the slope, Étienne stood with Rasseneur and Maheu. A quarrel had broken out, one could hear their voices in sudden bursts. Near them some men were listening: Levaque, with clenched fists; Pierron, turning his back and much annoyed that he had no longer been able to feign a fever. There were also Father Bonnemort and old Mouque, seated side by side on a stump, lost in deep meditation. Then behind were the chaffers, Zacharie, Mouquet, and others who had come to make fun of the thing; while gathered together in a very different spirit the women in a group were as serious as if at church. Maheude silently shook her head at the Levaque woman's muttered oaths. Philoméne was coughing, her bronchitis having come back with the winter. Only Mouquette was showing her teeth with laughter, amused at the way in which Mother Brulé was abusing her daughter, an unnatural creature who had sent her away that she might gorge herself with rabbit, a creature who had sold herself and who fattened on her man's cowardice. And Jeanlin had planted himself on the pile of wood, hoisting up Lydie and making Bébert follow him, all three higher up in the air than any one else. The quarrel was raised by Rasseneur, who wished to proceed formally to the election of officers. He was enraged by his defeat at the Bon-Joyeux, and had sworn to have his revenge, for he flattered himself that he could regain his old authority when he was once face to face, not with the delegates, but with the miners themselves. Étienne was disgusted, and thought the idea of officers was ridiculous in this forest. They ought to act in a revolutionary fashion, like savages, since they were tracked like wolves. As the dispute threatened to drag on, he took possession of the crowd at once by jumping on to the trunk of a tree and shouting: "Comrades! comrades!" The confused roar of the crowd died down into a long sigh, while Maheu stifled Rasseneur's protestations. Étienne went on in a loud voice. "Comrades, since they forbid us to speak, since they send the police after us as if we were robbers, we have come to talk here! Here we are free, we are at home. No one can silence us any more than they can silence the birds and beasts!" A thunder of cries and exclamations responded to him. "Yes, yes! the forest is ours, we can talk here. Go on." Then Étienne stood for a moment motionless on the tree-trunk. The moon, still beneath the horizon, only lit up the topmost branches, and the crowd, remaining in the darkness, stood above it at the top of the slope like a bar of shadow. He raised his arm with a slow movement and began. But his voice was not fierce; he spoke in the cold tones of a simple envoy of the people, who was rendering his account. He was delivering the discourse which the commissioner of police had cut short at the Bon-Joyeux; and he began by a rapid history of the strike, affecting a certain scientific eloquence--facts, nothing but facts. At first he spoke of his dislike to the strike; the miners had not desired it, it was the management which had provoked it with the new timbering tariff. Then he recalled the first step taken by the delegates in going to the manager, the bad faith of the directors; and, later on, the second step, the tardy concession, the ten centimes given up, after the attempt to rob them. Now he showed by figures the exhaustion of the Provident Fund, and pointed out the use that had been made of the help sent, briefly excusing the International, Pluchart and the others, for not being able to do more for them in the midst of the cares of their conquest of the world. So the situation was getting worse every day; the Company was giving back certificates and threatening to hire men from Belgium; besides, it was intimidating the weak, and had forced a certain number of miners to go down again. He preserved his monotonous voice, as if to insist on the bad news; he said that hunger was victorious, that hope was dead, and that the struggle had reached the last feverish efforts of courage. And then he suddenly concluded, without raising his voice: "It is in these circumstances, mates, that you have to take a decision to-night. Do you want the strike to go on? and if so, what do you expect to do to beat the Company?" A deep silence fell from the starry sky. The crowd, which could not be seen, was silent in the night beneath these words which choked every heart, and a sigh of despair could be heard through the trees. But Étienne was already continuing, with a change in his voice. It was no longer the secretary of the association who was speaking; it was the chief of a band, the apostle who was bringing truth. Could it be that any were cowardly enough to go back on their word? What! They were to suffer in vain for a month, and then to go back to the pits, with lowered heads, so that the everlasting wretchedness might begin over again! Would it not be better to die at once in the effort to destroy this tyranny of capital, which was starving the worker? Always to submit to hunger up to the moment when hunger will again throw the calmest into revolt, was it not a foolish game which could not go on for ever? And he pointed to the exploited miners, bearing alone the disasters of every crisis, reduced to go without food as soon as the necessities of competition lowered net prices. No, the timbering tariff could not be accepted; it was only a disguised effort to economize on the Company's part; they wanted to rob every man of an hour's work a day. It was too much this time; the day was coming when the miserable, pushed to extremity, would deal justice. He stood with his arms in the air. At the word "justice" the crowd, shaken by a long shudder, broke out into applause which rolled along with the sound of dry leaves. Voices cried: "Justice! it is time! Justice!" Gradually Étienne grew heated. He had not Rasseneur's easy flowing abundance. Words often failed him, he had to force his phrases, bringing them out with an effort which he emphasized by a movement of his shoulders. Only in these continual shocks he came upon familiar images which seized on his audience by their energy; while his workman's gestures, his elbows in and then extended, with his fists thrust out, his jaw suddenly advanced as if to bite, had also an extraordinary effect on his mates. They all said that if he was not big he made himself heard. "The wage system is a new form of slavery," he began again, in a more sonorous voice. "The mine ought to belong to the miner, as the sea belongs to the fisherman, and the earth to the peasant. Do you see? The mine belongs to you, to all of you who, for a century, have paid for it with so much blood and misery!" He boldly entered on obscure questions of law, and lost himself in the difficulties of the special regulations concerning mines. The subsoil, like the soil, belonged to the nation: only an odious privilege gave the monopoly of it to the Companies; all the more since, at Montsou, the pretended legality of the concession was complicated by treaties formerly made with the owners of the old fiefs, according to the ancient custom of Hainault. The miners, then, had only to reconquer their property; and with extended hands he indicated the whole country beyond the forest. At this moment the moon, which had risen above the horizon, lit him up as it glided from behind the high branches. When the crowd, which was still in shadow, saw him thus, white with light, distributing fortune with his open hands, they applauded anew by prolonged clapping. "Yes, yes, he's right. Bravo!" Then Étienne trotted out his favourite subject, the assumption of the instruments of production by the collectivity, as he kept on saying in a phrase the pedantry of which greatly pleased him. At the present time his evolution was completed. Having set out with the sentimental fraternity of the novice and the need for reforming the wage system, he had reached the political idea of its suppression. Since the meeting at the Bon-Joyeux his collectivism, still humanitarian and without a formula, had stiffened into a complicated programme which he discussed scientifically, article by article. First, he affirmed that freedom could only be obtained by the destruction of the state. Then, when the people had obtained possession of the government, reforms would begin: return to the primitive commune, substitution of an equal and free family for the moral and oppressive family; absolute equality, civil, political, and economic; individual independence guaranteed, thanks to the possession of the integral product of the instruments of work; finally, free vocational education, paid for by the collectivity. This led to the total reconstruction of the old rotten society; he attacked marriage, the right of bequest, he regulated every one's fortune, he threw down the iniquitous monument of the dead centuries with a great movement of his arm, always the same movement, the movement of the reaper who is cutting down a ripe harvest. And then with the other hand he reconstructed; he built up the future humanity, the edifice of truth and justice rising in the dawn of the twentieth century. In this state of mental tension reason trembled, and only the sectarian's fixed idea was left. The scruples of sensibility and of good sense were lost; nothing seemed easier than the realization of this new world. He had foreseen everything; he spoke of it as of a machine which he could put together in two hours, and he stuck at neither fire nor blood. "Our turn is come," he broke out for the last time. "Now it is for us to have power and wealth!" The cheering rolled up to him from the depths of the forest. The moon now whitened the whole of the glade, and cut into living waves the sea of heads, as far as the dimly visible copses in the distance between the great grey trunks. And in the icy air there was a fury of faces, of gleaming eyes, of open mouths, a rut of famishing men, women, and children, let loose on the just pillage of the ancient wealth they had been deprived of. They no longer felt the cold, these burning words had warmed them to the bone. Religious exaltation raised them from the earth, a fever of hope like that of the Christians of the early Church awaiting the near coming of justice. Many obscure phrases had escaped them, they could not properly understand this technical and abstract reasoning; but the very obscurity and abstraction still further enlarged the field of promises and lifted them into a dazzling region. What a dream! to be masters, to suffer no more, to enjoy at last! "That's it, by God! it's our turn now! Down with the exploiters." The women were delirious; Maheude, losing her calmness, was seized with the vertigo of hunger, the Levaque woman shouted, old Brulé, carried out of herself, was brandishing her witch-like arms, Philoméne was shaken by a spasm of coughing, and Mouquette was so excited that she cried out words of tenderness to the orator. Among the men, Maheu was won over and shouted with anger, between Pierron who was trembling and Levaque who was talking too much; while the chaffers, Zacharie and Mouquet, though trying to make fun of things, were feeling uncomfortable and were surprised that their mate could talk on so long without having a drink. But on top of the pile of wood, Jeanlin was making more noise than any one, egging on Bébert and Lydie and shaking the basket in which Poland lay. The clamour began again. Étienne was enjoying the intoxication of his popularity. He held power, as it were, materialized in these three thousand breasts, whose hearts he could move with a word. Souvarine, if he had cared to come, would have applauded his ideas so far as he recognized them, pleased with his pupil's progress in anarchism and satisfied with the programme, except the article on education, a relic of silly sentimentality, for men needed to be dipped in a bath of holy and salutary ignorance. As to Rasseneur, he shrugged his shoulders with contempt and anger. "You shall let me speak," he shouted to Étienne. The latter jumped from the tree-trunk. "Speak, we shall see if they'll hear you." Already Rasseneur had replaced him, and with a gesture demanded silence. But the noise did not cease; his name went round from the first ranks, who had recognized him, to the last, lost beneath the beeches, and they refused to hear him; he was an overturned idol, the mere sight of him angered his old disciples. His facile elocution, his flowing, good-natured speech, which had so long charmed them, was now treated like warm gruel made to put cowards to sleep. In vain he talked through the noise, trying to take up again his discourse of conciliation, the impossibility of changing the world by a stroke of law, the necessity of allowing the social evolution time to accomplish itself; they joked him, they hissed him; his defeat at the Bon-Joyeux was now beyond repair. At last they threw handfuls of frozen moss at him, and a woman cried in a shrill voice: "Down with the traitor!" He explained that the miner could not be the proprietor of the mine, as the weaver is of his loom, and he said that he preferred sharing in the benefits, the interested worker becoming the child of the house. "Down with the traitor!" repeated a thousand voices, while stones began to whistle by. Then he turned pale, and despair filled his eyes with tears. His whole existence was crumbling down; twenty years of ambitious comradeship were breaking down beneath the ingratitude of the crowd. He came down from the tree-trunk, with no strength to go on, struck to the heart. "That makes you laugh," he stammered, addressing the triumphant Étienne. "Good! I hope your turn will come. It will come, I tell you!" And as if to reject all responsibility for the evils which he foresaw, he made a large gesture, and went away alone across the country, pale and silent. Hoots arose, and then they were surprised to see Father Bonnemort standing on the trunk and about to speak in the midst of the tumult. Up till now Mouque and he had remained absorbed, with that air that they always had of reflecting on former things. No doubt he was yielding to one of those sudden crises of garrulity which sometimes made the past stir in him so violently that recollections rose and flowed from his lips for hours at a time. There was deep silence, and they listened to this old man, who was like a pale spectre beneath the moon, and as he narrated things without any immediate relation with the discussion--long histories which no one could understand--the impression was increased. He was talking of his youth; he described the death of his two uncles who were crushed at the Voreux; then he turned to the inflammation of the lungs which had carried off his wife. He kept to his main idea, however: things had never gone well and never would go well. Thus in the forest five hundred of them had come together because the king would not lessen the hours of work; but he stopped short, and began to tell of another strike--he had seen so many! They all broke out under these trees, here at the Plan-des-Dames, lower down at the Charbonnerie, still farther towards the Saut-du-Loup. Sometimes it froze, sometimes it was hot. One evening it had rained so much that they had gone back again without being able to say anything, and the king's soldiers came up and it finished with volleys of musketry. "We raised our hands like this, and we swore not to go back again. Ah! I have sworn; yes, I have sworn!" The crowd listened gapingly, feeling disturbed, when Étienne, who had watched the scene, jumped on to the fallen tree, keeping the old man at his side. He had just recognized Chaval among their friends in the first row. The idea that Catherine must be there had roused a new ardour within him, the desire to be applauded in her presence. "Mates, you have heard; this is one of our old men, and this is what he has suffered, and what our children will suffer if we don't have done with the robbers and butchers." He was terrible; never had he spoken so violently. With one arm he supported old Bonnemort, exhibiting him as a banner of misery and mourning, and crying for vengeance. In a few rapid phrases he went back to the first Maheu. He showed the whole family used up at the mine, devoured by the Company, hungrier than ever after a hundred years of work; and contrasting with the Maheus he pointed to the big bellies of the directors sweating gold, a whole band of shareholders, going on for a century like kept women, doing nothing but enjoy with their bodies. Was it not fearful? a race of men dying down below, from father to son, so that bribes of wine could be given to ministers, and generations of great lords and bourgeois could give feasts or fatten by their firesides! He had studied the diseases of the miners. He made them all march past with their awful details: anaemia, scrofula, black bronchitis, the asthma which chokes, and the rheumatism which paralyses. These wretches were thrown as food to the engines and penned up like beasts in the settlements. The great companies absorbed them, regulating their slavery, threatening to enrol all the workers of the nation, millions of hands, to bring fortune to a thousand idlers. But the miner was no longer an ignorant brute, crushed within the bowels of the earth. An army was springing up from the depths of the pits, a harvest of citizens whose seed would germinate and burst through the earth some sunny day. And they would see then if, after forty years of service, any one would dare to offer a pension of a hundred and fifty francs to an old man of sixty who spat out coal and whose legs were swollen with the water from the cuttings. Yes! labour would demand an account from capital: that impersonal god, unknown to the worker, crouching down somewhere in his mysterious sanctuary, where he sucked the life out of the starvelings who nourished him! They would go down there; they would at last succeed in seeing his face by the gleam of incendiary fires, they would drown him in blood, that filthy swine, that monstrous idol, gorged with human flesh! He was silent, but his arm, still extended in space, indicated the enemy, down there, he knew not where, from one end of the earth to the other. This time the clamour of the crowd was so great that people at Montsou heard it, and looked towards Vandame, seized with anxiety at the thought that some terrible landslip had occurred. Night-birds rose above the trees in the clear open sky. He now concluded his speech. "Mates, what is your decision? Do you vote for the strike to go on?" Their voices yelled, "Yes! yes!" "And what steps do you decide on? We are sure of defeat if cowards go down to-morrow." Their voices rose again with the sound of a tempest: "Kill the cowards!" "Then you decide to call them back to duty and to their sworn word. This is what we could do: present ourselves at the pits, bring back the traitors by our presence, show the Company that we are all agreed, and that we are going to die rather than yield." "That's it. To the pits! to the pits!" While he was speaking Étienne had looked for Catherine among the pale shouting heads before him. She was certainly not there, but he still saw Chaval, affecting to jeer, shrugging his shoulders, but devoured by jealousy and ready to sell himself for a little of this popularity. "And if there are any spies among us, mates," Étienne went on, "let them look out; they're known. Yes, I can see Vandame colliers here who have not left their pit." "Is that meant for me?" asked Chaval, with an air of bravado. "For you, or for any one else. But, since you speak, you ought to understand that those who eat have nothing to do with those who are starving. You work at Jean-Bart." A chaffing voice interrupted: "Oh! he work! he's got a wife who works for him." Chaval swore, while the blood rose to his face. "By God! is it forbidden to work, then?" "Yes!" said Étienne, "when your mates are enduring misery for the good of all, it is forbidden to go over, like a selfish sneaking coward, to the masters' side. If the strike had been general we should have got the best of it long ago. Not a single man at Vandame ought to have gone down when Montsou is resting. To accomplish the great stroke, work should be stopped in the entire country, at Monsieur Deneulin's as well as here. Do you understand? there are only traitors in the Jean Bart cuttings; you're all traitors!" The crowd around Chaval grew threatening, and fists were raised and cries of "Kill him! kill him!" began to be uttered. He had grown pale. But, in his infuriated desire to triumph over Étienne, an idea restored him. "Listen to me, then! come to-morrow to Jean-Bart, and you shall see if I'm working! We're on your side; they've sent me to tell you so. The fires must be extinguished, and the engine-men, too, must go on strike. All the better if the pumps do stop! the water will destroy the pits and everything will be done for!" He was furiously applauded in his turn, and now Étienne himself was outflanked. Other orators succeeded each other from the tree-trunk, gesticulating amid the tumult, and throwing out wild propositions. It was a mad outburst of faith, the impatience of a religious sect which, tired of hoping for the expected miracle, had at last decided to provoke it. These heads, emptied by famine, saw everything red, and dreamed of fire and blood in the midst of a glorious apotheosis from which would arise universal happiness. And the tranquil moon bathed this surging sea, the deep forest encircled with its vast silence this cry of massacre. The frozen moss crackled beneath the heels of the crowd, while the beeches, erect in their strength, with the delicate tracery of their black branches against the white sky, neither saw nor heard the miserable beings who writhed at their feet. There was some pushing, and Maheude found herself near Maheu. Both of them, driven out of their ordinary good sense, and carried away by the slow exasperation which had been working within them for months, approved Levaque, who went to extremes by demanding the heads of the engineers. Pierron had disappeared. Bonnemort and Mouque were both talking together, saying vague violent things which nobody heard. For a joke Zacharie demanded the demolition of the churches, while Mouquet, with his crosse in his hand, was beating it against the ground for the sake of increasing the row. The women were furious. The Levaque, with her fists to her hips, was setting to with Philoméne, whom she accused of having laughed; Mouquette talked of attacking the gendarmes by kicking them somewhere; Mother Brulé, who had just slapped Lydie on finding her without either basket or salad, went on launching blows into space against all the masters whom she would like to have got at. For a moment Jeanlin was in terror, Bébert having learned through a trammer that Madame Rasseneur had seen them steal Poland; but when he had decided to go back and quietly release the beast at the door of the Avantage, he shouted louder than ever, and opened his new knife, brandishing the blade and proud of its glitter. "Mates! mates!" repeated the exhausted Étienne, hoarse with the effort to obtain a moment's silence for a definite understanding. At last they listened. "Mates! to-morrow morning at Jean-Bart, is it agreed?" "Yes! yes! at Jean-Bart! death to the traitors!" The tempest of these three thousand voices filled the sky, and died away in the pure brightness of the moon. PART FIVE CHAPTER I At four o'clock the moon had set, and the night was very dark. Everything was still asleep at Deneulin's; the old brick house stood mute and gloomy, with closed doors and windows, at the end of the large ill-kept garden which separated it from the Jean-Bart mine. The other frontage faced the deserted road to Vandame, a large country town, about three kilometres off, hidden behind the forest. Deneulin, tired after a day spent in part below, was snoring with his face toward the wall, when he dreamt that he had been called. At last he awoke, and really hearing a voice, got out and opened the window. One of his captains was in the garden. "What is it, then?" he asked. "There's a rebellion, sir; half the men will not work, and are preventing the others from going down." He scarcely understood, with head heavy and dazed with sleep, and the great cold struck him like an icy douche. "Then make them go down, by George!" he stammered. "It's been going on an hour," said the captain. "Then we thought it best to come for you. Perhaps you will be able to persuade them." "Very good; I'll go." He quickly dressed himself, his mind quite clear now, and very anxious. The house might have been pillaged; neither the cook nor the man-servant had stirred. But from the other side of the staircase alarmed voices were whispering; and when he came out he saw his daughters' door open, and they both appeared in white dressing-gowns, slipped on in haste. "Father, what is it?" Lucie, the elder, was already twenty-two, a tall dark girl, with a haughty air; while Jeanne, the younger, as yet scarcely nineteen years old, was small, with golden hair and a certain caressing grace. "Nothing serious," he replied, to reassure them. "It seems that some blusterers are making a disturbance down there. I am going to see." But they exclaimed that they would not let him go before he had taken something warm. If not, he would come back ill, with his stomach out of order, as he always did. He struggled, gave his word of honour that he was too much in a hurry. "Listen!" said Jeanne, at last, hanging to his neck, "you must drink a little glass of rum and eat two biscuits, or I shall remain like this, and you'll have to take me with you." He resigned himself, declaring that the biscuits would choke him. They had already gone down before him, each with her candlestick. In the dining-room below they hastened to serve him, one pouring out the rum, the other running to the pantry for the biscuits. Having lost their mother when very young, they had been rather badly brought up alone, spoilt by their father, the elder haunted by the dream of singing on the stage, the younger mad over painting in which she showed a singular boldness of taste. But when they had to retrench after the embarrassment in their affairs, these apparently extravagant girls had suddenly developed into very sensible and shrewd managers, with an eye for errors of centimes in accounts. Today, with their boyish and artistic demeanour, they kept the purse, were careful over sous, haggled with the tradesmen, renovated their dresses unceasingly, and in fact, succeeded in rendering decent the growing embarrassment of the house. "Eat, papa," repeated Lucie. Then, remarking his silent gloomy preoccupation, she was again frightened. "Is it serious, then, that you look at us like this? Tell us; we will stay with you, and they can do without us at that lunch." She was speaking of a party which had been planned for the morning, Madame Hennebeau was to go in her carriage, first for Cécile, at the Grégoires', then to call for them, so that they could all go to Marchiennes to lunch at the Forges, where the manager's wife had invited them. It was an opportunity to visit the workshops, the blast furnaces, and the coke ovens. "We will certainly remain," declared Jeanne, in her turn. But he grew angry. "A fine idea! I tell you that it is nothing. Just be so good as to get back into your beds again, and dress yourselves for nine o'clock, as was arranged." He kissed them and hastened to leave. They heard the noise of his boots vanishing over the frozen earth in the garden. Jeanne carefully placed the stopper in the rum bottle, while Lucie locked up the biscuits. The room had the cold neatness of dining-rooms where the table is but meagrely supplied. And both of them took advantage of this early descent to see if anything had been left uncared for the evening before. A serviette lay about, the servant should be scolded. At last they were upstairs again. While he was taking the shortest cut through the narrow paths of his kitchen garden, Deneulin was thinking of his compromised fortune, this Montsou denier, this million which he had realized, dreaming to multiply it tenfold, and which was to-day running such great risks. It was an uninterrupted course of ill-luck, enormous and unforeseen repairs, ruinous conditions of exploitation, then the disaster of this industrial crisis, just when the profits were beginning to come in. If the strike broke out here, he would be overthrown. He pushed a little door: the buildings of the pit could be divined in the black night, by the deepening of the shadow, starred by a few lanterns. Jean-Bart was not so important as the Voreux, but its renewed installation made it a pretty pit, as the engineers say. They had not been contented by enlarging the shaft one metre and a half, and deepening it to seven hundred and eight metres, they had equipped it afresh with a new engine, new cages, entirely new material, all set up according to the latest scientific improvements; and even a certain seeking for elegance was visible in the constructions, a screening-shed with carved frieze, a steeple adorned with a clock, a receiving-room and an engine-room both rounded into an apse like a Renaissance chapel, and surmounted by a chimney with a mosaic spiral made of black bricks and red bricks. The pump was placed on the other shaft of the concession, the old Gaston-Marie pit, reserved solely for this purpose. Jean-Bart, to right and left of the winding-shaft, only had two conduits, that for the steam ventilator and that for the ladders. In the morning, ever since three o'clock, Chaval, who had arrived first, had been seducing his comrades, convincing them that they ought to imitate those at Montsou, and demand an increase of five centimes a tram. Soon four hundred workmen had passed from the shed into the receiving-room, in the midst of a tumult of gesticulation and shouting. Those who wished to work stood with their lamps, barefooted, with shovel or pick beneath their arms; while the others, still in their sabots, with their overcoats on their shoulders because of the great cold, were barring the shaft; and the captains were growing hoarse in the effort to restore order, begging them to be reasonable and not to prevent those who wanted from going down. But Chaval was furious when he saw Catherine in her trousers and jacket, her head tied up in the blue cap. On getting up, he had roughly told her to stay in bed. In despair at this arrest of work she had followed him all the same, for he never gave her any money; she often had to pay both for herself and him; and what was to become of her if she earned nothing? She was overcome by fear, the fear of a brothel at Marchiennes, which was the end of putter-girls without bread and without lodging. "By God!" cried Chaval, "what the devil have you come here for?" She stammered that she had no income to live on and that she wanted to work. "Then you put yourself against me, wench? Back you go at once, or I'll go back with you and kick my sabots into your backside." She recoiled timidly but she did not leave, resolved to see how things would turn out. Deneulin had arrived by the screening-stairs. In spite of the weak light of the lanterns, with a quick look he took in the scene, with this rabble wrapt in shadow; he knew every face--the pikemen, the porters, the landers, the putters, even the trammers. In the nave, still new and clean, the arrested task was waiting; the steam in the engine, under pressure, made slight whistling sounds; the cages were hanging motionless to the cables; the trams, abandoned on the way, were encumbering the metal floors. Scarcely eighty lamps had been taken; the others were flaming in the lamp cabin. But no doubt a word from him would suffice, and the whole life of labour would begin again. "Well, what's going on then, my lads?" he asked in a loud voice. "What are you angry about? Just explain to me and we will see if we can agree." He usually behaved in a paternal way towards his men, while at the same time demanding hard work. With an authoritative, rough manner, he had tried to conquer them by a good nature which had its outbursts of passion, and he often gained their love; the men especially respected in him his courage, always in the cuttings with them, the first in danger whenever an accident terrified the pit. Twice, after fire-damp explosions, he had been let down, fastened by a rope under his armpits, when the bravest drew back. "Now," he began again, "you are not going to make me repent of having trusted you. You know that I have refused police protection. Talk quietly and I will hear you." All were now silent and awkward, moving away from him; and it was Chaval who at last said: "Well, Monsieur Deneulin, we can't go on working; we must have five centimes more the tram." He seemed surprised. "What! five centimes! and why this demand? I don't complain about your timbering, I don't want to impose a new tariff on you like the Montsou directors." "Maybe! but the Montsou mates are right, all the same. They won't have the tariff, and they want a rise of five centimes because it is not possible to work properly at the present rates. We want five centimes more, don't we, you others?" Voices approved, and the noise began again in the midst of violent gesticulation. Gradually they drew near, forming a small circle. A flame came into Deneulin's eyes, and his fist, that of a man who liked strong government, was clenched, for fear of yielding to the temptation of seizing one of them by the neck. He preferred to discuss on the basis of reason. "You want five centimes, and I agree that the work is worth it. Only I can't give it. If I gave it I should simply be done for. You must understand that I have to live first in order for you to live, and I've got to the end, the least rise in net prices will upset me. Two years ago, you remember, at the time of the last strike, I yielded, I was able to then. But that rise of wages was not the less ruinous, for these two years have been a struggle. To-day I would rather let the whole thing go than not be able to tell next month where to get the money to pay you." Chaval laughed roughly in the face of this master who told them his affairs so frankly. The others lowered their faces, obstinate and incredulous, refusing to take into their heads the idea that a master did not gain millions out of his men. Then Deneulin, persisting, explained his struggle with Montsou, always on the watch and ready to devour him if, some day, he had the stupidity to come to grief. It was a savage competition which forced him to economize, the more so since the great depth of Jean-Bart increased the price of extraction, an unfavourable condition hardly compensated by the great thickness of the coal-beds. He would never have raised wages after the last strike if it had not been necessary for him to imitate Montsou, for fear of seeing his men leave him. And he threatened them with the morrow; a fine result it would be for them, if they obliged him to sell, to pass beneath the terrible yoke of the directors! He did not sit on a throne far away in an unknown sanctuary; he was not one of those shareholders who pay agents to skin the miner who has never seen them; he was a master, he risked something besides his money, he risked his intelligence, his health, his life. Stoppage of work would simply mean death, for he had no stock, and he must fulfil orders. Besides, his standing capital could not sleep. How could he keep his engagements? Who would pay the interest on the sums his friends had confided to him? It would mean bankruptcy. "That's where we are, my good fellows," he said, in conclusion. "I want to convince you. We don't ask a man to cut his own throat, do we? and if I give you your five centimes, or if I let you go out on strike, it's the same as if I cut my throat." He was silent. Grunts went round. A party among the miners seemed to hesitate. Several went back towards the shaft. "At least," said a captain, "let every one be free. Who are those who want to work?" Catherine had advanced among the first. But Chaval fiercely pushed her back, shouting: "We are all agreed; it's only bloody rogues who'll leave their mates!" After that, conciliation appeared impossible. The cries began again, and men were hustled away from the shaft, at the risk of being crushed against the walls. For a moment the manager, in despair, tried to struggle alone, to reduce the crowd by violence; but it was useless madness, and he retired. For a few minutes he rested, out of breath, on a chair in the receiver's office, so overcome by his powerlessness that no ideas came to him. At last he grew calm, and told an inspector to go and bring Chaval; then, when the latter had agreed to the interview, he motioned the others away. "Leave us." Deneulin's idea was to see what this fellow was after. At the first words he felt that he was vain, and was devoured by passionate jealousy. Then he attacked him by flattery, affecting surprise that a workman of his merit should so compromise his future. It seemed as though he had long had his eyes on him for rapid advancement; and he ended by squarely offering to make him captain later on. Chaval listened in silence, with his fists at first clenched, but then gradually unbent. Something was working in the depths of his skull; if he persisted in the strike he would be nothing more than Étienne's lieutenant, while now another ambition opened, that of passing into the ranks of the bosses. The heat of pride rose to his face and intoxicated him. Besides, the band of strikers whom he had expected since the morning had not arrived; some obstacle must have stopped them, perhaps the police; it was time to submit. But all the same he shook his head; he acted the incorruptible man, striking his breast indignantly. Then, without mentioning to the master the rendezvous he had given to the Montsou men, he promised to calm his mates, and to persuade them to go down. Deneulin remained hidden, and the captains themselves stood aside. For an hour they heard Chaval orating and discussing, standing on a tram in the receiving-room. Some of the men hooted him; a hundred and twenty went off exasperated, persisting in the resolution which he had made them take. It was already past seven. The sun was rising brilliantly; it was a bright day of hard frost; and all at once movement began in the pit, and the arrested labour went on. First the crank of the engine plunged, rolling and unrolling the cables on the drums. Then, in the midst of the tumult of the signals, the descent took place. The cages filled and were engulfed, and rose again, the shaft swallowing its ration of trammers and putters and pikemen; while on the metal floors the landers pushed the trams with a sound of thunder. "By God! What the devil are you doing there?" cried Chaval to Catherine, who was awaiting her turn. "Will you just go down and not laze about!" At nine o'clock, when Madame Hennebeau arrived in her carriage with Cécile, she found Lucie and Jeanne quite ready and very elegant, in spite of their dresses having been renovated for the twentieth time. But Deneulin was surprised to see Négrel accompanying the carriage on horseback. What! were the men also in the party? Then Madame Hennebeau explained in her maternal way that they had frightened her by saying that the streets were full of evil faces, and so she preferred to bring a defender. Négrel laughed and reassured them: nothing to cause anxiety, threats of brawlers as usual, but not one of them would dare to throw a stone at a window-pane. Still pleased with his success, Deneulin related the checked rebellion at Jean-Bart. He said that he was now quite at rest. And on the Vandame road, while the young ladies got into the carriage, all congratulated themselves on the superb day, oblivious of the long swelling shudder of the marching people afar off in the country, though they might have heard the sound of it if they had pressed their ears against the earth. "Well! it is agreed," repeated Madame Hennebeau. "This evening you will call for the young ladies and dine with us. Madame Grégoire has also promised to come for Cécile." "You may reckon on me," replied Deneulin. The carriage went off towards Vandame, Jeanne and Lucie leaning down to laugh once more to their father, who was standing by the roadside; while Négrel gallantly trotted behind the fleeing wheels. They crossed the forest, taking the road from Vandame to Marchiennes. As they approached Tartaret, Jeanne asked Madame Hennebeau if she knew Côte-Verte, and the latter, in spite of her stay of five years in the country, acknowledged that she had never been on that side. Then they made a detour. Tartaret, on the outskirts of the forest, was an uncultivated moor, of volcanic sterility, under which for ages a coal mine had been burning. Its history was lost in legend. The miners of the place said that fire from heaven had fallen on this Sodom in the bowels of the earth, where the putter-girls had committed abominations together, so that they had not even had the time to come to the surface, and today were still burning at the bottom of this hell. The calcined rocks, of a sombre red, were covered by an efflorescence of alum as by a leprosy. Sulphur grew like a yellow flower at the edge of the fissures. At night, those who were brave enough to venture to look into these holes declared that they saw flames there, sinful souls shrivelling in the furnace within. Wandering lights moved over the soil, and hot vapours, the poisons from the devil's ordure and his dirty kitchen, were constantly smoking. And like a miracle of eternal spring, in the midst of this accursed moor of Tartaret, Côte-Verte appeared, with its meadows for ever green, its beeches with leaves unceasingly renewed, its fields where three harvests ripened. It was a natural hot-house, warmed by the fire in the deep strata beneath. The snow never lay on it. The enormous bouquet of verdure, beside the leafless forest trees, blossomed on this December day, and the frost had not even scorched the edge of it. Soon the carriage was passing over the plain. Négrel joked over the legend, and explained that a fire often occurred at the bottom of a mine from the fermentation of the coal dust; if not mastered it would burn on for ever, and he mentioned a Belgian pit which had been flooded by diverting a river and running it into the pit. But he became silent. For the last few minutes groups of miners had been constantly passing the carriage; they went by in silence, with sidelong looks at the luxurious equipage which forced them to stand aside. Their number went on increasing. The horses were obliged to cross the little bridge over the Scarpe at walking pace. What was going on, then, to bring all these people into the roads? The young ladies became frightened, and Négrel began to smell out some fray in the excited country; it was a relief when they at last arrived at Marchiennes. The batteries of coke ovens and the chimneys of the blast furnaces, beneath a sun which seemed to extinguish them, were belching out smoke and raining their everlasting soot through the air. CHAPTER II At Jean-Bart, Catherine had already been at work for an hour, pushing trams as far as the relays; and she was soaked in such a bath of perspiration that she stopped a moment to wipe her face. At the bottom of the cutting, where he was hammering at the seam with his mates, Chaval was astonished when he no longer heard the rumble of the wheels. The lamps burnt badly, and the coal dust made it impossible to see. "What's up?" he shouted. When she answered that she was sure she would melt, and that her heart was going to stop, he replied furiously: "Do like us, stupid! Take off your shift." They were seven hundred and eight metres to the north in the first passage of the Désirée seam, which was at a distance of three kilometres from the pit-eye. When they spoke of this part of the pit, the miners of the region grew pale, and lowered their voices, as if they had spoken of hell; and most often they were content to shake their heads as men who would rather not speak of these depths of fiery furnace. As the galleries sank towards the north, they approached Tartaret, penetrating to that interior fire which calcined the rocks above. The cuttings at the point at which they had arrived had an average temperature of forty-five degrees. They were there in the accursed city, in the midst of the flames which the passers-by on the plain could see through the fissures, spitting out sulphur and poisonous vapours. Catherine, who had already taken off her jacket, hesitated, then took off her trousers also; and with naked arms and naked thighs, her chemise tied round her hips by a cord like a blouse, she began to push again. "Anyhow, that's better," she said aloud. In the stifling heat she still felt a vague fear. Ever since they began working here, five days ago, she had thought of the stories told her in childhood, of those putter-girls of the days of old who were burning beneath Tartaret, as a punishment for things which no one dared to repeat. No doubt she was too big now to believe such silly stories; but still, what would she do if she were suddenly to see coming out of the wall a girl as red as a stove, with eyes like live coals? The idea made her perspire still more. At the relay, eighty metres from the cutting, another putter took the tram and pushed it eighty metres farther to the upbrow, so that the receiver could forward it with the others which came down from the upper galleries. "Gracious! you're making yourself comfortable!" said this woman, a lean widow of thirty, when she saw Catherine in her chemise. "I can't do it, the trammers at the brow bother me with their dirty tricks." "Ah, well!" replied the young girl. "I don't care about the men! I feel too bad." She went off again, pushing an empty tram. The worst was that in this bottom passage another cause joined with the neighbourhood of Tartaret to make the heat unbearable. They were by the side of old workings, a very deep abandoned gallery of Gaston-Marie, where, ten years earlier, an explosion of fire-damp had set the seam alight; and it was still burning behind the clay wall which had been built there and was kept constantly repaired, in order to limit the disaster. Deprived of air, the fire ought to have become extinct, but no doubt unknown currents kept it alive; it had gone on for ten years, and heated the clay wall like the bricks of an oven, so that those who passed felt half-roasted. It was along this wall, for a length of more than a hundred metres, that the haulage was carried on, in a temperature of sixty degrees. After two journeys, Catherine again felt stifled. Fortunately, the passage was large and convenient in this Désirée seam, one of the thickest in the district. The bed was one metre ninety in height, and the men could work standing. But they would rather have worked with twisted necks and a little fresh air. "Hallo, there! are you asleep?" said Chaval again, roughly, as soon as he no longer heard Catherine moving. "How the devil did I come to get such a jade? Will you just fill your tram and push?" She was at the bottom of the cutting, leaning on her shovel; she was feeling ill, and she looked at them all with a foolish air without obeying. She scarcely saw them by the reddish gleam of the lamps, entirely naked like animals, so black, so encrusted in sweat and coal, that their nakedness did not frighten her. It was a confused task, the bending of ape-like backs, an infernal vision of scorched limbs, spending their strength amid dull blows and groans. But they could see her better, no doubt, for the picks left off hammering, and they joked her about taking off her trousers. "Eh! you'll catch cold; look out!" "It's because she's got such fine legs! I say, Chaval, there's enough there for two." "Oh! we must see. Lift up! Higher! higher!" Then Chaval, without growing angry at these jokes, turned on her. "That's it, by God! Ah! she likes dirty jokes. She'd stay there to listen till to-morrow." Catherine had painfully decided to fill her tram, then she pushed it. The gallery was too wide for her to get a purchase on the timber on both sides; her naked feet were twisted in the rails where they sought a point of support, while she slowly moved on, her arms stiffened in front, and her back breaking. As soon as she came up to the clay wall, the fiery torture again began, and the sweat fell from her whole body in enormous drops as from a storm-cloud. She had scarcely got a third of the way before she streamed, blinded, soiled also by the black mud. Her narrow chemise, as though dipped in ink, was sticking to her skin, and rising up to her waist with the movement of her thighs; it hurt her so that she had once more to stop her task. What was the matter with her, then, today? Never before had she felt as if there were wool in her bones. It must be the bad air. The ventilation did not reach to the bottom of this distant passage. One breathed there all sorts of vapours, which came out of the coal with the low bubbling sound of a spring, so abundantly sometimes that the lamps would not burn; to say nothing of fire-damp, which nobody noticed, for from one week's end to the other the men were always breathing it into their noses throughout the seam. She knew that bad air well; dead air the miners called it; the heavy asphyxiating gases below, above them the light gases which catch fire and blow up all the stalls of a pit, with hundreds of men, in a single burst of thunder. From her childhood she had swallowed so much that she was surprised she bore it so badly, with buzzing ears and burning throat. Unable to go farther, she felt the need of taking off her chemise. It was beginning to torture her, this garment of which the least folds cut and burnt her. She resisted the longing, and tried to push again, but was forced to stand upright. Then quickly, saying to herself that she would cover herself at the relay, she took off everything, the cord and the chemise, so feverishly that she would have torn off her skin if she could. And now, naked and pitiful, brought down to the level of the female animal seeking its living in the mire of the streets, covered with soot and mud up to the belly, she laboured on like a cab-hack. On all fours she pushed onwards. But despair came; it gave her no relief to be naked. What more could she take off? The buzzing in her ears deafened her, she seemed to feel a vice gripping her temples. She fell on her knees. The lamp, wedged into the coal in the tram, seemed to her to be going out. The intention to turn up the wick alone survived in the midst of her confused ideas. Twice she tried to examine it, and both times when she placed it before her on the earth she saw it turn pale, as though it also lacked breath. Suddenly the lamp went out. Then everything whirled around her in the darkness; a millstone turned in her head, her heart grew weak and left off beating, numbed in its turn by the immense weariness which was putting her limbs to sleep. She had fallen back in anguish amid the asphyxiating air close to the ground. "By God! I believe she's lazing again," growled Chaval's voice. He listened from the top of the cutting, and could hear no sound of wheels. "Eh, Catherine! you damned worm!" His voice was lost afar in the black gallery, and not a breath replied. "I'll come and make you move, I will!" Nothing stirred, there was only the same silence, as of death. He came down furiously, rushing along with his lamp so violently that he nearly fell over the putter's body which barred the way. He looked at her in stupefaction. What was the matter, then? was it humbug, a pretence of going to sleep? But the lamp which he had lowered to light up her face threatened to go out. He lifted it and lowered it afresh, and at last understood; it must be a gust of bad air. His violence disappeared; the devotion of the miner in face of a comrade's peril was awaking within him. He shouted for her chemise to be brought, and seized the naked and unconscious girl in his arms, holding her as high as possible. When their garments had been thrown over her shoulders he set out running, supporting his burden with one hand, and carrying the two lamps with the other. The deep galleries unrolled before him as he rushed along, turning to the right, then to the left, seeking life in the frozen air of the plain which blew down the air-shaft. At last the sound of a spring stopped him, the trickle of water flowing from the rock. He was at a square in the great haulage gallery which formerly led to Gaston-Marie. The air here blew in like a tempest, and was so fresh that a shudder went through him as he seated himself on the earth against the props; his mistress was still unconscious, with closed eyes. "Catherine, come now, by God! no humbug. Hold yourself up a bit while I dip this in the water." He was frightened to find her so limp. However, he was able to dip her chemise in the spring, and to bathe her face with it. She was like a corpse, already buried in the depth of the earth, with her slender girlish body which seemed to be still hesitating before swelling to the form of puberty. Then a shudder ran over her childish breast, over the belly and thighs of the poor little creature deflowered before her time. She opened her eyes and stammered: "I'm cold." "Ah! that's better now!" cried Chaval, relieved. He dressed her, slipped on the chemise easily, but swore over the difficulty he had in getting on the trousers, for she could not help much. She remained dazed, not understanding where she was, nor why she was naked. When she remembered she was ashamed. How had she dared to take everything off! And she questioned him; had she been seen so, without even a handkerchief around her waist to cover her? He joked, and made up stories, saying that he had just brought her there in the midst of all the mates standing in a row. What an idea, to have taken his advice and exhibited her bum! Afterwards he declared that the mates could not even know whether it was round or square, he had rushed along so swiftly. "The deuce! but I'm dying of cold," he said, dressing himself in turn. Never had she seen him so kind. Usually, for one good word that he said to her she received at once two bullying ones. It would have been so pleasant to live in agreement; a feeling of tenderness went through her in the languor of her fatigue. She smiled at him, and murmured: "Kiss me." He embraced her, and lay down beside her, waiting till she was able to walk. "You know," she said again, "you were wrong to shout at me over there, for I couldn't do more, really! Even in the cutting you're not so hot; if you only knew how it roasts you at the bottom of the passage!" "Sure enough," he replied, "it would be better under the trees. You feel bad in that stall, I'm afraid, my poor girl." She was so touched at hearing him agree with her that she tried to be brave. "Oh! it's a bad place. Then, to-day the air is poisoned. But you shall see soon if I'm a worm. When one has to work, one works; isn't it true? I'd die rather than stop." There was silence. He held her with one arm round her waist, pressing her against his breast to keep her from harm. Although she already felt strong enough to go back to the stall, she forgot everything in her delight. "Only," she went on in a very low voice, "I should like it so much if you were kinder. Yes, it is so good when we love each other a little." And she began to cry softly. "But I do love you," he cried, "for I've taken you with me." She only replied by shaking her head. There are often men who take women just in order to have them, caring mighty little about their happiness. Her tears flowed more hotly; it made her despair now to think of the happy life she would have led if she had chanced to fall to another lad, whose arm she would always have felt thus round her waist. Another? and the vague image of that other arose from the depth of her emotion. But it was done with; she only desired now to live to the end with this one, if he would not hustle her about too much. "Then," she said, "try to be like this sometimes." Sobs cut short her words, and he embraced her again. "You're a stupid! There, I swear to be kind. I'm not worse than any one else, go on!" She looked at him, and began to smile through her tears. Perhaps he was right; one never met women who were happy. Then, although she distrusted his oath, she gave herself up to the joy of seeing him affectionate. Good God! if only that could last! They had both embraced again, and as they were pressing each other in a long clasp they heard steps, which made them get up. Three mates who had seen them pass had come up to know how she was. They set out together. It was nearly ten o'clock, and they took their lunch into a cool corner before going back to sweat at the bottom of the cutting. They were finishing the double slice of bread-and-butter, their brick, and were about to drink the coffee from their tin, when they were disturbed by a noise coming from stalls in the distance. What then? was it another accident? They got up and ran. Pikemen, putters, trammers crossed them at every step; no one knew anything; all were shouting; it must be some great misfortune. Gradually the whole mine was in terror, frightened shadows emerged from the galleries, lanterns danced and flew away in the darkness. Where was it? Why could no one say? All at once a captain passed, shouting: "They are cutting the cables! they are cutting the cables!" Then the panic increased. It was a furious gallop through the gloomy passages. Their heads were confused. Why cut the cables? And who was cutting them, when the men were below? It seemed monstrous. But the voice of another captain was heard and then lost: "The Montsou men are cutting the cables! Let every one go up!" When he had understood, Chaval stopped Catherine short. The idea that he would meet the Montsou men up above, should he get out, paralysed his legs. It had come, then, that band which he thought had got into the hands of the police. For a moment he thought of retracing his path and ascending through Gaston-Marie, but that was no longer possible. He swore, hesitating, hiding his fear, repeating that it was stupid to run like that. They would not, surely, leave them at the bottom. The captain's voice echoed anew, now approaching them: "Let every one go up! To the ladders! to the ladders!" And Chaval was carried away with his mates. He pushed Catherine and accused her of not running fast enough. Did she want, then, to remain in the pit to die of hunger? For those Montsou brigands were capable of breaking the ladders without waiting for people to come up. This abominable suggestion ended by driving them wild. Along the galleries there was only a furious rush, helter-skelter; a race of madmen, each striving to arrive first and mount before the others. Some men shouted that the ladders were broken and that no one could get out. And then in frightened groups they began to reach the pit-eye, where they were all engulfed. They threw themselves toward the shaft, they crushed through the narrow door to the ladder passage; while an old groom who had prudently led back the horses to the stable, looked at them with an air of contemptuous indifference, accustomed to spend nights in the pit and certain that he could eventually be drawn out of it. "By God! will you climb up in front of me?" said Chaval to Catherine. "At least I can hold you if you fall." Out of breath, and suffocated by this race of three kilometres which had once more bathed her in sweat, she gave herself up, without understanding, to the eddies of the crowd. Then he pulled her by the arm, almost breaking it; and she cried with pain, her tears bursting out. Already he was forgetting his oath, never would she be happy. "Go on, then!" he roared. But he frightened her too much. If she went first he would bully her the whole time. So she resisted, while the wild flood of their comrades pushed them to one side. The water that filtered from the shaft was falling in great drops, and the floor of the pit-eye, shaken by this tramping, was trembling over the sump, the muddy cesspool ten metres deep. At Jean-Bart, two years earlier, a terrible accident had happened just here; the breaking of a cable had precipitated the cage to the bottom of the sump, in which two men had been drowned. And they all thought of this; every one would be left down there if they all crowded on to the planks. "Confounded dunderhead!" shouted Chaval. "Die then; I shall be rid of you!" He climbed up and she followed. From the bottom to daylight there were a hundred and two ladders, about seven metres in length, each placed on a narrow landing which occupied the breadth of the passage and in which a square hole scarcely allowed the shoulders to pass. It was like a flat chimney, seven hundred metres in height, between the wall of the shaft and the brattice of the winding-cage, a damp pipe, black and endless, in which the ladders were placed one above the other, almost straight, in regular stages. It took a strong man twenty-five minutes to climb up this giant column. The passage, however, was no longer used except in cases of accident. Catherine at first climbed bravely. Her naked feet were used to the hard coal on the floors of the passages, and did not suffer from the square rungs, covered with iron rods to prevent them from wearing away. Her hands, hardened by the haulage, grasped without fatigue the uprights that were too big for her. And it even interested her and took her out of her grief, this unforeseen ascent, this long serpent of men flowing on and hoisting themselves up three on a ladder, so that even when the head should emerge in daylight the tail would still be trailing over the sump. They were not there yet, the first could hardly have ascended a third of the shaft. No one spoke now, only their feet moved with a low sound; while the lamps, like travelling stars, spaced out from below upward, formed a continually increasing line. Catherine heard a trammer behind her counting the ladders. It gave her the idea of counting them also. They had already mounted fifteen, and were arriving at a landing-place. But at that moment she collided with Chaval's legs. He swore, shouting to her to look out. Gradually the whole column stopped and became motionless. What then? had something happened? and every one recovered his voice to ask questions and to express fear. Their anxiety had increased since leaving the bottom; their ignorance as to what was going on above oppressed them more as they approached daylight. Someone announced that they would have to go down again, that the ladders were broken. That was the thought that preoccupied them all, the fear of finding themselves face to face with space. Another explanation came down from mouth to mouth; there had been an accident, a pikeman slipped from a rung. No one knew exactly, the shouts made it impossible to hear; were they going to bed there? At last, without any precise information being obtained, the ascent began again, with the same slow, painful movement, in the midst of the tread of feet and the dancing of lamps. It must certainly be higher up that the ladders were broken. At the thirty-second ladder, as they passed a third landing-stage, Catherine felt her legs and arms grow stiff. At first she had felt a slight tingling in her skin. Now she lost the sensation of the iron and the wood beneath her feet and in her hands. A vague pain, which gradually became burning, heated her muscles. And in the dizziness which came over her, she recalled her grandfather Bonnemort's stories of the days when there was no passage, and little girls of ten used to take out the coal on their shoulders up bare ladders; so that if one of them slipped, or a fragment of coal simply rolled out of a basket, three or four children would fall down head first from the blow. The cramp in her limbs became unbearable, she would never reach the end. Fresh stoppages allowed her to breathe. But the terror which was communicated every time from above dazed her still more. Above and below her, respiration became more difficult. This interminable ascent was causing giddiness, and the nausea affected her with the others. She was suffocating, intoxicated with the darkness, exasperated with the walls which crushed against her flesh, and shuddering also with the dampness, her body perspiring beneath the great drops which fell on her. They were approaching a level where so thick a rain fell that it threatened to extinguish their lamps. Chaval twice spoke to Catherine without obtaining any reply. What the devil was she doing down there? Had she let her tongue fall? She might just tell him if she was all right. They had been climbing for half an hour, but so heavily that he had only reached the fifty-ninth ladder; there were still forty-three. Catherine at last stammered that she was getting on all right. He would have treated her as a worm if she had acknowledged her weariness. The iron of the rungs must have cut her feet; it seemed to her that it was sawing in up to the bone. After every grip she expected to see her hands leave the uprights; they were so peeled and stiff she could not close her fingers, and she feared she would fall backward with torn shoulders and dislocated thighs in this continual effort. It was especially the defective slope of the ladders from which she suffered, the almost perpendicular position which obliged her to hoist herself up by the strength of her wrists, with her belly against the wood. The panting of many breaths now drowned the sound of the feet, forming an enormous moan, multiplied tenfold by the partition of the passage, arising from the depths and expiring towards the light. There was a groan; word ran along that a trammer had just cut his head open against the edge of a stair. And Catherine went on climbing. They had passed the level. The rain had ceased; a mist made heavy the cellar-like air, poisoned with the odour of old iron and damp wood. Mechanically she continued to count in a low voice--eighty-one, eighty-two, eighty-three; still nineteen. The repetition of these figures supported her merely by their rhythmic balance; she had no further consciousness of her movements. When she lifted her eyes the lamps turned in a spiral. Her blood was flowing; she felt that she was dying; the least breath would have knocked her over. The worst was that those below were now pushing, and that the entire column was stampeding, yielding to the growing anger of its fatigue, the furious need to see the sun again. The first mates had emerged; there were, then, no broken ladders; but the idea that they might yet be broken to prevent the last from coming up, when others were already breathing up above, nearly drove them mad. And when a new stoppage occurred oaths broke out, and all went on climbing, hustling each other, passing over each other's bodies to arrive at all costs. Then Catherine fell. She had cried Chaval's name in despairing appeal. He did not hear; he was struggling, digging his heels into a comrade's ribs to get before him. And she was rolled down and trampled over. As she fainted she dreamed. It seemed to her that she was one of the little putter-girls of old days, and that a fragment of coal, fallen from the basket above her, had thrown her to the bottom of the shaft, like a sparrow struck by a flint. Five ladders only remained to climb. It had taken nearly an hour. She never knew how she reached daylight, carried up on people's shoulders, supported by the throttling narrowness of the passage. Suddenly she found herself in the dazzling sunlight, in the midst of a yelling crowd who were hooting her. CHAPTER III From early morning, before daylight, a tremor had agitated the settlements, and that tremor was now swelling through the roads and over the whole country. But the departure had not taken place as arranged, for the news had spread that cavalry and police were scouring the plain. It was said that they had arrived from Douai during the night, and Rasseneur was accused of having betrayed his mates by warning M. Hennebeau; a putter even swore that she had seen the servant taking a dispatch to the telegraph office. The miners clenched their fists and watched the soldiers from behind their shutters by the pale light of the early morning. Towards half-past seven, as the sun was rising, another rumour circulated, reassuring the impatient. It was a false alarm, a simple military promenade, such as the general occasionally ordered since the strike had broken out, at the desire of the prefect of Lille. The strikers detested this official; they reproached him with deceiving them by the promise of a conciliatory intervention, which was limited to a march of troops into Montsou every week, to overawe them. So when the cavalry and police quietly took the road back to Marchiennes, after contenting themselves with deafening the settlements by the stamping of their horses over the hard earth, the miners jeered at this innocent prefect and his soldiers who turned on their heels when things were beginning to get hot. Up till nine o'clock they stood peacefully about, in good humour, before their houses, following with their eyes up the streets the meek backs of the last gendarmes. In the depths of their large beds the good people of Montsou were still sleeping, with their heads among the feathers. At the manager's house, Madame Hennebeau had just been seen setting out in the carriage, leaving M. Hennebeau at work, no doubt, for the closed and silent villa seemed dead. Not one of the pits had any military guard; it was a fatal lack of foresight in the hour of danger, the natural stupidity which accompanies catastrophes, the fault which a government commits whenever there is need of precise knowledge of the facts. And nine o'clock was striking when the colliers at last took the Vandame road, to repair to the rendezvous decided on the day before in the forest. Étienne had very quickly perceived that he would certainly not find over at Jean-Bart the three thousand comrades on whom he was counting. Many believed that the demonstration was put off, and the worst was that two or three bands, already on the way, would compromise the cause if he did not at all costs put himself at their head. Almost a hundred, who had set out before daylight, were taking refuge beneath the forest beeches, waiting for the others. Souvarine, whom the young man went up to consult, shrugged his shoulders; ten resolute fellows could do more work than a crowd; and he turned back to the open book before him, refusing to join in. The thing threatened to turn into sentiment when it would have been enough to adopt the simple method of burning Montsou. As Étienne left the house he saw Rasseneur, seated before the metal stove and looking very pale, while his wife, in her everlasting black dress, was abusing him in polite and cutting terms. Maheu was of opinion that they ought to keep their promise. A rendezvous like this was sacred. However, the night had calmed their fever; he was now fearing misfortune, and he explained that it was their duty to go over there to maintain their mates in the right path. Maheude approved with a nod. Étienne repeated complacently that it was necessary to adopt revolutionary methods, without attempting any person's life. Before setting out he refused his share of a loaf that had been given him the evening before, together with a bottle of gin; but he drank three little glasses, one after the other, saying that he wanted to keep out the cold; he even carried away a tinful. Alzire would look after the children. Old Bonnemort, whose legs were suffering from yesterday's walk, remained in bed. They did not go away together, from motives of prudence. Jeanlin had disappeared long ago. Maheu and Maheude went off on the side sloping towards Montsou; while Étienne turned towards the forest, where he proposed to join his mates. On the way he caught up a band of women among whom he recognized Mother Brulé and the Levaque woman; as they walked they were eating chestnuts which Mouquette had brought; they swallowed the skins so as to feel more in their stomachs. But in the forest he found no one; the men were already at Jean-Bart. He took the same course, and arrived at the pit at the moment when Levaque and some hundreds others were penetrating into the square. Miners were coming up from every direction--the men by the main road, the women by the fields, all at random, without leaders, without weapons, flowing naturally thither like water which runs down a slope. Étienne perceived Jeanlin, who had climbed up on a foot-bridge, installed as though at a theatre. He ran faster, and entered among the first. There were scarcely three hundred of them. There was some hesitation when Deneulin showed himself at the top of the staircase which led to the receiving-room. "What do you want?" he asked in a loud voice. After having watched the disappearance of the carriage, from which his daughters were still laughing towards him, he had returned to the pit overtaken by a strange anxiety. Everything, however, was found in good order. The men had gone down; the cage was working, and he became reassured again, and was talking to the head captain when the approach of the strikers was announced to him. He had placed himself at a window of the screening-shed; and in the face of this increasing flood which filled the square, he at once felt his impotence. How could he defend these buildings, open on every side? he could scarcely group some twenty of his workmen round himself. He was lost. "What do you want?" he repeated, pale with repressed anger, making an effort to accept his disaster courageously. There were pushes and growls amid the crowd. Étienne at last came forward, saying: "We do not come to injure you, sir, but work must cease everywhere." Deneulin frankly treated him as an idiot. "Do you think you will benefit me if you stop work at my place? You might just as well fire a gun off into my back. Yes, my men are below, and they shall not come up, unless you mean to murder me first!" These rough words raised a clamour. Maheu had to hold back Levaque, who was pushing forward in a threatening manner, while Étienne went on discussing, and tried to convince Deneulin of the lawfulness of their revolutionary conduct. But the latter replied by the right to work. Besides, he refused to discuss such folly; he meant to be master in his own place. His only regret was that he had not four gendarmes here to sweep away this mob. "To be sure, it is my fault; I deserve what has happened to me. With fellows of your sort force is the only argument. The Government thinks to buy you by concessions. You will throw it down, that's all, when it has given you weapons." Étienne was quivering, but still held himself in. He lowered his voice. "I beg you, sir, give the order for your men to come up. I cannot answer for my mates. You may avoid a disaster." "No! be good enough to let me alone! Do I know you? You do not belong to my works, you have no quarrel with me. It is only brigands who thus scour the country to pillage houses." Loud vociferations now drowned his voice, the women especially abused him. But he continued to hold his own, experiencing a certain relief in this frankness with which he expressed his disciplinarian nature. Since he was ruined in any case, he thought platitudes a useless cowardice. But their numbers went on increasing; nearly five hundred were pushing towards the door, and he might have been torn to pieces if his head captain had not pulled him violently back. "For mercy's sake, sir! There will be a massacre. What is the good of letting men be killed for nothing?" He struggled and protested in one last cry thrown at the crowd: "You set of brigands, you will know what, when we are strongest again!" They led him away; the hustling of the crowd had thrown the first ranks against the staircase so that the rail was twisted. It was the women who pushed and screamed and urged on the men. The door yielded at once; it was a door without a lock, simply closed by a latch. But the staircase was too narrow for the pushing crowd, which would have taken long to get in if the rear of the besiegers had not gone off to enter by other openings. Then they poured in on all sides--by the shed, the screening-place, the boiler buildings. In less than five minutes the whole pit belonged to them; they swarmed at every story in the midst of furious gestures and cries, carried away by their victory over this master who resisted. Maheu, in terror, had rushed forward among the first, saying to Étienne: "They must not kill him!" The latter was already running; then, when Étienne understood that Deneulin had barricaded himself in the captains' room, he replied: "Well, would it be our fault? such a madman!" He was feeling anxious, however, being still too calm to yield to this outburst of anger. His pride of leadership also suffered on seeing the band escape from his authority and become enraged, going beyond the cold execution of the will of the people, such as he had anticipated. In vain he called for coolness, shouting that they must not put right on their enemies' side by acts of useless destruction. "To the boilers!" shouted Mother Brulé. "Put out the fires!" Levaque, who had found a file, was brandishing it like a dagger, dominating the tumult with a terrible cry: "Cut the cables! cut the cables!" Soon they all repeated this; only Étienne and Maheu continued to protest, dazed, and talking in the tumult without obtaining silence. At last the former was able to say: "But there are men below, mates!" The noise redoubled and voices arose from all sides: "So much the worse!--Ought not to go down!--Serve the traitors right!--Yes, yes, let them stay there!--And then, they have the ladders!" Then, when this idea of the ladders had made them still more obstinate, Étienne saw that he would have to yield. For fear of a greater disaster he hastened towards the engine, wishing at all events to bring the cages up, so that the cables, being cut above the shaft, should not smash them by falling down with their enormous weight. The engine-man had disappeared as well as the few daylight workers; and he took hold of the starting lever, manipulating it while Levaque and two other climbed up the metal scaffold which supported the pulleys. The cages were hardly fixed on the keeps when the strident sound was heard of the file biting into the steel. There was deep silence, and this noise seemed to fill the whole pit; all raised their heads, looking and listening, seized by emotion. In the first rank Maheu felt a fierce joy possess him, as if the teeth of the file would deliver them from misfortune by eating into the cable of one of these dens of wretchedness, into which they would never descend again. But Mother Brulé had disappeared by the shed stairs still shouting: "The fires must be put out! To the boilers! to the boilers!" Some women followed her. Maheude hastened to prevent them from smashing everything, just as her husband had tried to reason with the men. She was the calmest of them; one could demand one's rights without making a mess in people's places. When she entered the boiler building the women were already chasing away the two stokers, and the Brulé, armed with a large shovel, and crouching down before one of the stoves, was violently emptying it, throwing the red-hot coke on to the brick floor, where it continued to burn with black smoke. There were ten stoves for the five boilers. Soon the women warmed to the work, the Levaque manipulating her shovel with both hands, Mouquette raising her clothes up to her thighs so as not to catch fire, all looking red in the reflection of the flames, sweating and dishevelled in this witch's kitchen. The piles of coal increased, and the burning heat cracked the ceiling of the vast hall. "Enough, now!" cried Maheude; "the store-room is afire." "So much the better," replied Mother Brulé. "That will do the work. Ah, by God! haven't I said that I would pay them out for the death of my man!" At this moment Jeanlin's shrill voice was heard: "Look out! I'll put it out, I will! I'll let it all off!" He had come in among the first, and had kicked his legs about among the crowd, delighted at the fray and seeking out what mischief he could do; the idea had occurred to him to turn on the discharge taps and let off the steam. The jets came out with the violence of volleys; the five boilers were emptied with the sound of a tempest, whistling in such a roar of thunder that one's ears seemed to bleed. Everything had disappeared in the midst of the vapour, the hot coal grew pale, and the women were nothing more than shadows with broken gestures. The child alone appeared mounted on the gallery, behind the whirlwinds of white steam, filled with delight and grinning broadly in the joy of unchaining this hurricane. This lasted nearly a quarter of an hour. A few buckets of water had been thrown over the heaps to complete their extinction; all danger of a fire had gone by, but the anger of the crowd had not subsided; on the contrary, it had been whipped up. Men went down with hammers, even the women armed themselves with iron bars; and they talked of smashing boilers, of breaking engines, and of demolishing the mine. Étienne, forewarned, hastened to come up with Maheu. He himself was becoming intoxicated and carried away by this hot fever of revenge. He struggled, however, and entreated them to be calm, now that, with cut cables, extinguished fires, and empty boilers, work was impossible. He was not always listened to; and was again about to be carried away by the crowd, when hoots arose outside at a little low door where the ladder passage emerged. "Down with the traitors!--Oh! the dirty chops of the cowards!--Down with them! down with them!" The men were beginning to come up from below. The first arrivals, blinded by the daylight, stood there with quivering eyelids. Then they moved away, trying to gain the road and flee. "Down with the cowards! down with the traitors!" The whole band of strikers had run up. In less than three minutes there was not a man left in the buildings; the five hundred Montsou men were ranged in two rows, and the Vandame men, who had had the treachery to go down, were forced to pass between this double hedge. And as every fresh miner appeared at the door of the passage, covered with the black mud of work and with garments in rags, the hooting redoubled, and ferocious jokes arose. Oh! look at that one!--three inches of legs and then his arse! and this one with his nose eaten by those Volcan girls! and this other, with eyes pissing out enough wax to furnish ten cathedrals! and this other, the tall fellow without a rump and as long as Lent! An enormous putter-woman, who rolled out with her breast to her belly and her belly to her backside, raised a furious laugh. They wanted to handle them, the joking increased and was turning to cruelty, blows would soon have rained; while the row of poor devils came out shivering and silent beneath the abuse, with sidelong looks in expectation of blows, glad when they could at last rush away out of the mine. "Hallo! how many are there in there?" asked Étienne. He was astonished to see them still coming out, and irritated at the idea that it was not a mere handful of workers, urged by hunger, terrorized by the captains. They had lied to him, then, in the forest; nearly all Jean-Bart had gone down. But a cry escaped from him and he rushed forward when he saw Chaval standing on the threshold. "By God! is this the rendezvous you called us to?" Imprecations broke out and there was a movement of the crowd towards the traitor. What! he had sworn with them the day before, and now they found him down below with the others! Was he, then, making fools of people? "Off with him! To the shaft! to the shaft!" Chaval, white with fear, stammered and tried to explain. But Étienne cut him short, carried out of himself and sharing the fury of the band. "You wanted to be in it, and you shall be in it. Come on! take your damned snout along!" Another clamour covered his voice. Catherine, in her turn, had just appeared, dazzled by the bright sunlight, and frightened at falling into the midst of these savages. She was panting, with legs aching from the hundred and two ladders, and with bleeding palms, when Maheude, seeing her, rushed forward with her hand up. "Ah! slut! you, too! When your mother is dying of hunger you betray her for your bully!" Maheu held back her arm, and stopped the blow. But he shook his daughter; he was enraged, like his wife; he threw her conduct in her face, and both lost their heads, shouting louder than their mates. The sight of Catherine had completed Étienne's exasperation. He repeated: "On we go to the other pits, and you come with us, you dirty devil!" Chaval had scarcely time to get his sabots from the shed and to throw his woollen jacket over his frozen shoulders. They all dragged him on, forcing him to run in the midst of them. Catherine, bewildered, also put on her sabots, buttoning at her neck her man's old jacket, with which she kept off the cold; and she ran behind her lover, she would not leave him, for surely they were going to murder him. Then in two minutes Jean-Bart was emptied. Jeanlin had found a horn and was blowing it, producing hoarse sounds, as though he were gathering oxen together. The women--Mother Brulé, the Levaque, and Mouquette--raised their skirts to run, while Levaque, with an axe in his hand, manipulated it like a drum-major's stick. Other men continued to arrive; they were nearly a thousand, without order, again flowing on to the road like a torrent let loose. The gates were too narrow, and the palings were broken down. "To the pits!--Down with the traitors!--No more work!" And Jean-Bart fell suddenly into a great silence. Not a man was left, not a breath was heard. Deneulin came out of the captains' room, and quite alone, with a gesture forbidding any one to follow him, he went over the pit. He was pale and very calm. At first he stopped before the shaft, lifting his eyes to look at the cut cables; the steel ends hung useless, the bite of the file had left a living scar, a fresh wound which gleamed in the black grease. Afterwards he went up to the engine, and looked at the crank, which was motionless, like the joint of a colossal limb struck by paralysis. He touched the metal, which had already cooled, and the cold made him shudder as though he had touched a corpse. Then he went down to the boiler-room, walked slowly before the extinguished stoves, yawning and inundated, and struck his foot against the boilers, which sounded hollow. Well! it was quite finished; his ruin was complete. Even if he mended the cables and lit the fires, where would he find men? Another fortnight's strike and he would be bankrupt. And in this certainty of disaster he no longer felt any hatred of the Montsou brigands; he felt that all had a complicity in it, that it was a general agelong fault. They were brutes, no doubt, but brutes who could not read, and who were dying of hunger. CHAPTER IV And the troop went off over the flat plain, white with frost beneath the pale winter sun, and overflowed the path as they passed through the beetroot fields. From the Fourche-aux-Boeufs, Étienne had assumed command. He cried his orders while the crowd moved on, and organized the march. Jeanlin galloped at the head, performing barbarous music on his horn. Then the women came in the first ranks, some of them armed with sticks: Maheude, with wild eyes seemed to be seeking afar for the promised city of justice, Mother Brulé, the Levaque woman, Mouquette, striding along beneath their rags, like soldiers setting out for the seat of war. If they had any encounters, we should see if the police dared to strike women. And the men followed in a confused flock, a stream that grew larger and larger, bristling with iron bars and dominated by Levaque's single axe, with its blade glistening in the sun. Étienne, in the middle, kept Chaval in sight, forcing him to walk before him; while Maheu, behind, gloomily kept an eye on Catherine, the only woman among these men, obstinately trotting near her lover for fear that he would be hurt. Bare heads were dishevelled in the air; only the clank of sabots could be heard, like the movement of released cattle, carried away by Jeanlin's wild trumpeting. But suddenly a new cry arose: "Bread! bread! bread!" It was midday; the hunger of six weeks on strike was awaking in these empty stomachs, whipped up by this race across the fields. The few crusts of the morning and Mouquette's chestnuts had long been forgotten; their stomachs were crying out, and this suffering was added to their fury against the traitors. "To the pits! No more work! Bread!" Étienne, who had refused to eat his share at the settlement, felt an unbearable tearing sensation in his chest. He made no complaint, but mechanically took his tin from time to time and swallowed a gulp of gin, shaking so much that he thought he needed it to carry him to the end. His cheeks were heated and his eyes inflamed. He kept his head, however, and still wished to avoid needless destruction. As they arrived at the Joiselle road a Vandame pikeman, who had joined the band for revenge on his master, impelled the men towards the right, shouting: "To Gaston-Marie! Must stop the pump! Let the water ruin Jean-Bart!" The mob was already turning, in spite of the protests of Étienne, who begged them to let the pumping continue. What was the good of destroying the galleries? It offended his workman's heart, in spite of his resentment. Maheu also thought it unjust to take revenge on a machine. But the pikeman still shouted his cry of vengeance, and Étienne had to cry still louder: "To Mirou! There are traitors down there! To Mirou! to Mirou!" With a gesture, he had turned the crowd towards the left road; while Jeanlin, going ahead, was blowing louder than ever. An eddy was produced in the crowd; this time Gaston-Marie was saved. And the four kilometres which separated them from Mirou were traversed in half an hour, almost at running pace, across the interminable plain. The canal on this side cut it with a long icy ribbon. The leafless trees on the banks, changed by the frost into giant candelabra, alone broke this pale uniformity, prolonged and lost in the sky at the horizon as in a sea. An undulation of the ground hid Montsou and Marchiennes; there was nothing but bare immensity. They reached the pit, and found a captain standing on a foot-bridge at the screening-shed to receive them. They all well knew Father Quandieu, the _doyen_ of the Montsou captains, an old man whose skin and hair were quite white, and who was in his seventies, a miracle of fine health in the mines. "What have you come after here, you pack of meddlers?" he shouted. The band stopped. It was no longer a master, it was a mate; and a certain respect held them back before this old workman. "There are men down below," said Étienne. "Make them come up." "Yes, there are men there," said Father Quandieu, "some six dozen; the others were afraid of you evil beggars! But I warn you that not one comes up, or you will have to deal with me!" Exclamations arose, the men pushed, the women advanced. Quickly coming down from the foot-bridge, the captain now barred the door. Then Maheu tried to interfere. "It is our right, old man. How can we make the strike general if we don't force all the mates to be on our side?" The old man was silent a moment. Evidently his ignorance on the subject of coalition equalled the pikeman's. At last he replied: "It may be your right, I don't say. But I only know my orders. I am alone here; the men are down till three, and they shall stay there till three." The last words were lost in hooting. Fists were threateningly advanced, the women deafened him, and their hot breath blew in his face. But he still held out, his head erect, and his beard and hair white as snow; his courage had so swollen his voice that he could be heard distinctly over the tumult. "By God! you shall not pass! As true as the sun shines, I would rather die than let you touch the cables. Don't push any more, or I'm damned if I don't fling myself down the shaft before you!" The crowd drew back shuddering and impressed. He went on: "Where is the beast who does not understand that? I am only a workman like you others. I have been told to guard here, and I'm guarding." That was as far as Father Quandieu's intelligence went, stiffened by his obstinacy of military duty, his narrow skull, and eyes dimmed by the black melancholy of half a century spent underground. The men looked at him moved, feeling within them an echo of what he said, this military obedience, the sense of fraternity and resignation in danger. He saw that they were hesitating still, and repeated: "I'm damned if I don't fling myself down the shaft before you!" A great recoil carried away the mob. They all turned, and in the rush took the right-hand road, which stretched far away through the fields. Again cries arose: "To Madeleine! To Crévecoeur! no more work! Bread! bread!" But in the centre, as they went on, there was hustling. It was Chaval, they said, who was trying to take advantage of an opportunity to escape. Étienne had seized him by the arm, threatening to do for him if he was planning some treachery. And the other struggled and protested furiously: "What's all this for? Isn't a man free? I've been freezing the last hour. I want to clean myself. Let me go!" He was, in fact, suffering from the coal glued to his skin by sweat, and his woollen garment was no protection. "On you go, or we'll clean you," replied Étienne. "Don't expect to get your life at a bargain." They were still running, and he turned towards Catherine, who was keeping up well. It annoyed him to feel her so near him, so miserable, shivering beneath her man's old jacket and her muddy trousers. She must be nearly dead of fatigue, she was running all the same. "You can go off, you can," he said at last. Catherine seemed not to hear. Her eyes, on meeting Étienne's, only flamed with reproach for a moment. She did not stop. Why did he want her to leave her man? Chaval was not at all kind, it was true; he would even beat her sometimes. But he was her man, the one who had had her first; and it enraged her that they should throw themselves on him--more than a thousand of them. She would have defended him without any tenderness at all, out of pride. "Off you go!" repeated Maheu, violently. Her father's order slackened her course for a moment. She trembled, and her eyelids swelled with tears. Then, in spite of her fear, she came back to the same place again, still running. Then they let her be. The mob crossed the Joiselle road, went a short distance up the Cron road and then mounted towards Cougny. On this side, factory chimneys striped the flat horizon; wooden sheds, brick workshops with large dusty windows, appeared along the street. They passed one after another the low buildings of two settlements--that of the Cent-Quatre-Vingts, then that of the Soixante-Seize; and from each of them, at the sound of the horn and the clamour arising from every mouth, whole families came out--men, women, and children--running to join their mates in the rear. When they came up to Madeleine there were at least fifteen hundred. The road descended in a gentle slope; the rumbling flood of strikers had to turn round the pit-bank before they could spread over the mine square. It was now not more than two o'clock. But the captains had been warned and were hastening the ascent as the band arrived. The men were all up, only some twenty remained and were now disembarking from the cage. They fled and were pursued with stones. Two were struck, another left the sleeve of his jacket behind. This man-hunt saved the material, and neither the cables nor the boilers were touched. The flood was already moving away, rolling on towards the next pit. This one, Crévecoeur, was only five hundred metres away from Madeleine. There, also, the mob arrived in the midst of the ascent. A putter-girl was taken and whipped by the women with her breeches split open and her buttocks exposed before the laughing men. The trammer-boys had their ears boxed, the pikemen got away, their sides blue from blows and their noses bleeding. And in this growing ferocity, in this old need of revenge which was turning every head with madness, the choked cries went on, death to traitors, hatred against ill-paid work, the roaring of bellies after bread. They began to cut the cables, but the file would not bite, and the task was too long now that the fever was on them for moving onward, for ever onward. At the boilers a tap was broken; while the water, thrown by bucketsful into the stoves, made the metal gratings burst. Outside they were talking of marching on Saint-Thomas. This was the best disciplined pit. The strike had not touched it, nearly seven hundred men must have gone down there. This exasperated them; they would wait for these men with sticks, ranged for battle, just to see who would get the best of it. But the rumour ran along that there were gendarmes at Saint-Thomas, the gendarmes of the morning whom they had made fun of. How was this known? nobody could say. No matter! they were seized by fear and decided on Feutry-Cantel. Their giddiness carried them on, all were on the road, clanking their sabots, rushing forward. To Feutry-Cantel! to Feutry-Cantel! The cowards there were certainly four hundred in number and there would be fun! Situated three kilometres away, this pit lay in a fold of the ground near the Scarpe. They were already climbing the slope of the Platriéres, beyond the road to Beaugnies, when a voice, no one knew from whom, threw out the idea that the soldiers were, perhaps, down there at Feutry-Cantel. Then from one to the other of the column it was repeated that the soldiers were down there. They slackened their march, panic gradually spread in the country, idle without work, which they had been scouring for hours. Why had they not come across any soldiers? This impunity troubled them, at the thought of the repression which they felt to be coming. Without any one knowing where it came from, a new word of command turned them towards another pit. "To the Victoire! to the Victoire!" Were there, then, neither soldiers nor police at the Victoire? Nobody knew. All seemed reassured. And turning round they descended from the Beaumont side and cut across the fields to reach the Joiselle road. The railway line barred their passage, and they crossed it, pulling down the palings. Now they were approaching Montsou, the gradual undulation of the landscape grew less, the sea of beetroot fields enlarged, reaching far away to the black houses at Marchiennes. This time it was a march of five good kilometres. So strong an impulse pushed them on that they had no feeling of their terrible fatigue, or of their bruised and wounded feet. The rear continued to lengthen, increased by mates enlisted on the roads and in the settlements. When they had passed the canal at the Magache bridge, and appeared before the Victoire, there were two thousand of them. But three o'clock had struck, the ascent was completed, not a man remained below. Their disappointment was spent in vain threats; they could only heave broken bricks at the workmen who had arrived to take their duty at the earth-cutting. There was a rush, and the deserted pit belonged to them. And in their rage at not finding a traitor's face to strike, they attacked things. A rankling abscess was bursting within them, a poisoned boil of slow growth. Years and years of hunger tortured them with a thirst for massacre and destruction. Behind a shed Étienne saw some porters filling a wagon with coal. "Will you just clear out of the bloody place!" he shouted. "Not a bit of coal goes out!" At his orders some hundred strikers ran up, and the porters only had time to escape. Men unharnessed the horses, which were frightened and set off, struck in the haunches; while others, overturning the wagon, broke the shafts. Levaque, with violent blows of his axe, had thrown himself on the platforms to break down the foot-bridges. They resisted, and it occurred to him to tear up the rails, destroying the line from one end of the square to the other. Soon the whole band set to this task. Maheu made the metal chairs leap up, armed with his iron bar which he used as a lever. During this time Mother Brulé led away the women and invaded the lamp cabin, where their sticks covered the soil with a carnage of lamps. Maheude, carried out of herself, was laying about her as vigorously as the Levaque woman. All were soaked in oil, and Mouquette dried her hands on her skirt, laughing to find herself so dirty. Jeanlin for a joke, had emptied a lamp down her neck. But all this revenge produced nothing to eat. Stomachs were crying out louder than ever. And the great lamentation dominated still: "Bread! bread! bread!" A former captain at the Victoire kept a stall near by. No doubt he had fled in fear, for his shed was abandoned. When the women came back, and the men had finished destroying the railway, they besieged the stall, the shutters of which yielded at once. They found no bread there; there were only two pieces of raw flesh and a sack of potatoes. But in the pillage they discovered some fifty bottles of gin, which disappeared like a drop of water drunk up by the sand. Étienne, having emptied his tin, was able to refill it. Little by little a terrible drunkenness, the drunkenness of the starved, was inflaming his eyes and baring his teeth like a wolf's between his pallid lips. Suddenly he perceived that Chaval had gone off in the midst of the tumult. He swore, and men ran to seize the fugitive, who was hiding with Catherine behind the timber supply. "Ah! you dirty swine; you are afraid of getting into trouble!" shouted Étienne. "It was you in the forest who called for a strike of the engine-men, to stop the pumps, and now you want to play us a filthy trick! Very well! By God! we will go back to Gaston-Marie. I will have you smash the pump; yes, by God! you shall smash it!" He was drunk; he was urging his men against this pump which he had saved a few hours earlier. "To Gaston-Marie! to Gaston-Marie!" They all cheered, and rushed on, while Chaval, seized by the shoulders, was drawn and pushed violently along, while he constantly asked to be allowed to wash. "Will you take yourself off, then?" cried Maheu to Catherine who had also begun to run again. This time she did not even draw back, but turned her burning eyes on her father, and went on running. Once more the mob ploughed through the flat plain. They were retracing their steps over the long straight paths, by the fields endlessly spread out. It was four o'clock; the sun which approached the horizon, lengthened the shadows of this horde with their furious gestures over the frozen soil. They avoided Montsou, and farther on rejoined the Joiselle road; to spare the journey round Fourche-aux-Boeufs, they passed beneath the walls of Piolaine. The Grégoires had just gone out, having to visit a lawyer before going to dine with the Hennebeaus, where they would find Cécile. The estate seemed asleep, with its avenue of deserted limes, its kitchen garden and its orchard bared by the winter. Nothing was stirring in the house, and the closed windows were dulled by the warm steam within. Out of the profound silence an impression of good-natured comfort arose, the patriarchal sensation of good beds and a good table, the wise happiness of the proprietor's existence. Without stopping, the band cast gloomy looks through the grating and at the length of protecting walls, bristling with broken bottles. The cry arose again: "Bread! bread! bread!" The dogs alone replied, by barking ferociously, a pair of Great Danes, with rough coats, who stood with open jaws. And behind the closed blind there were only the servants. Mélanie the cook and Honorine the housemaid, attracted by this cry, pale and perspiring with fear at seeing these savages go by. They fell on their knees, and thought themselves killed on hearing a single stone breaking a pane of a neighbouring window. It was a joke of Jeanlin's; he had manufactured a sling with a piece of cord, and had just sent a little passing greeting to the Grégoires. Already he was again blowing his horn, the band was lost in the distance, and the cry grew fainter: "Bread! bread! bread!" They arrived at Gaston-Marie in still greater numbers, more than two thousand five hundred madmen, breaking everything, sweeping away everything, with the force of a torrent which gains strength as it moves. The police had passed here an hour earlier, and had gone off towards Saint-Thomas, led astray by some peasants; in their haste they had not even taken the precaution of leaving a few men behind to guard the pit. In less than a quarter of an hour the fires were overturned, the boilers emptied, the buildings torn down and devastated. But it was the pump which they specially threatened. It was not enough to stop it in the last expiring breath of its steam; they threw themselves on it as on a living person whose life they required. "The first blow is yours!" repeated Étienne, putting a hammer into Chaval's hand. "Come! you have sworn with the others!" Chaval drew back trembling, and in the hustling the hammer fell; while other men, without waiting, battered the pump with blows from iron bars, blows from bricks, blows from anything they could lay their hands on. Some even broke sticks over it. The nuts leapt off, the pieces of steel and copper were dislocated like torn limbs. The blow of a shovel, delivered with full force, fractured the metal body; the water escaped and emptied itself, and there was a supreme gurgle like an agonizing death-rattle. That was the end, and the mob found themselves outside again, madly pushing on behind Étienne, who would not let Chaval go. "Kill him! the traitor! To the shaft! to the shaft!" The livid wretch, clinging with imbecile obstinacy to his fixed idea, continued to stammer his need of cleaning himself. "Wait, if that bothers you, said the Levaque woman. "Here! here's a bucket!" There was a pond there, an infiltration of the water from the pump. It was white with a thick layer of ice; and they struck it and broke the ice, forcing him to dip his head in this cold water. "Duck then," repeated Mother Brulé. "By God! if you don't duck we'll shove you in. And now you shall have a drink of it; yes, yes, like a beast, with your jaws in the trough!" He had to drink on all fours. They all laughed, with cruel laughter. One woman pulled his ears, another woman threw in his face a handful of dung found fresh on the road. His old woollen jacket in tatters no longer held together. He was haggard, stumbling, and with struggling movements of his hips he tried to flee. Maheu had pushed him, and Maheude was among those who grew furious, both of them satisfying their old spite; even Mouquette, who generally remained such good friends with her old lovers, was wild with this one, treating him as a good-for-nothing, and talking of taking his breeches down to see if he was still a man. Étienne made her hold her tongue. "That's enough. There's no need for all to set to it. If you like, you, we will just settle it together." His fists closed and his eyes were lit up with homicidal fury; his intoxication was turning into the desire to kill. "Are you ready? One of us must stay here. Give him a knife; I've got mine." Catherine, exhausted and terrified, gazed at him. She remembered his confidences, his desire to devour a man when he had drunk, poisoned after the third glass, to such an extent had his drunkards of parents put this beastliness into his body. Suddenly she leapt forward, struck him with both her woman's hands, and choking with indignation shouted into his face: "Coward! coward! coward! Isn't it enough, then, all these abominations? You want to kill him now that he can't stand upright any longer!" She turned towards her father and her mother; she turned towards the others. "You are cowards! cowards! Kill me, then, with him! I will tear your eyes out, I will, if you touch him again. Oh! the cowards!" And she planted herself before her man to defend him, forgetting the blows, forgetting the life of misery, lifted up by the idea that she belonged to him since he had taken her, and that it was a shame for her when they so crushed him. Étienne had grown pale beneath this girl's blows. At first he had been about to knock her down; then, after having wiped his face with the movement of a man who is recovering from intoxication, he said to Chaval, in the midst of deep silence: "She is right; that's enough. Off you go." Immediately Chaval was away, and Catherine galloped behind him. The crowd gazed at them as they disappeared round a corner of the road; but Maheude muttered: "You were wrong; ought to have kept him. He is sure to be after some treachery." But the mob began to march on again. Five o'clock was about to strike. The sun, as red as a furnace on the edge of the horizon, seemed to set fire to the whole plain. A pedlar who was passing informed them that the military were descending from the Crévecoeur side. Then they turned. An order ran: "To Montsou! To the manager!--Bread! bread! bread!" CHAPTER V M. Hennebeau had placed himself in front of his study window to watch the departure of the carriage which was taking away his wife to lunch at Marchiennes. His eyes followed Négrel for a moment, as he trotted beside the carriage door. Then he quietly returned and seated himself at his desk. When neither his wife nor his nephew animated the place with their presence the house seemed empty. On this day the coachman was driving his wife; Rose, the new housemaid, had leave to go out till five o'clock; there only remained Hippolyte, the valet de chambre, trailing about the rooms in slippers, and the cook, who had been occupied since dawn in struggling with her saucepans, entirely absorbed in the dinner which was to be given in the evening. So M. Hennebeau promised himself a day of serious work in this deep calm of the deserted house. Towards nine o'clock, although he had received orders to send every one away, Hippolyte took the liberty of announcing Dansaert, who was bringing news. The manager then heard, for the first time, of the meeting in the forest the evening before; the details were very precise, and he listened while thinking of the intrigue with Pierronne, so well known that two or three anonymous letters every week denounced the licentiousness of the head captain. Evidently the husband had talked, and no doubt the wife had, too. He even took advantage of the occasion; he let the head captain know that he was aware of everything, contenting himself with recommending prudence for fear of a scandal. Startled by these reproaches in the midst of his report, Dansaert denied, stammered excuses, while his great nose confessed the crime by its sudden redness. He did not insist, however, glad to get off so easily; for, as a rule, the manager displayed the implacable severity of the virtuous man whenever an employee allowed himself the indulgence of a pretty girl in the pit. The conversation continued concerning the strike; that meeting in the forest was only the swagger of blusterers; nothing serious threatened. In any case, the settlements would surely not stir for some days, beneath the impression of respectful fear which must have been produced by the military promenade of the morning. When M. Hennebeau was alone again he was, however, on the point of sending a telegram to the prefect. Only the fear of uselessly showing a sign of anxiety held him back. Already he could not forgive himself his lack of insight in saying everywhere, and even writing to the directors, that the strike would last at most a fortnight. It had been going on and on for nearly two months, to his great surprise, and he was in despair over it; he felt himself every day lowered and compromised, and was forced to imagine some brilliant achievement which would bring him back into favour with the directors. He had just asked them for orders in the case of a skirmish. There was delay over the reply, and he was expecting it by the afternoon post. He said to himself that there would be time then to send out telegrams, and to obtain the military occupation of the pits, if such was the desire of those gentlemen. In his own opinion there would certainly be a battle and an expenditure of blood. This responsibility troubled him in spite of his habitual energy. Up to eleven o'clock he worked peacefully; there was no sound in the dead house except Hippolyte's waxing-stick, which was rubbing a floor far away on the first floor. Then, one after the other, he received two messages, the first announcing the attack on Jean-Bart by the Montsou band, the second telling of the cut cables, the overturned fires, and all the destruction. He could not understand. Why had the strikers gone to Deneulin instead of attacking one of the Company's pits? Besides, they were quite welcome to sack Vandame; that would merely ripen the plan of conquest which he was meditating. And at midday he lunched alone in the large dining-room, served so quietly by the servant that he could not even hear his slippers. This solitude rendered his preoccupations more gloomy; he was feeling cold at the heart when a captain, who had arrived running, was shown in, and told him of the mob's march on Mirou. Almost immediately, as he was finishing his coffee, a telegram informed him that Madeleine and Crévecoeur were in their turn threatened. Then his perplexity became extreme. He was expecting the postman at two o'clock; ought he at once to ask for troops? or would it be better to wait patiently, and not to act until he had received the directors' orders? He went back into his study; he wished to read a report which he had asked Négrel to prepare the day before for the prefect. But he could not put his hand on it; he reflected that perhaps the young man had left it in his room, where he often wrote at night, and without taking any decision, pursued by the idea of this report, he went upstairs to look for it in the room. As he entered, M. Hennebeau was surprised: the room had not been done, no doubt through Hippolyte's forgetfulness or laziness. There was a moist heat there, the close heat of the past night, made heavier from the mouth of the hot-air stove being left open; and he was suffocated, too, with a penetrating perfume, which he thought must be the odour of the toilet waters with which the basin was full. There was great disorder in the room--garments scattered about, damp towels thrown on the backs of chairs, the bed yawning, with a sheet drawn back and draggling on the carpet. But at first he only glanced round with an abstracted look as he went towards a table covered with papers to look for the missing report. Twice he examined the papers one by one, but it was certainly not there. Where the devil could that madcap Paul have stuffed it? And as M. Hennebeau went back into the middle of the room, giving a glance at each article of furniture, he noticed in the open bed a bright point which shone like a star. He approached mechanically and put out his hand. It was a little gold scent-bottle lying between two folds of the sheet. He at once recognized a scent-bottle belonging to Madame Hennebeau, the little ether bottle which was always with her. But he could not understand its presence here: how could it have got into Paul's bed? And suddenly he grew terribly pale. His wife had slept there. "Beg your pardon, sir," murmured Hippolyte's voice through the door. "I saw you going up." The servant entered and was thrown into consternation by the disorder. "Lord! Why, the room is not done! So Rose has gone out, leaving all the house on my shoulders!" M. Hennebeau had hidden the bottle in his hand and was pressing it almost to breaking. "What do you want?" "It's another man, sir; he has come from Crévecoeur with a letter." "Good! Leave me alone; tell him to wait." His wife had slept there! When he had bolted the door he opened his hand again and looked at the little bottle which had left its image in red on his flesh. Suddenly he saw and understood; this filthiness had been going on in his house for months. He recalled his old suspicion, the rustling against the doors, the naked feet at night through the silent house. Yes, it was his wife who went up to sleep there! Falling into a chair opposite the bed, which he gazed at fixedly, he remained some minutes as though crushed. A noise aroused him; someone was knocking at the door, trying to open it. He recognized the servant's voice. "Sir--Ah! you are shut in, sir." "What is it now?" "There seems to be a hurry; the men are breaking everything. There are two more messengers below. There are also some telegrams." "You just leave me alone! I am coming directly." The idea that Hippolyte would himself have discovered the scent-bottle, had he done the room in the morning, had just frozen him. And besides, this man must know; he must have found the bed still hot with adultery twenty times over, with madame's hairs trailing on the pillow, and abominable traces staining the linen. The man kept interrupting him, and it could only be out of inquisitiveness. Perhaps he had stayed with his ear stuck to the door, excited by the debauchery of his masters. M. Hennebeau did not move. He still gazed at the bed. His long past of suffering unrolled before him: his marriage with this woman, their immediate misunderstanding of the heart and of the flesh, the lovers whom she had had unknown to him, and the lover whom he had tolerated for ten years, as one tolerates an impure taste in a sick woman. Then came their arrival at Montsou, the mad hope of curing her, months of languor, of sleepy exile, the approach of old age which would, perhaps, at last give her back to him. Then their nephew arrived, this Paul to whom she became a mother, and to whom she spoke of her dead heart buried for ever beneath the ashes. And he, the imbecile husband, foresaw nothing; he adored this woman who was his wife, whom other men had possessed, but whom he alone could not possess! He adored her with shameful passion, so that he would have fallen on his knees if she would but have given him the leavings of other men! The leavings of the others she gave to this child. The sound of a distant gong at this moment made M. Hennebeau start. He recognized it; it was struck, by his orders, when the postman arrived. He rose and spoke aloud, breaking into the flood of coarseness with which his parched throat was bursting in spite of himself. "Ah! I don't care a bloody hang for their telegrams and their letters! not a bloody hang!" Now he was carried away by rage, the need of some sewer in which to stamp down all this filthiness with his heels. This woman was a vulgar drab; he sought for crude words and buffeted her image with them. The sudden idea of the marriage between Cécile and Paul, which she was arranging with so quiet a smile, completed his exasperation. There was, then, not even passion, not even jealousy at the bottom of this persistent sensuality? It was now a perverse plaything, the habit of the woman, a recreation taken like an accustomed dessert. And he put all the responsibility on her, he regarded as almost innocent the lad at whom she had bitten in this reawakening of appetite, just as one bites at an early green fruit, stolen by the wayside. Whom would she devour, on whom would she fall, when she no longer had complaisant nephews, sufficiently practical to accept in their own family the table, the bed, and the wife? There was a timid scratch at the door, and Hippolyte allowed himself to whisper through the keyhole: "The postman, sir. And Monsieur Dansaert, too, has come back, saying that they are killing one another." "I'm coming down, good God!" What should he do to them? Chase them away on their return from Marchiennes, like stinking animals whom he would no longer have beneath his roof? He would take a cudgel, and would tell them to carry elsewhere their poisonous coupling. It was with their sighs, with their mixed breaths, that the damp warmth of this room had grown heavy; the penetrating odour which had suffocated him was the odour of musk which his wife's skin exhaled, another perverse taste, a fleshly need of violent perfumes; and he seemed to feel also the heat and odour of fornication, of living adultery, in the pots which lay about, in the basins still full, in the disorder of the linen, of the furniture, of the entire room tainted with vice. The fury of impotence threw him on to the bed, which he struck with his fists, belabouring the places where he saw the imprint of their two bodies, enraged with the disordered coverlets and the crumpled sheets, soft and inert beneath his blows, as though exhausted themselves by the embraces of the whole night. But suddenly he thought he heard Hippolyte coming up again. He was arrested by shame. For a moment he stood panting, wiping his forehead, calming the bounds of his heart. Standing before a mirror he looked at his face, so changed that he did not recognize himself. Then, when he had watched it gradually grow calmer by an effort of supreme will, he went downstairs. Five messengers were standing below, not counting Dansaert. All brought him news of increasing gravity concerning the march of the strikers among the pits: and the chief captain told him at length what had gone on at Mirou and the fine behaviour of Father Quandieu. He listened, nodding his head, but he did not hear; his thoughts were in the room upstairs. At last he sent them away, saying that he would take due measures. When he was alone again, seated before his desk, he seemed to grow drowsy, with his head between his hands, covering his eyes. His mail was there, and he decided to look for the expected letter, the directors' reply. The lines at first danced before him, but he understood at last that these gentlemen desired a skirmish; certainly they did not order him to make things worse, but they allowed it to be seen that disturbances would hasten the conclusion of the strike by provoking energetic repression. After this, he no longer hesitated, but sent off telegrams on all sides--to the prefect of Lille, to the corps of soldiery at Douai, to the police at Marchiennes. It was a relief; he had nothing to do but shut himself in; he even spread the report that he was suffering from gout. And all the afternoon he hid himself in his study, receiving no one, contenting himself with reading the telegrams and letters which continued to rain in. He thus followed the mob from afar, from Madeleine to Crévecoeur, from Crévecoeur to the Victoire, from the Victoire to Gaston-Marie. Information also reached him of the bewilderment of the police and the troops, wandering along the roads, and always with their backs to the pit attacked. They might kill one another, and destroy everything! He put his head between his hands again, with his fingers over his eyes, and buried himself in the deep silence of the empty house, where he only heard now and then the noise of the cook's saucepans as she bustled about preparing the evening's dinner. The twilight was already darkening the room; it was five o'clock when a disturbance made M. Hennebeau jump, as he sat dazed and inert with his elbows in his papers. He thought that it was the two wretches coming back. But the tumult increased, and a terrible cry broke out just as he was going to the window: "Bread! bread! bread!" It was the strikers, now invading Montsou, while the police, expecting an attack on the Voreux, were galloping off in the opposite direction to occupy that pit. Just then, two kilometres away from the first houses, a little beyond the crossways where the main road cut the Vandame road, Madame Hennebeau and the young ladies had witnessed the passing of the mob. The day had been spent pleasantly at Marchiennes; there had been a delightful lunch with the manager of the Forges, then an interesting visit to the workshops and to the neighbouring glass works to occupy the afternoon; and as they were now going home in the limpid decline of the beautiful winter day, Cécile had had the whim to drink a glass of milk, as she noticed a little farm near the edge of the road. They all then got down from the carriage, and Négrel gallantly leapt off his horse; while the peasant-woman, alarmed by all these fine people, rushed about, and spoke of laying a cloth before serving the milk. But Lucie and Jeanne wanted to see the cow milked, and they went into the cattle-shed with their cups, making a little rural party, and laughing greatly at the litter in which one sank. Madame Hennebeau, with her complacent maternal air, was drinking with the edge of her lips, when a strange roaring noise from without disturbed her. "What is that, then?" The cattle-shed, built at the edge of the road, had a large door for carts, for it was also used as a barn for hay. The young girls, who had put out their heads, were astonished to see on the left a black flood, a shouting band which was moving along the Vandame road. "The deuce!" muttered Négrel, who had also gone out. "Are our brawlers getting angry at last?" "It is perhaps the colliers again," said the peasant-woman. "This is twice they've passed. Seems things are not going well; they're masters of the country." She uttered every word prudently, watching the effect on their faces; and when she noticed the fright of all of them, and their deep anxiety at this encounter, she hastened to conclude: "Oh, the rascals! the rascals!" Négrel, seeing that it was too late to get into their carriage and reach Montsou, ordered the coachman to bring the vehicle into the farmyard, where it would remain hidden behind a shed. He himself fastened his horse, which a lad had been holding, beneath the shed. When he came back he found his aunt and the young girls distracted, and ready to follow the peasant-woman, who proposed that they should take refuge in her house. But he was of opinion that they would be safer where they were, for certainly no one would come and look for them in the hay. The door, however, shut very badly, and had such large chinks in it, that the road could be seen between the worm-eaten planks. "Come, courage!" he said. "We will sell our lives dearly." This joke increased their fear. The noise grew louder, but nothing could yet be seen; along the vacant road the wind of a tempest seemed to be blowing, like those sudden gusts which precede great storms. "No, no! I don't want to look," said Cécile, going to hide herself in the hay. Madame Hennebeau, who was very pale and felt angry with these people who had spoilt her pleasure, stood in the background with a sidelong look of repugnance; while Lucie and Jeanne, though trembling, had placed their eyes at a crack, anxious to lose nothing of the spectacle. A sound of thunder came near, the earth was shaken, and Jeanlin galloped up first, blowing into his horn. "Take out your scent-bottles, the sweat of the people is passing by!" murmured Négrel, who, in spite of his republican convictions, liked to make fun of the populace when he was with ladies. But this witticism was carried away in the hurricane of gestures and cries. The women had appeared, nearly a thousand of them, with outspread hair dishevelled by running, the naked skin appearing through their rags, the nakedness of females weary with giving birth to starvelings. A few held their little ones in their arms, raising them and shaking them like banners of mourning and vengeance. Others, who were younger with the swollen breasts of amazons, brandished sticks; while frightful old women were yelling so loudly that the cords of their fleshless necks seemed to be breaking. And then the men came up, two thousand madmen--trammers, pikemen, menders--a compact mass which rolled along like a single block in confused serried rank so that it was impossible to distinguish their faded trousers or ragged woollen jackets, all effaced in the same earthy uniformity. Their eyes were burning, and one only distinguished the holes of black mouths singing the _Marseillaise_; the stanzas were lost in a confused roar, accompanied by the clang of sabots over the hard earth. Above their heads, amid the bristling iron bars, an axe passed by, carried erect; and this single axe, which seemed to be the standard of the band, showed in the clear air the sharp profile of a guillotine-blade. "What atrocious faces!" stammered Madame Hennebeau. Négrel said between his teeth: "Devil take me if I can recognize one of them! Where do the bandits spring from?" And in fact anger, hunger, these two months of suffering and this enraged helter-skelter through the pits had lengthened the placid faces of the Montsou colliers into the muzzles of wild beasts. At this moment the sun was setting; its last rays of sombre purple cast a gleam of blood over the plain. The road seemed to be full of blood; men and women continued to rush by, bloody as butchers in the midst of slaughter. "Oh! superb!" whispered Lucie and Jeanne, stirred in their artistic tastes by the beautiful horror of it. They were frightened, however, and drew back close to Madame Hennebeau, who was leaning on a trough. She was frozen at the thought that a glance between the planks of that disjointed door might suffice to murder them. Négrel also, who was usually very brave, felt himself grow pale, seized by a terror that was superior to his will, the terror which comes from the unknown. Cécile, in the hay, no longer stirred; and the others, in spite of the wish to turn away their eyes, could not do so: they were compelled to gaze. It was the red vision of the revolution, which would one day inevitably carry them all away, on some bloody evening at the end of the century. Yes, some evening the people, unbridled at last, would thus gallop along the roads, making the blood of the middle class flow, parading severed heads and sprinkling gold from disembowelled coffers. The women would yell, the men would have those wolf-like jaws open to bite. Yes, the same rags, the same thunder of great sabots, the same terrible troop, with dirty skins and tainted breath, sweeping away the old world beneath an overflowing flood of barbarians. Fires would flame; they would not leave standing one stone of the towns; they would return to the savage life of the woods, after the great rut, the great feast-day, when the poor in one night would emaciate the wives and empty the cellars of the rich. There would be nothing left, not a sou of the great fortunes, not a title-deed of properties acquired; until the day dawned when a new earth would perhaps spring up once more. Yes, it was these things which were passing along the road; it was the force of nature herself, and they were receiving the terrible wind of it in their faces. A great cry arose, dominating the _Marseillaise_: "Bread! bread! bread!" Lucie and Jeanne pressed themselves against Madame Hennebeau, who was almost fainting; while Négrel placed himself before them as though to protect them by his body. Was the old social order cracking this very evening? And what they saw immediately after completed their stupefaction. The band had nearly passed by, there were only a few stragglers left, when Mouquette came up. She was delaying, watching the bourgeois at their garden gates or the windows of their houses; and whenever she saw them, as she was not able to spit in their faces, she showed them what for her was the climax of contempt. Doubtless she perceived someone now, for suddenly she raised her skirts, bent her back, and showed her enormous buttocks, naked beneath the last rays of the sun. There was nothing obscene in those fierce buttocks, and nobody laughed. Everything disappeared: the flood rolled on to Montsou along the turns of the road, between the low houses streaked with bright colours. The carriage was drawn out of the yard, but the coachman would not take it upon him to convey back madame and the young ladies without delay; the strikers occupied the street. And the worst was, there was no other road. "We must go back, however, for dinner will be ready," said Madame Hennebeau, exasperated by annoyance and fear. "These dirty workpeople have again chosen a day when I have visitors. How can you do good to such creatures?" Lucie and Jeanne were occupied in pulling Cécile out of the hay. She was struggling, believing that those savages were still passing by, and repeating that she did not want to see them. At last they all took their places in the carriage again. It then occurred to Négrel, who had remounted, that they might go through the Réquillart lanes. "Go gently," he said to the coachman, "for the road is atrocious. If any groups prevent you from returning to the road over there, you can stop behind the old pit, and we will return on foot through the little garden door, while you can put up the carriage and horses anywhere, in some inn outhouse." They set out. The band, far away, was streaming into Montsou. As they had twice seen police and military, the inhabitants were agitated and seized by panic. Abominable stories were circulating; it was said that written placards had been set up threatening to rip open the bellies of the bourgeois. Nobody had read them, but all the same they were able to quote the exact words. At the lawyer's especially the terror was at its height, for he had just received by post an anonymous letter warning him that a barrel of powder was buried in his cellar, and that it would be blown up if he did not declare himself on the side of the people. Just then the Grégoires, prolonging their visit on the arrival of this letter, were discussing it, and decided that it must be the work of a joker, when the invasion of the mob completed the terror of the house. They, however, smiled, drawing back a corner of the curtain to look out, and refused to admit that there was any danger, certain, they said, that all would finish up well. Five o'clock struck, and they had time to wait until the street was free for them to cross the road to dine with the Hennebeaus, where Cécile, who had surely returned, must be waiting for them. But no one in Montsou seemed to share their confidence. People were wildly running about; doors and windows were banged to. They saw Maigrat, on the other side of the road, barricading his shop with a large supply of iron bars, and looking so pale and trembling that his feeble little wife was obliged to fasten the screws. The band had come to a halt before the manager's villa, and the cry echoed: "Bread! bread! bread!" M. Hennebeau was standing at the window when Hippolyte came in to close the shutters, for fear the windows should be broken by stones. He closed all on the ground floor, and then went up to the first floor; the creak of the window-fasteners was heard and the clack of the shutters one by one. Unfortunately, it was not possible to shut the kitchen window in the area in the same way, a window made disquietingly ruddy by the gleams from the saucepans and the spit. Mechanically, M. Hennebeau, who wished to look out, went up to Paul's room on the second floor: it was on the left, the best situated, for it commanded the road as far as the Company's Yards. And he stood behind the blinds overlooking the crowd. But this room had again overcome him, the toilet table sponged and in order, the cold bed with neat and well-drawn sheets. All his rage of the afternoon, that furious battle in the depths of his silent solitude, had now turned to an immense fatigue. His whole being was now like this room, grown cold, swept of the filth of the morning, returned to its habitual correctness. What was the good of a scandal? had anything really changed in his house? His wife had simply taken another lover; that she had chosen him in the family scarcely aggravated the fact; perhaps even it was an advantage, for she thus preserved appearances. He pitied himself when he thought of his mad jealousy. How ridiculous to have struck that bed with his fists! Since he had tolerated another man, he could certainly tolerate this one. It was only a matter of a little more contempt. A terrible bitterness was poisoning his mouth, the uselessness of everything, the eternal pain of existence, shame for himself who always adored and desired this woman in the dirt in which he had abandoned her. Beneath the window the yells broke out with increased violence: "Bread! bread! bread!" "Idiots!" said M. Hennebeau between his clenched teeth. He heard them abusing him for his large salary, calling him a bloated idler, a bloody beast who stuffed himself to indigestion with good things, while the worker was dying of hunger. The women had noticed the kitchen, and there was a tempest of imprecations against the pheasant roasting there, against the sauces that with fat odours irritated their empty stomachs. Ah! the stinking bourgeois, they should be stuffed with champagne and truffles till their guts burst. "Bread! bread! bread!" "Idiots!" repeated M. Hennebeau; "am I happy?" Anger arose in him against these people who could not understand. He would willingly have made them a present of his large salary to possess their hard skin and their facility of coupling without regret. Why could he not seat them at his table and stuff them with his pheasant, while he went to fornicate behind the hedges, to tumble the girls over, making fun of those who had tumbled them over before him! He would have given everything, his education, his comfort, his luxury, his power as manager, if he could be for one day the vilest of the wretches who obeyed him, free of his flesh, enough of a blackguard to beat his wife and to take his pleasure with his neighbours' wives. And he longed also to be dying of hunger, to have an empty belly, a stomach twisted by cramps that would make his head turn with giddiness: perhaps that would have killed the eternal pain. Ah! to live like a brute, to possess nothing, to scour the fields with the ugliest and dirtiest putter, and to be able to be happy! "Bread! bread! bread!" Then he grew angry and shouted furiously in the tumult: "Bread! is that enough, idiots!" He could eat, and all the same he was groaning with torment. His desolate household, his whole wounded life, choked him at the throat like a death agony. Things were not all for the best because one had bread. Who was the fool who placed earthly happiness in the partition of wealth? These revolutionary dreamers might demolish society and rebuilt another society; they would not add one joy to humanity, they would not take away one pain, by cutting bread-and-butter for everybody. They would even enlarge the unhappiness of the earth; they would one day make the very dogs howl with despair when they had taken them out of the tranquil satisfaction of instinct, to raise them to the unappeasable suffering of passion. No, the one good thing was not to exist, and if one existed, to be a tree, a stone, less still, a grain of sand, which cannot bleed beneath the heels of the passer-by. And in this exasperation of his torment, tears swelled in M. Hennebeau's eyes, and broke in burning drops on his cheeks. The twilight was drowning the road when stones began to riddle the front of the villa. With no anger now against these starving people, only enraged by the burning wound at his heart he continued to stammer in the midst of his tears: "Idiots! idiots!" But the cry of the belly dominated, and a roar blew like a tempest, sweeping everything before it: "Bread! bread! bread!" CHAPTER VI Sobered by Catherine's blows, Étienne had remained at the head of his mates. But while he was hoarsely urging them on to Montsou, he heard another voice within him, the voice of reason, asking, in astonishment, the meaning of all this. He had not intended any of these things; how had it happened that, having set out for Jean-Bart with the object of acting calmly and preventing disaster, he had finished this day of increasing violence by besieging the manager's villa? He it certainly was, however, who had just cried, "Halt!" Only at first his sole idea had been to protect the Company's Yards, which there had been talk of sacking. And now that stones were already grazing the facade of the villa, he sought in vain for some lawful prey on which to throw the band, so as to avoid greater misfortunes. As he thus stood alone, powerless, in the middle of the road, he was called by a man standing on the threshold of the Estaminet Tison, where the landlady had just put up the shutters in haste, leaving only the door free. "Yes, it's me. Will you listen?" It was Rasseneur. Some thirty men and women, nearly all belonging to the settlement of the Deux-Cent-Quarante, who had remained at home in the morning and had come in the evening for news, had invaded this estaminet on the approach of the strikers. Zacharie occupied a table with his wife, Philoméne. Farther on, Pierron and Pierronne, with their backs turned, were hiding their faces. No one was drinking, they had simply taken shelter. Étienne recognized Rasseneur and was turning away, when the latter added: "You don't want to see me, eh? I warned you, things are getting awkward. Now you may ask for bread, they'll give you lead." Then Étienne came back and replied: "What troubles me is, the cowards who fold their arms and watch us risking our skins." "Your notion, then, is to pillage over there?" asked Rasseneur. "My notion is to remain to the last with our friends, quit by dying together." In despair, Étienne went back into the crowd, ready to die. On the road, three children were throwing stones, and he gave them a good kick, shouting out to his comrades that it was no good breaking windows. Bébert and Lydie, who had rejoined Jeanlin, were learning from him how to work the sling. They each sent a flint, playing at who could do the most damage. Lydie had awkwardly cracked the head of a woman in the crowd, and the two boys were loudly laughing. Bonnemort and Mouque, seated on a bench, were gazing at them behind. Bonnemort's swollen legs bore him so badly, that he had great difficulty in dragging himself so far; no one knew what curiosity impelled him, for his face had the earthy look of those days when he never spoke a word. Nobody, however, any longer obeyed Étienne. The stones, in spite of his orders, went on hailing, and he was astonished and terrified by these brutes he had unmuzzled, who were so slow to move and then so terrible, so ferociously tenacious in their rage. All the old Flemish blood was there, heavy and placid, taking months to get heated, and then giving itself up to abominable savagery, listening to nothing until the beast was glutted by atrocities. In his southern land crowds flamed up more quickly, but they did not effect so much. He had to struggle with Levaque to obtain possession of his axe, and he knew not how to keep back the Maheus, who were throwing flints with both hands. The women, especially, terrified him--the Levaque, Mouquette, and the others--who were agitated by murderous fury, with teeth and nails out, barking like bitches, and driven on by Mother Brulé, whose lean figure dominated them. But there was a sudden stop; a moment's surprise brought a little of that calmness which Étienne's supplications could not obtain. It was simply the Grégoires, who had decided to bid farewell to the lawyer, and to cross the road to the manager's house; and they seemed so peaceful, they so clearly had the air of believing that the whole thing was a joke on the part of their worthy miners, whose resignation had nourished them for a century, that the latter, in fact, left off throwing stones, for fear of hitting this old gentleman and old lady who had fallen from the sky. They allowed them to enter the garden, mount the steps, and ring at the barricaded door, which was by no means opened in a hurry. Just then, Rose, the housemaid, was returning, laughing at the furious workmen, all of whom she knew, for she belonged to Montsou. And it was she who, by striking her fists against the door, at last forced Hippolyte to set it ajar. It was time, for as the Grégoires disappeared, the hail of stones began again. Recovering from its astonishment, the crowd was shouting louder than ever: "Death to the bourgeois! Hurrah for the people!" Rose went on laughing, in the hall of the villa, as though amused by the adventure, and repeated to the terrified man-servant: "They're not bad-hearted; I know them." M. Grégoire methodically hung up his hat. Then, when he had assisted Madame Grégoire to draw off her thick cloth mantle, he said, in his turn: "Certainly, they have no malice at bottom. When they have shouted well they will go home to supper with more appetite." At this moment M. Hennebeau came down from the second floor. He had seen the scene, and came to receive his guests in his usual cold and polite manner. The pallor of his face alone revealed the grief which had shaken him. The man was tamed; there only remained in him the correct administrator resolved to do his duty. "You know," he said, "the ladies have not yet come back." For the first time some anxiety disturbed the Grégoires. Cécile not come back! How could she come back now if the miners were to prolong their joking? "I thought of having the place cleared," added M. Hennebeau. "But the misfortune is that I'm alone here, and, besides, I do not know where to send my servant to bring me four men and a corporal to clear away this mob." Rose, who had remained there, ventured to murmur anew: "Oh, sir! they are not bad-hearted!" The manager shook his head, while the tumult increased outside, and they could hear the dull crash of the stones against the house. "I don't wish to be hard on them, I can even excuse them; one must be as foolish as they are to believe that we are anxious to injure them. But it is my duty to prevent disturbance. To think that there are police all along the roads, as I am told, and that I have not been able to see a single man since the morning!" He interrupted himself, and drew back before Madame Grégoire, saying: "Let me beg you, madame, do not stay here, come into the drawing-room." But the cook, coming up from below in exasperation, kept them in the hall a few minutes longer. She declared that she could no longer accept any responsibility for the dinner, for she was expecting from the Marchiennes pastrycook some _vol-au-vent_ crusts which she had ordered for four o'clock. The pastrycook had evidently turned aside on the road for fear of these bandits. Perhaps they had even pillaged his hampers. She saw the _vol-au-vent_ blockaded behind a bush, besieged, going to swell the bellies of the three thousand wretches who were asking for bread. In any case, monsieur was warned; she would rather pitch her dinner into the fire if it was to be spoilt because of the revolt. "Patience, patience," said M. Hennebeau. "All is not lost, the pastrycook may come." And as he turned toward Madame Grégoire, opening the drawing-room door himself, he was much surprised to observe, seated on the hall bench, a man whom he had not distinguished before in the deepening shade. "What! you, Maigrat! what is it, then?" Maigrat arose; his fat, pale face was changed by terror. He no longer possessed his usual calm stolidity; he humbly explained that he had slipped into the manager's house to ask for aid and protection should the brigands attack his shop. "You see that I am threatened myself, and that I have no one," replied M. Hennebeau. "You would have done better to stay at home and guard your property." "Oh! I have put up iron bars and left my wife there." The manager showed impatience, and did not conceal his contempt. A fine guard, that poor creature worn out by blows! "Well, I can do nothing; you must try to defend yourself. I advise you to go back at once, for there they are again demanding bread. Listen!" In fact, the tumult began again, and Maigrat thought he heard his own name in the midst of the cries. To go back was no longer possible, they would have torn him to pieces. Besides, the idea of his ruin overcame him. He pressed his face to the glass panel of the door, perspiring and trembling in anticipation of disaster, while the Grégoires decided to go into the drawing-room. M. Hennebeau quietly endeavoured to do the honours of his house. But in vain he begged his guests to sit down; the close, barricaded room, lighted by two lamps in the daytime, was filled with terror at each new clamour from without. Amid the stuffy hangings the fury of the mob rolled more disturbingly, with vague and terrible menace. They talked, however, constantly brought back to this inconceivable revolt. He was astonished at having foreseen nothing; and his information was so defective that he specially talked against Rasseneur, whose detestable influence, he said, he was able to recognize. Besides, the gendarmes would come; it was impossible that he should be thus abandoned. As to the Grégoires, they only thought about their daughter, the poor darling who was so quickly frightened! Perhaps, in face of the peril, the carriage had returned to Marchiennes. They waited on for another quarter of an hour, worn out by the noise in the street, and by the sound of the stones from time to time striking the closed shutters which rang out like gongs. The situation was no longer bearable. M. Hennebeau spoke of going out to chase away the brawlers by himself, and to meet the carriage, when Hippolyte appeared, exclaiming: "Sir! sir, here is madame! They are killing madame!" The carriage had not been able to pass through the threatening groups in the Réquillart lane. Négrel had carried out his idea, walking the hundred metres which separated them from the house, and knocking at the little door which led to the garden, near the common. The gardener would hear them, for there was always someone there to open. And, at first, things had gone perfectly; Madame Hennebeau and the young ladies were already knocking when some women, who had been warned, rushed into the lane. Then everything was spoilt. The door was not opened, and Négrel in vain sought to burst it open with his shoulder. The rush of women increased, and fearing they would be carried away, he adopted the desperate method of pushing his aunt and the girls before him, in order to reach the front steps, by passing through the besiegers. But this manoeuvre led to a hustling. They were not left free, a shouting band followed them, while the crowd floated up to right and to left, without understanding, simply astonished at these dressed-up ladies lost in the midst of the battle. At this moment the confusion was so great that it led to one of those curious mistakes which can never be explained. Lucie and Jeanne reached the steps, and slipped in through the door, which the housemaid opened; Madame Hennebeau had succeeded in following them, and behind them Négrel at last came in, and then bolted the door, feeling sure that he had seen Cécile go in first. She was no longer there, having disappeared on the way, so carried away by fear, that she had turned her back to the house, and had moved of her own accord into the thick of danger. At once the cry arose: "Hurrah for the people! Death to the bourgeois! To death with them!" A few of those in the distance, beneath the veil which hid her face, mistook her for Madame Hennebeau; others said she was a friend of the manager's wife, the young wife of a neighbouring manufacturer who was execrated by his men. And besides it mattered little, it was her silk dress, her fur mantle, even the white feather in her hat, which exasperated them. She smelled of perfume, she wore a watch, she had the delicate skin of a lazy woman who had never touched coal. "Stop!" shouted Mother Brulé, "we'll put it on your arse, that lace!" "The lazy sluts steal it from us," said the Levaque. "They stick fur on to their skins while we are dying of cold. Just strip her naked, to show her how to live!" At once Mouquette rushed forward. "Yes, yes! whip her!" And the women, in this savage rivalry, struggled and stretched out their rags, as though each were trying to get a morsel of this rich girl. No doubt her backside was not better made than any one else's. More than one of them were rotten beneath their gewgaws. This injustice had lasted quite long enough; they should be forced to dress themselves like workwomen, these harlots who dared to spend fifty sous on the washing of a single petticoat. In the midst of these furies Cécile was shaking with paralysed legs, stammering over and over again the same phrase: "Ladies! please! please! Ladies, please don't hurt me!" But she suddenly uttered a shrill cry; cold hands had seized her by the neck. The rush had brought her near old Bonnemort, who had taken hold of her. He seemed drunk from hunger, stupefied by his long misery, suddenly arousing himself from the resignation of half a century, under the influence of no one knew what malicious impulse. After having in the course of his life saved a dozen mates from death, risking his bones in fire-damps and landslips, he was yielding to things which he would not have been able to express, compelled to do thus, fascinated by this young girl's white neck. And as on this day he had lost his tongue, he clenched his fingers, with his air of an old infirm animal ruminating over his recollections. "No! no!" yelled the women. "Uncover her arse! out with her arse!" In the villa, as soon as they had realized the mishap, Négrel and M. Hennebeau bravely reopened the door to run to Cécile's help. But the crowd was now pressing against the garden railings, and it was not easy to go out. A struggle took place here, while the Grégoires in terror stood on the steps. "Let her be then, old man! It's the Piolaine young lady," cried Maheude to the grandfather, recognizing Cécile, whose veil had been torn off by one of the women. On his side, Étienne, overwhelmed at this retaliation on a child, was trying to force the band to let go their prey. An inspiration came to him; he brandished the axe, which he had snatched from Levaque's hands. "To Maigrat's house, by God! there's bread in there! Down to the earth with Maigrat's damned shed!" And at random he gave the first blow of the axe against the shop door. Some comrades had followed him--Levaque, Maheu, and a few others. But the women were furious, and Cécile had fallen from Bonnemort's fingers into Mother Brulé's hands. Lydie and Bébert, led by Jeanlin, had slipped on all fours between her petticoats to see the lady's bottom. Already the women were pulling her about; her clothes were beginning to split, when a man on horseback appeared, pushing on his animal, and using his riding-whip on those who would not stand back quick enough. "Ah! rascals! You are going to flog our daughters, are you?" It was Deneulin who had come to the rendezvous for dinner. He quickly jumped on to the road, took Cécile by the waist, and, with the other hand manipulating his horse with remarkable skill and strength, he used it as a living wedge to split the crowd, which drew back before the onset. At the railing the battle continued. He passed through, however, with some bruises. This unforeseen assistance delivered Négrel and M. Hennebeau, who were in great danger amid the oaths and blows. And while the young man at last led in the fainting Cécile, Deneulin protected the manager with his tall body, and at the top of the steps received a stone which nearly put his shoulder out. "That's it," he cried; "break my bones now you've broken my engines!" He promptly pushed the door to, and a volley of flints fell against it. "What madmen!" he exclaimed. "Two seconds more, and they would have broken my skull like an empty gourd. There is nothing to say to them; what could you do? They know nothing, you can only knock them down." In the drawing-room, the Grégoires were weeping as they watched Cécile recover. She was not hurt, there was not even a scratch to be seen, only her veil was lost. But their fright increased when they saw before them their cook, Mélanie, who described how the mob had demolished Piolaine. Mad with fear she had run to warn her masters. She had come in when the door was ajar at the moment of the fray, without any one noticing her; and in her endless narrative the single stone with which Jeanlin had broken one window-pane became a regular cannonade which had crushed through the walls. Then M. Grégoire's ideas were altogether upset: they were murdering his daughter, they were razing his house to the ground; it was, then, true that these miners could bear him ill will, because he lived like a worthy man on their labour? The housemaid, who had brought in a towel and some eau-de-Cologne, repeated: "All the same it's queer, they're not bad-hearted." Madame Hennebeau, seated and very pale, had not recovered from the shock to her feelings; and she was only able to find a smile when Négrel was complimented. Cécile's parents especially thanked the young man, and the marriage might now be regarded as settled. M. Hennebeau looked on in silence, turning from his wife to this lover whom in the morning he had been swearing to kill, then to this young girl by whom he would, no doubt, soon be freed from him. There was no haste, only the fear remained with him of seeing his wife fall lower, perhaps to some lackey. "And you, my little darlings," asked Deneulin of his daughters; "have they broken any of your bones?" Lucie and Jeanne had been much afraid, but they were pleased to have seen it all. They were now laughing. "By George!" the father went on, "we've had a fine day! If you want a dowry, you would do well to earn it yourselves, and you may also expect to have to support me." He was joking, but his voice trembled. His eyes swelled with tears as his two daughters threw themselves into his arms. M. Hennebeau had heard this confession of ruin. A quick thought lit up his face. Vandame would now belong to Montsou; this was the hoped-for compensation, the stroke of fortune which would bring him back to favour with the gentlemen on the directorate. At every crisis of his existence, he took refuge in the strict execution of the orders he had received; in the military discipline in which he lived he found his small share of happiness. But they grew calm; the drawing-room fell back into a weary peacefulness, with the quiet light of its two lamps, and the warm stuffiness of the hangings. What, then, was going on outside? The brawlers were silent, and stones no longer struck the house; one only heard deep, full blows, those blows of the hatchet which one hears in distant woods. They wished to find out, and went back into the hall to venture a glance through the glass panel of the door. Even the ladies went upstairs to post themselves behind the blinds on the first floor. "Do you see that scoundrel, Rasseneur, over there on the threshold of the public-house?" said M. Hennebeau to Deneulin. "I had guessed as much; he must be in it." It was not Rasseneur, however, it was Étienne, who was dealing blows from his axe at Maigrat's shop. And he went on calling to the men; did not the goods in there belong to the colliers? Had they not the right to take back their property from this thief who had exploited them so long, who was starving them at a hint from the Company? Gradually they all left the manager's house, and ran up to pillage the neighbouring shop. The cry, "Bread! bread! bread!" broke out anew. They would find bread behind that door. The rage of hunger carried them away, as if they suddenly felt that they could wait no longer without expiring on the road. Such furious thrusts were made at the door that at every stroke of the axe Étienne feared to wound someone. Meanwhile Maigrat, who had left the hall of the manager's house, had at first taken refuge in the kitchen; but, hearing nothing there, he imagined some abominable attempt against his shop, and came up again to hide behind the pump outside, when he distinctly heard the cracking of the door and shouts of pillage in which his own name was mixed. It was not a nightmare, then. If he could not see, he could now hear, and he followed the attack with ringing ears; every blow struck him in the heart. A hinge must have given way; five minutes more and the shop would be taken. The thing was stamped on his brain in real and terrible images--the brigands rushing forward, then the drawers broken open, the sacks emptied, everything eaten, everything drunk, the house itself carried away, nothing left, not even a stick with which he might go and beg through the villages. No, he would never allow them to complete his ruin; he would rather leave his life there. Since he had been here he noticed at a window of his house his wife's thin silhouette, pale and confused, behind the panes; no doubt she was watching the blows with her usual silent air of a poor beaten creature. Beneath there was a shed, so placed that from the villa garden one could climb it from the palings; then it was easy to get on to the tiles up to the window. And the idea of thus returning home now pursued him in his remorse at having left. Perhaps he would have time to barricade the shop with furniture; he even invented other and more heroic defences--boiling oil, lighted petroleum, poured out from above. But this love of his property struggled against his fear, and he groaned in the battle with cowardice. Suddenly, on hearing a deeper blow of the axe, he made up his mind. Avarice conquered; he and his wife would cover the sacks with their bodies rather than abandon a single loaf. Almost immediately hooting broke out: "Look! look!--The tom-cat's up there! After the cat! after the cat!" The mob had just seen Maigrat on the roof of the shed. In his fever of anxiety he had climbed the palings with agility in spite of his weight, and without troubling over the breaking wood; and now he was flattening himself along the tiles, and endeavouring to reach the window. But the slope was very steep; he was incommoded by his stoutness, and his nails were torn. He would have dragged himself up, however, if he had not begun to tremble with the fear of stones; for the crowd, which he could not see, continued to cry beneath him: "After the cat! after the cat!--Do for him!" And suddenly both his hands let go at once, and he rolled down like a ball, leapt at the gutter, and fell across the middle wall in such a way that, by ill-chance, he rebounded on the side of the road, where his skull was broken open on the corner of a stone pillar. His brain had spurted out. He was dead. His wife up above, pale and confused behind the window-panes, still looked out. They were stupefied at first. Étienne stopped short, and the axe slipped from his hands. Maheu, Levaque, and the others forgot the shop, with their eyes fixed on the wall along which a thin red streak was slowly flowing down. And the cries ceased, and silence spread over the growing darkness. All at once the hooting began again. It was the women, who rushed forward overcome by the drunkenness of blood. "Then there is a good God, after all! Ah! the bloody beast, he's done for!" They surrounded the still warm body. They insulted it with laughter, abusing his fractured head, the dirty chops, hurling in the dead man's face the long venom of their starved lives. "I owed you sixty francs, now you're paid, thief!" said Maheude, enraged like the others. "You won't refuse me credit any more. Wait! wait! I must fatten you once more!" With her fingers she scratched up some earth, took two handfuls and stuffed it violently into his mouth. "There! eat that! There! eat! eat! you used to eat us!" The abuse increased, while the dead man, stretched on his back, gazed motionless with his large fixed eyes at the immense sky from which the night was falling. This earth heaped in his mouth was the bread he had refused to give. And henceforth he would eat of no other bread. It had not brought him luck to starve poor people. But the women had another revenge to wreak on him. They moved round, smelling him like she-wolves. They were all seeking for some outrage, some savagery that would relieve them. Mother Brulé's shrill voice was heard: "Cut him like a tom-cat!" "Yes, yes, after the cat! after the cat! He's done too much, the dirty beast!" Mouquette was already unfastening and drawing off the trousers, while the Levaque woman raised the legs. And Mother Brulé with her dry old hands separated the naked thighs and seized this dead virility. She took hold of everything, tearing with an effort which bent her lean spine and made her long arms crack. The soft skin resisted; she had to try again, and at last carried away the fragment, a lump of hairy and bleeding flesh, which she brandished with a laugh of triumph. "I've got it! I've got it!" Shrill voices saluted with curses the abominable trophy. "Ah! swine! you won't fill our daughters any more!" "Yes! we've done with paying on your beastly body; we shan't any more have to offer a backside in return for a loaf." "Here, I owe you six francs; would you like to settle it? I'm quite willing, if you can do it still!" This joke shook them all with terrible gaiety. They showed each other the bleeding fragment as an evil beast from which each of them had suffered, and which they had at last crushed, and saw before them there, inert, in their power. They spat on it, they thrust out their jaws, saying over and over again, with furious bursts of contempt: "He can do no more! he can do no more!--It's no longer a man that they'll put away in the earth. Go and rot then, good-for-nothing!" Mother Brulé then planted the whole lump on the end of her stick, and holding it in the air, bore it about like a banner, rushing along the road, followed, helter-skelter, by the yelling troop of women. Drops of blood rained down, and that pitiful flesh hung like a waste piece of meat on a butcher's stall. Up above, at the window, Madame Maigrat still stood motionless; but beneath the last gleams of the setting sun, the confused flaws of the window-panes distorted her white face which looked as though it were laughing. Beaten and deceived at every hour, with shoulders bent from morning to night over a ledger, perhaps she was laughing, while the band of women rushed along with that evil beast, that crushed beast, at the end of the stick. This frightful mutilation was accomplished in frozen horror. Neither Étienne nor Maheu nor the others had had time to interfere; they stood motionless before this gallop of furies. At the door of the Estaminet Tison a few heads were grouped--Rasseneur pale with disgust, Zacharie and Philoméne stupefied at what they had seen. The two old men, Bonnemort and Mouque, were gravely shaking their heads. Only Jeanlin was making fun, pushing Bébert with his elbow, and forcing Lydie to look up. But the women were already coming back, turning round and passing beneath the manager's windows. Behind the blinds the ladies were stretching out their necks. They had not been able to observe the scene, which was hidden from them by the wall, and they could not distinguish well in the growing darkness. "What is it they have at the end of that stick?" asked Cécile, who had grown bold enough to look out. Lucie and Jeanne declared that it must be a rabbit-skin. "No, no," murmured Madame Hennebeau, "they must have been pillaging a pork butcher's, it seems to be a remnant of a pig." At this moment she shuddered and was silent. Madame Grégoire had nudged her with her knee. They both remained stupefied. The young ladies, who were very pale, asked no more questions, but with large eyes followed this red vision through the darkness. Étienne once more brandished the axe. But the feeling of anxiety did not disappear; this corpse now barred the road and protected the shop. Many had drawn back. Satiety seemed to have appeased them all. Maheu was standing by gloomily, when he heard a voice whisper in his ear to escape. He turned round and recognized Catherine, still in her old overcoat, black and panting. With a movement he repelled her. He would not listen to her, he threatened to strike her. With a gesture of despair she hesitated, and then ran towards Étienne. "Save yourself! save yourself! the gendarmes are coming!" He also pushed her away and abused her, feeling the blood of the blows she had given him mounting to his cheeks. But she would not be repelled; she forced him to throw down the axe, and drew him away by both arms, with irresistible strength. "Don't I tell you the gendarmes are coming! Listen to me. It's Chaval who has gone for them and is bringing them, if you want to know. It's too much for me, and I've come. Save yourself, I don't want them to take you." And Catherine drew him away, while, at the same instant, a heavy gallop shook the street from afar. Immediately a voice arose: "The gendarmes! the gendarmes!" There was a general breaking up, so mad a rush for life that in two minutes the road was free, absolutely clear, as though swept by a hurricane. Maigrat's corpse alone made a patch of shadow on the white earth. Before the Estaminet Tison, Rasseneur only remained, feeling relieved, and with open face applauding the easy victory of the sabres; while in dim and deserted Montsou, in the silence of the closed houses, the bourgeois remained with perspiring skins and chattering teeth, not daring to look out. The plain was drowned beneath the thick night, only the blast furnaces and the coke furnaces were burning against the tragic sky. The gallop of the gendarmes heavily approached; they came up in an indistinguishable sombre mass. And behind them the Marchiennes pastrycook's vehicle, a little covered cart which had been confided to their care, at last arrived, and a small drudge of a boy jumped down and quietly unpacked the crusts for the _vol-au-vent_. PART SIX CHAPTER I The first fortnight of February passed and a black cold prolonged the hard winter without pity for the poor. Once more the authorities had scoured the roads; the prefect of Lille, an attorney, a general, and the police were not sufficient, the military had come to occupy Montsou; a whole regiment of men were camped between Beaugnies and Marchiennes. Armed pickets guarded the pits, and there were soldiers before every engine. The manager's villa, the Company's Yards, even the houses of certain residents, were bristling with bayonets. Nothing was heard along the streets but the slow movement of patrols. On the pit-bank of the Voreux a sentinel was always placed in the frozen wind that blew up there, like a look-out man above the flat plain; and every two hours, as though in an enemy's country, were heard the sentry's cries: "_Qui vive?_--Advance and give the password!" Nowhere had work been resumed. On the contrary, the strike had spread; Crévecoeur, Mirou, Madeleine, like the Voreux, were producing nothing; at Feutry-Cantel and the Victoire there were fewer men every morning; even at Saint-Thomas, which had been hitherto exempt, men were wanting. There was now a silent persistence in the face of this exhibition of force which exasperated the miners' pride. The settlements looked deserted in the midst of the beetroot fields. Not a workman stirred, only at rare intervals was one to be met by chance, isolated, with sidelong look, lowering his head before the red trousers. And in this deep melancholy calm, in this passive opposition to the guns, there was a deceptive gentleness, a forced and patient obedience of wild beasts in a cage, with their eyes on the tamer, ready to spring on his neck if he turned his back. The Company, who were being ruined by this death of work, talked of hiring miners from the Borinage, on the Belgian frontier, but did not dare; so that the battle continued as before between the colliers, who were shut up at home, and the dead pits guarded by soldiery. On the morrow of that terrible day this calm had come about at once, hiding such a panic that the greatest silence possible was kept concerning the damage and the atrocities. The inquiry which had been opened showed that Maigrat had died from his fall, and the frightful mutilation of the corpse remained uncertain, already surrounded by a legend. On its side, the Company did not acknowledge the disasters it had suffered, any more than the Grégoires cared to compromise their daughter in the scandal of a trial in which she would have to give evidence. However, some arrests took place, mere supernumeraries as usual, silly and frightened, knowing nothing. By mistake, Pierron was taken off with handcuffs on his wrists as far as Marchiennes, to the great amusement of his mates. Rasseneur, also, was nearly arrested by two gendarmes. The management was content with preparing lists of names and giving back certificates in large numbers. Maheu had received his, Levaque also, as well as thirty-four of their mates in the settlement of the Deux-Cent-Quarante alone. And all the severity was directed against Étienne, who had disappeared on the evening of the fray, and who was being sought, although no trace of him could be found. Chaval, in his hatred, had denounced him, refusing to name the others at Catherine's appeal, for she wished to save her parents. The days passed, every one felt that nothing was yet concluded; and with oppressed hearts every one was awaiting the end. At Montsou, during this period, the inhabitants awoke with a start every night, their ears buzzing with an imaginary alarm-bell and their nostrils haunted by the smell of powder. But what completed their discomfiture was a sermon by the new curé, Abbé Ranvier, that lean priest with eyes like red-hot coals who had succeeded Abbé Joire. He was indeed unlike the smiling discreet man, so fat and gentle, whose only anxiety was to live at peace with everybody. Abbé Ranvier went so far as to defend these abominable brigands who had dishonoured the district. He found excuses for the atrocities of the strikers; he violently attacked the middle class, throwing on them the whole of the responsibility. It was the middle class which, by dispossessing the Church of its ancient liberties in order to misuse them itself, had turned this world into a cursed place of injustice and suffering; it was the middle class which prolonged misunderstandings, which was pushing on towards a terrible catastrophe by its atheism, by its refusal to return to the old beliefs, to the fraternity of the early Christians. And he dared to threaten the rich. He warned them that if they obstinately persisted in refusing to listen to the voice of God, God would surely put Himself on the side of the poor. He would take back their fortunes from those who faithlessly enjoyed them, and would distribute them to the humble of the earth for the triumph of His glory. The devout trembled at this; the lawyer declared that it was Socialism of the worst kind; all saw the curé at the head of a band, brandishing a cross, and with vigorous blows demolishing the bourgeois society of '89. M. Hennebeau, when informed, contented himself with saying, as he shrugged his shoulders: "If he troubles us too much the bishop will free us from him." And while the breath of panic was thus blowing from one end of the plain to the other, Étienne was dwelling beneath the earth, in Jeanlin's burrow at the bottom of Réquillart. It was there that he was in hiding; no one believed him so near; the quiet audacity of that refuge, in the very mine, in that abandoned passage of the old pit, had baffled search. Above, the sloes and hawthorns growing among the fallen scaffolding of the belfry filled up the mouth of the hole. No one ventured down; it was necessary to know the trick--how to hang on to the roots of the mountain ash and to let go fearlessly, to catch hold of the rungs that were still solid. Other obstacles also protected him, the suffocating heat of the passage, a hundred and twenty metres of dangerous descent, then the painful gliding on all fours for a quarter of a league between the narrowed walls of the gallery before discovering the brigand's cave full of plunder. He lived there in the midst of abundance, finding gin there, the rest of the dried cod, and provisions of all sorts. The large hay bed was excellent, and not a current of air could be felt in this equal temperature, as warm as a bath. Light, however, threatened to fail. Jeanlin, who had made himself purveyor, with the prudence and discretion of a savage and delighted to make fun of the police, had even brought him pomatum, but could not succeed in putting his hands on a packet of candles. After the fifth day Étienne never lighted up except to eat. He could not swallow in the dark. This complete and interminable night, always of the same blackness, was his chief torment. It was in vain that he was able to sleep in safety, that he was warm and provided with bread, the night had never weighed so heavily on his brain. It seemed to him even to crush his thoughts. Now he was living on thefts. In spite of his communistic theories, old scruples of education arose, and he contented himself with gnawing his share of dry bread. But what was to be done? One must live, and his task was not yet accomplished. Another shame overcame him: remorse for that savage drunkenness from the gin, drunk in the great cold on an empty stomach, which had thrown him, armed with a knife, on Chaval. This stirred in him the whole of that unknown terror, the hereditary ill, the long ancestry of drunkenness, no longer tolerating a drop of alcohol without falling into homicidal mania. Would he then end as a murderer? When he found himself in shelter, in this profound calm of the earth, seized by satiety of violence, he had slept for two days the sleep of a brute, gorged and overcome; and the depression continued, he lived in a bruised state with bitter mouth and aching head, as after some tremendous spree. A week passed by; the Maheus, who had been warned, were not able to send a candle; he had to give up the enjoyment of light, even when eating. Now Étienne remained for hours stretched out on his hay. Vague ideas were working within him for the first time: a feeling of superiority, which placed him apart from his mates, an exaltation of his person as he grew more instructed. Never had he reflected so much; he asked himself the why of his disgust on the morrow of that furious course among the pits; and he did not dare to reply to himself, his recollections were repulsive to him, the ignoble desires, the coarse instincts, the odour of all that wretchedness shaken out to the wind. In spite of the torment of the darkness, he would come to hate the hour for returning to the settlement. How nauseous were all these wretches in a heap, living at the common bucket! There was not one with whom he could seriously talk politics; it was a bestial existence, always the same air tainted by onion, in which one choked! He wished to enlarge their horizon, to raise them to the comfort and good manners of the middle class, by making them masters; but how long it would take! and he no longer felt the courage to await victory, in this prison of hunger. By slow degrees his vanity of leadership, his constant preoccupation of thinking in their place, left him free, breathing into him the soul of one of those bourgeois whom he execrated. Jeanlin one evening brought a candle-end, stolen from a carter's lantern, and this was a great relief for Étienne. When the darkness began to stupefy him, weighing on his skull almost to madness, he would light up for a moment; then, as soon as he had chased away the nightmare, he extinguished the candle, miserly of this brightness which was as necessary to his life as bread. The silence buzzed in his ears, he only heard the flight of a band of rats, the cracking of the old timber, the tiny sound of a spider weaving her web. And with eyes open, in this warm nothingness, he returned to his fixed idea--the thought of what his mates were doing above. Desertion on his part would have seemed to him the worst cowardice. If he thus hid himself, it was to remain free, to give counsel or to act. His long meditations had fixed his ambition. While awaiting something better he would like to be Pluchart, leaving manual work in order to work only at politics, but alone, in a clean room, under the pretext that brain labour absorbs the entire life and needs quiet. At the beginning of the second week, the child having told him that the police supposed he had gone over to Belgium, Étienne ventured out of his hole at nightfall. He wished to ascertain the situation, and to decide if it was still well to persist. He himself considered the game doubtful. Before the strike he felt uncertain of the result, and had simply yielded to facts; and now, after having been intoxicated with rebellion, he came back to this first doubt, despairing of making the Company yield. But he would not yet confess this to himself; he was tortured when he thought of the miseries of defeat, and the heavy responsibility of suffering which would weigh upon him. The end of the strike: was it not the end of his part, the overthrow of his ambition, his life falling back into the brutishness of the mine and the horrors of the settlement? And honestly, without any base calculation or falsehood, he endeavoured to find his faith again, to prove to himself that resistance was still possible, that Capital was about to destroy itself in face of the heroic suicide of Labour. Throughout the entire country, in fact, there was nothing but a long echo of ruin. At night, when he wandered through the black country, like a wolf who has come out of his forest, he seemed to hear the crash of bankruptcies from one end of the plain to the other. He now passed by the roadside nothing but closed dead workshops, becoming rotten beneath the dull sky. The sugar works had especially suffered: the Hoton sugar works, the Fauvelle works, after having reduced the number of their hands, had come to grief one after the other. At the Dutilleul flour works the last mill had stopped on the second Saturday of the month, and the Bleuze rope works, for mine cables, had been quite ruined by the strike. On the Marchiennes side the situation was growing worse every day. All the fires were out at the Gagebois glass works, men were continually being sent away from the Sonneville workshops, only one of the three blast furnaces of the Forges was alight, and not one battery of coke ovens was burning on the horizon. The strike of the Montsou colliers, born of the industrial crisis which had been growing worse for two years, had increased it and precipitated the downfall. To the other causes of suffering--the stoppage of orders from America, and the engorgement of invested capital in excessive production--was now added the unforeseen lack of coal for the few furnaces which were still kept up; and that was the supreme agony, this engine bread which the pits no longer furnished. Frightened by the general anxiety, the Company, by diminishing its output and starving its miners, inevitably found itself at the end of December without a fragment of coal at the surface of its pits. Everything held together, the plague blew from afar, one fall led to another; the industries tumbled each other over as they fell, in so rapid a series of catastrophes that the shocks echoed in the midst of the neighbouring cities, Lille, Douai, Valenciennes, where absconding bankers were bringing ruin on whole families. At the turn of a road Étienne often stopped in the frozen night to hear the rubbish raining down. He breathed deeply in the darkness, the joy of annihilation seized him, the hope that day would dawn on the extermination of the old world, with not a single fortune left standing, the scythe of equality levelling everything to the ground. But in this massacre it was the Company's pits that especially interested him. He would continue his walk, blinded by the darkness, visiting them one after the other, glad to discover some new disaster. Landslips of increasing gravity continued to occur on account of the prolonged abandonment of the passages. Above the north gallery of Mirou the ground sank in to such an extent, that the Joiselle road, for the distance of a hundred metres, had been swallowed up as though by the shock of an earthquake; and the Company, disturbed at the rumours raised by these accidents, paid the owners for their vanished fields without bargaining. Crévecoeur and Madeleine, which lay in very shifting rock, were becoming stopped up more and more. It was said that two captains had been buried at the Victoire; there was an inundation at Feutry-Cantel, it had been necessary to wall up a gallery for the length of a kilometre at Saint-Thomas, where the ill-kept timbering was breaking down everywhere. Thus every hour enormous sums were spent, making great breaches in the shareholders' dividends; a rapid destruction of the pits was going on, which must end at last by eating up the famous Montsou deniers which had been centupled in a century. In the face of these repeated blows, hope was again born in Étienne; he came to believe that a third month of resistance would crush the monster--the weary, sated beast, crouching down there like an idol in his unknown tabernacle. He knew that after the Montsou troubles there had been great excitement in the Paris journals, quite a violent controversy between the official newspapers and the opposition newspapers, terrible narratives, which were especially directed against the International, of which the empire was becoming afraid after having first encouraged it; and the directors not daring to turn a deaf ear any longer, two of them had condescended to come and hold an inquiry, but with an air of regret, not appearing to care about the upshot; so disinterested, that in three days they went away again, declaring that everything was going on as well as possible. He was told, however, from other quarters that during their stay these gentlemen sat permanently, displaying feverish activity, and absorbed in transactions of which no one about them uttered a word. And he charged them with affecting confidence they did not feel, and came to look upon their departure as a nervous flight, feeling now certain of triumph since these terrible men were letting everything go. But on the following night Étienne despaired again. The Company's back was too robust to be so easily broken; they might lose millions, but later on they would get them back again by gnawing at their men's bread. On that night, having pushed as far as Jean-Bart, he guessed the truth when an overseer told him that there was talk of yielding Vandame to Montsou. At Deneulin's house, it was said, the wretchedness was pitiful, the wretchedness of the rich; the father ill in his powerlessness, aged by his anxiety over money, the daughters struggling in the midst of tradesmen, trying to save their shifts. There was less suffering in the famished settlements than in this middle-class house where they shut themselves up to drink water. Work had not been resumed at Jean-Bart, and it had been necessary to replace the pump at Gaston-Marie; while, in spite of all haste, an inundation had already begun which made great expenses necessary. Deneulin had at last risked his request for a loan of one hundred thousand francs from the Grégoires, and the refusal, though he had expected it, completed his dejection: if they refused, it was for his sake, in order to save him from an impossible struggle; and they advised him to sell. He, as usual, violently refused. It enraged him to have to pay the expenses of the strike; he hoped at first to die of it, with the blood at his head, strangled by apoplexy. Then what was to be done? He had listened to the directors' offers. They wrangled with him, they depreciated this superb prey, this repaired pit, equipped anew, where the lack of capital alone paralysed the output. He would be lucky if he got enough out of it to satisfy his creditors. For two days he had struggled against the directors at Montsou, furious at the quiet way with which they took advantage of his embarrassment and shouting his refusals at them in his loud voice. And there the affair remained, and they had returned to Paris to await patiently his last groans. Étienne smelled out this compensation for the disasters, and was again seized by discouragement before the invincible power of the great capitalists, so strong in battle that they fattened in defeat by eating the corpses of the small capitalists who fell at their side. The next day, fortunately, Jeanlin brought him a piece of good news. At the Voreux the tubbing of the shaft was threatening to break, and the water was filtering in from all the joints; in great haste a gang of carpenters had been set on to repair it. Up to now Étienne had avoided the Voreux, warned by the everlasting black silhouette of the sentinel stationed on the pit-bank above the plain. He could not be avoided, he dominated in the air, like the flag of the regiment. Towards three o'clock in the morning the sky became overcast, and he went to the pit, where some mates explained to him the bad condition of the tubbing; they even thought that it would have to be done entirely over again, which would stop the output of coal for three months. For a long time he prowled round, listening to the carpenters' mallets hammering in the shaft. That wound which had to be dressed rejoiced his heart. As he went back in the early daylight, he saw the sentinel still on the pit-bank. This time he would certainly be seen. As he walked he thought about those soldiers who were taken from the people, to be armed against the people. How easy the triumph of the revolution would be if the army were suddenly to declare for it! It would be enough if the workman and the peasant in the barracks were to remember their origin. That was the supreme peril, the great terror, which made the teeth of the middle class chatter when they thought of a possible defection of the troops. In two hours they would be swept away and exterminated with all the delights and abominations of their iniquitous life. It was already said that whole regiments were tainted with Socialism. Was it true? When justice came, would it be thanks to the cartridges distributed by the middle class? And snatching at another hope, the young man dreamed that the regiment, with its posts, now guarding the pits, would come over to the side of the strikers, shoot down the Company to a man, and at last give the mine to the miners. He then noticed that he was ascending the pit-bank, his head filled with these reflections. Why should he not talk with this soldier? He would get to know what his ideas were. With an air of indifference, he continued to come nearer, as though he were gleaning old wood among the rubbish. The sentinel remained motionless. "Eh! mate! damned weather," said Étienne, at last. "I think we shall have snow." He was a small soldier, very fair, with a pale, gentle face covered with red freckles. He wore his military great-coat with the awkwardness of a recruit. "Yes, perhaps we shall, I think," he murmured. And with his blue eyes he gazed at the livid sky, the smoky dawn, with soot weighing like lead afar over the plain. "What idiots they are to put you here to freeze!" Étienne went on. "One would think the Cossacks were coming! And then there's always wind here." The little soldier shivered without complaining. There was certainly a little cabin of dry stones there, where old Bonnemort used to take shelter when it blew a hurricane, but the order being not to leave the summit of the pit-bank, the soldier did not stir from it, his hands so stiffened by cold that he could no longer feel his weapon. He belonged to the guard of sixty men who were protecting the Voreux, and as this cruel sentry-duty frequently came round, he had before nearly stayed there for good with his dead feet. His work demanded it; a passive obedience finished the benumbing process, and he replied to these questions with the stammered words of a sleepy child. Étienne in vain endeavoured during a quarter of an hour to make him talk about politics. He replied "yes" or "no" without seeming to understand. Some of his comrades said that the captain was a republican; as to him, he had no idea--it was all the same to him. If he was ordered to fire, he would fire, so as not to be punished. The workman listened, seized with the popular hatred against the army--against these brothers whose hearts were changed by sticking a pair of red pantaloons on to their buttocks. "Then what's your name?" "Jules." "And where do you come from?" "From Plogof, over there." He stretched out his arm at random. It was in Brittany, he knew no more. His small pale face grew animated. He began to laugh, and felt warmer. "I have a mother and a sister. They are waiting for me, sure enough. Ah! it won't be for to-morrow. When I left, they came with me as far as Pont-l'Abbé. We had to take the horse to Lepalmec: it nearly broke its legs at the bottom of the Audierne Hill. Cousin Charles was waiting for us with sausages, but the women were crying too much, and it stuck in our throats. Good Lord! what a long way off our home is!" His eyes grew moist, though he was still laughing. The desert moorland of Plogof, that wild storm-beaten point of the Raz, appeared to him beneath a dazzling sun in the rosy season of heather. "Do you think," he asked, "if I'm not punished, that they'll give me a month's leave in two years?" Then Étienne talked about Provence, which he had left when he was quite small. The daylight was growing, and flakes of snow began to fly in the earthy sky. And at last he felt anxious on noticing Jeanlin, who was prowling about in the midst of the bushes, stupefied to see him up there. The child was beckoning to him. What was the good of this dream of fraternizing with the soldiers? It would take years and years, and his useless attempt cast him down as though he had expected to succeed. But suddenly he understood Jeanlin's gesture. The sentinel was about to be relieved, and he went away, running off to bury himself at Réquillart, his heart crushed once more by the certainty of defeat; while the little scamp who ran beside him was accusing that dirty beast of a trooper of having called out the guard to fire at them. On the summit of the pit-bank Jules stood motionless, with eyes vacantly gazing at the falling snow. The sergeant was approaching with his men, and the regulation cries were exchanged. "_Qui vive?_--Advance and give the password!" And they heard the heavy steps begin again, ringing as though on a conquered country. In spite of the growing daylight, nothing stirred in the settlements; the colliers remained in silent rage beneath the military boot. CHAPTER II Snow had been falling for two days; since the morning it had ceased, and an intense frost had frozen the immense sheet. This black country, with its inky roads and walls and trees powdered with coal dust, was now white, a single whiteness stretching out without end. The Deux-Cent-Quarante settlement lay beneath the snow as though it had disappeared. No smoke came out of the chimneys; the houses, without fire and as cold as the stones in the street, did not melt the thick layer on the tiles. It was nothing more than a quarry of white slabs in the white plain, a vision of a dead village wound in its shroud. Along the roads the passing patrols alone made a muddy mess with their stamping. Among the Maheus the last shovelful of cinders had been burnt the evening before, and it was no use any longer to think of gleaning on the pit-bank in this terrible weather, when the sparrows themselves could not find a blade of grass. Alzire, from the obstinacy with which her poor hands had dug in the snow, was dying. Maheude had to wrap her up in the fragment of a coverlet while waiting for Dr. Vanderhaghen, for whom she had twice gone out without being able to find him. The servant had, however, promised that he would come to the settlement before night, and the mother was standing at the window watching, while the little invalid, who had wished to be downstairs, was shivering on a chair, having the illusion that it was better there near the cold grate. Old Bonnemort opposite, his legs bad once more, seemed to be sleeping; neither Lénore nor Henri had come back from scouring the roads, in company with Jeanlin, to ask for sous. Maheu alone was walking heavily up and down the bare room, stumbling against the wall at every turn, with the stupid air of an animal which can no longer see its cage. The petroleum also was finished; but the reflection of the snow from outside was so bright that it vaguely lit up the room, in spite of the deepening night. There was a noise of sabots, and the Levaque woman pushed open the door like a gale of wind, beside herself, shouting furiously from the threshold at Maheude: "Then it's you who have said that I forced my lodger to give me twenty sous when he sleeps with me?" The other shrugged her shoulders. "Don't bother me. I said nothing; and who told you so?" "They tell me you said so; it doesn't concern you who it was. You even said you could hear us at our dirty tricks behind the wall, and that the filth gets into our house because I'm always on my back. Just tell me you didn't say so, eh?" Every day quarrels broke out as a result of the constant gossiping of the women. Especially between those households which lived door to door, squabbles and reconciliations took place every day. But never before had such bitterness thrown them one against the other. Since the strike hunger exasperated their rancour, so that they felt the need of blows; an altercation between two gossiping women finished by a murderous onset between their two men. Just then Levaque arrived in his turn, dragging Bouteloup. "Here's our mate; let him just say if he has given twenty sous to my wife to sleep with her." The lodger, hiding his timid gentleness in his great beard, protested and stammered: "Oh, that? No! Never anything! never!" At once Levaque became threatening, and thrust his fist beneath Maheu's nose. "You know that won't do for me. If a man's got a wife like that, he ought to knock her ribs in. If not, then you believe what she says." "By God!" exclaimed Maheu, furious at being dragged out of his dejection, "what is all this clatter again? Haven't we got enough to do with our misery? Just leave me alone, damn you! or I'll let you know it! And first, who says that my wife said so?" "Who says so? Pierronne said so." Maheude broke into a sharp laugh, and turning towards the Levaque woman: "An! Pierronne, is it? Well! I can tell you what she told me. Yes, she told me that you sleep with both your men--the one underneath and the other on top!" After that it was no longer possible to come to an understanding. They all grew angry, and the Levaques, as a reply to the Maheus, asserted that Pierronne had said a good many other things on their account; that they had sold Catherine, that they were all rotten together, even to the little ones, with a dirty disease caught by Étienne at the Volcan. "She said that! She said that!" yelled Maheu. "Good! I'll go to her, I will, and if she says that she said that, she shall feel my hand on her chops!" He was carried out of himself, and the Levaques followed him to see what would happen, while Bouteloup, having a horror of disputes, furtively returned home. Excited by the altercation, Maheude was also going out, when a complaint from Alzire held her back. She crossed the ends of the coverlet over the little one's quivering body, and placed herself before the window, looking out vaguely. And that doctor, who still delayed! At the Pierrons' door Maheu and the Levaques met Lydie, who was stamping in the snow. The house was closed, and a thread of light came though a crack in a shutter. The child replied at first to their questions with constraint: no, her father was not there, he had gone to the washhouse to join Mother Brulé and bring back the bundle of linen. Then she was confused, and would not say what her mother was doing. At last she let out everything with a sly, spiteful laugh: her mother had pushed her out of the door because M. Dansaert was there, and she prevented them from talking. Since the morning he had been going about the settlement with two policemen, trying to pick up workmen, imposing on the weak, and announcing everywhere that if the descent did not take place on Monday at the Voreux, the Company had decided to hire men from the Borinage. And as the night came on he sent away the policemen, finding Pierronne alone; then he had remained with her to drink a glass of gin before a good fire. "Hush! hold your tongue! We must see them," said Levaque, with a lewd laugh. "We'll explain everything directly. Get off with you, youngster." Lydie drew back a few steps while he put his eye to a crack in the shutter. He stifled a low cry and his back bent with a quiver. In her turn his wife looked through, but she said, as though taken by the colic, that it was disgusting. Maheu, who had pushed her, wishing also to see, then declared that he had had enough for his money. And they began again, in a row, each taking his glance as at a peep-show. The parlour, glittering with cleanliness, was enlivened by a large fire; there were cakes on the table with a bottle and glasses, in fact quite a feast. What they saw going on in there at last exasperated the two men, who under other circumstances would have laughed over it for six months. That she should let herself be stuffed up to the neck, with her skirts in the air, was funny. But, good God! was it not disgusting to do that in front of a great fire, and to get up one's strength with biscuits, when the mates had neither a slice of bread nor a fragment of coal? "Here's father!" cried Lydie, running away. Pierron was quietly coming back from the washhouse with the bundle of linen on his shoulder. Maheu immediately addressed him: "Here! they tell me that your wife says that I sold Catherine, and that we are all rotten at home. And what do they pay you in your house, your wife and the gentleman who is this minute wearing out her skin?" The astonished Pierron could not understand, and Pierronne, seized with fear on hearing the tumult of voices, lost her head and set the door ajar to see what was the matter. They could see her, looking very red, with her dress open and her skirt tucked up at her waist; while Dansaert, in the background, was wildly buttoning himself up. The head captain rushed away and disappeared trembling with fear that this story would reach the manager's ears. Then there would be an awful scandal, laughter, and hooting and abuse. "You, who are always saying that other people are dirty!" shouted the Levaque woman to Pierronne; "it's not surprising that you're clean when you get the bosses to scour you." "Ah! it's fine for her to talk!" said Levaque again. "Here's a trollop who says that my wife sleeps with me and the lodger, one below and the other above! Yes! yes! that's what they tell me you say." But Pierronne, grown calm, held her own against this abuse, very contemptuous in the assurance that she was the best looking and the richest. "I've said what I've said; just leave me alone, will you! What have my affairs got to do with you, a pack of jealous creatures who want to get over us because we are able to save up money! Get along! get along! You can say what you like; my husband knows well enough why Monsieur Dansaert was here." Pierron, in fact, was furiously defending his wife. The quarrel turned. They accused him of having sold himself, of being a spy, the Company's dog; they charged him with shutting himself up, to gorge himself with the good things with which the bosses paid him for his treachery. In defence, he pretended that Maheu had slipped beneath his door a threatening paper with two cross-bones and a dagger above. And this necessarily ended in a struggle between the men, as the quarrels of the women always did now that famine was enraging the mildest. Maheu and Levaque rushed on Pierron with their fists, and had to be pulled off. Blood was flowing from her son-in-law's nose, when Mother Brulé, in her turn, arrived from the washhouse. When informed of what had been going on, she merely said: "The damned beast dishonours me!" The road was becoming deserted, not a shadow spotted the naked whiteness of the snow, and the settlement, falling back into its death-like immobility, went on starving beneath the intense cold. "And the doctor?" asked Maheu, as he shut the door. "Not come," replied Maheude, still standing before the window. "Are the little ones back?" "No, not back." Maheu again began his heavy walk from one wall to the other, looking like a stricken ox. Father Bonnemort, seated stiffly on his chair, had not even lifted his head. Alzire also had said nothing, and was trying not to shiver, so as to avoid giving them pain; but in spite of her courage in suffering, she sometimes trembled so much that one could hear against the coverlet the quivering of the little invalid girl's lean body, while with her large open eyes she stared at the ceiling, from which the pale reflection of the white gardens lit up the room like moonshine. The emptied house was now in its last agony, having reached a final stage of nakedness. The mattress ticks had followed the wool to the dealers; then the sheets had gone, the linen, everything that could be sold. One evening they had sold a handkerchief of the grandfather's for two sous. Tears fell over each object of the poor household which had to go, and the mother was still lamenting that one day she had carried away in her skirt the pink cardboard box, her man's old present, as one would carry away a child to get rid of it on some doorstep. They were bare; they had only their skins left to sell, so worn-out and injured that no one would have given a farthing for them. They no longer even took the trouble to search, they knew that there was nothing left, that they had come to the end of everything, that they must not hope even for a candle, or a fragment of coal, or a potato, and they were waiting to die, only grieved about the children, and revolted by the useless cruelty that gave the little one a disease before starving it. "At last! here he is!" said Maheude. A black figure passed before the window. The door opened. But it was not Dr. Vanderhaghen; they recognized the new curé, Abbé Ranvier, who did not seem surprised at coming on this dead house, without light, without fire, without bread. He had already been to three neighbouring houses, going from family to family, seeking willing listeners, like Dansaert with his two policemen; and at once he exclaimed, in his feverish fanatic's voice: "Why were you not at mass on Sunday, my children? You are wrong, the Church alone can save you. Now promise me to come next Sunday." Maheu, after staring at him, went on pacing heavily, without a word. It was Maheude who replied: "To mass, sir? What for? Isn't the good God making fun of us? Look here! what has my little girl there done to Him, to be shaking with fever? Hadn't we enough misery, that He had to make her ill too, just when I can't even give her a cup of warm gruel?" Then the priest stood and talked at length. He spoke of the strike, this terrible wretchedness, this exasperated rancour of famine, with the ardour of a missionary who is preaching to savages for the glory of religion. He said that the Church was with the poor, that she would one day cause justice to triumph by calling down the anger of God on the iniquities of the rich. And that day would come soon, for the rich had taken the place of God, and were governing without God, in their impious theft of power. But if the workers desired the fair division of the goods of the earth, they ought at once to put themselves in the hands of the priests, just as on the death of Jesus the poor and the humble grouped themselves around the apostles. What strength the pope would have, what an army the clergy would have under them, when they were able to command the numberless crowd of workers! In one week they would purge the world of the wicked, they would chase away the unworthy masters. Then, indeed, there would be a real kingdom of God, every one recompensed according to his merits, and the law of labour as the foundation for universal happiness. Maheude, who was listening to him, seemed to hear Étienne, in those autumn evenings when he announced to them the end of their evils. Only she had always distrusted the cloth. "That's very well, what you say there, sir," she replied, "but that's because you no longer agree with the bourgeois. All our other curés dined at the manager's, and threatened us with the devil as soon as we asked for bread." He began again, and spoke of the deplorable misunderstanding between the Church and the people. Now, in veiled phrases, he hit at the town curés, at the bishops, at the highly placed clergy, sated with enjoyment, gorged with domination, making pacts with the liberal middle class, in the imbecility of their blindness, not seeing that it was this middle class which had dispossessed them of the empire of the world. Deliverance would come from the country priests, who would all rise to re-establish the kingdom of Christ, with the help of the poor; and already he seemed to be at their head; he raised his bony form like the chief of a band, a revolutionary of the gospel, his eyes so filled with light that they illuminated the gloomy room. This enthusiastic sermon lifted him to mystic heights, and the poor people had long ceased to understand him. "No need for so many words," growled Maheu suddenly. "You'd best begin by bringing us a loaf." "Come on Sunday to mass," cried the priest. "God will provide for everything." And he went off to catechize the Levaques in their turn, so carried away by his dream of the final triumph of the Church, and so contemptuous of facts, that he would thus go through the settlements without charities, with empty hands amid this army dying of hunger, being a poor devil himself who looked upon suffering as the spur to salvation. Maheu continued his pacing, and nothing was heard but his regular tramp which made the floor tremble. There was the sound of a rust-eaten pulley; old Bonnemort was spitting into the cold grate. Then the rhythm of the feet began again. Alzire, weakened by fever, was rambling in a low voice, laughing, thinking that it was warm and that she was playing in the sun. "Good gracious!" muttered Maheude, after having touched her cheeks, "how she burns! I don't expect that damned beast now, the brigands must have stopped him from coming." She meant the doctor and the Company. She uttered a joyous exclamation, however, when the door once more opened. But her arms fell back and she remained standing still with gloomy face. "Good evening," whispered Étienne, when he had carefully closed the door. He often came thus at night-time. The Maheus learnt his retreat after the second day. But they kept the secret and no one in the settlement knew exactly what had become of the young man. A legend had grown up around him. People still believed in him and mysterious rumours circulated: he would reappear with an army and chests full of gold; and there was always the religious expectation of a miracle, the realized ideal, a sudden entry into that city of justice which he had promised them. Some said they had seen him lying back in a carriage, with three other gentlemen, on the Marchiennes road; others affirmed that he was in England for a few days. At length, however, suspicions began to arise and jokers accused him of hiding in a cellar, where Mouquette kept him warm; for this relationship, when known, had done him harm. There was a growing disaffection in the midst of his popularity, a gradual increase of the despairing among the faithful, and their number was certain, little by little, to grow. "What brutal weather!" he added. "And you--nothing new, always from bad to worse? They tell me that little Négrel has been to Belgium to get Borains. Good God! we are done for if that is true!" He shuddered as he entered this dark icy room, where it was some time before his eyes were able to see the unfortunate people whose presence he guessed by the deepening of the shade. He was experiencing the repugnance and discomfort of the workman who has risen above his class, refined by study and stimulated by ambition. What wretchedness! and odours! and the bodies in a heap! And a terrible pity caught him by the throat. The spectacle of this agony so overcame him that he tried to find words to advise submission. But Maheu came violently up to him, shouting: "Borains! They won't dare, the bloody fools! Let the Borains go down, then, if they want us to destroy the pits!" With an air of constraint, Étienne explained that it was not possible to move, that the soldiers who guarded the pits would protect the descent of the Belgian workmen. And Maheu clenched his fists, irritated especially, as he said, by having bayonets in his back. Then the colliers were no longer masters in their own place? They were treated, then, like convicts, forced to work by a loaded musket! He loved his pit, it was a great grief to him not to have been down for two months. He was driven wild, therefore, at the idea of this insult, these strangers whom they threatened to introduce. Then the recollection that his certificate had been given back to him struck him to the heart. "I don't know why I'm angry," he muttered. "I don't belong to their shop any longer. When they have hunted me away from here, I may as well die on the road." "As to that," said Étienne, "if you like, they'll take your certificate back to-morrow. People don't send away good workmen." He interrupted himself, surprised to hear Alzire, who was laughing softly in the delirium of her fever. So far he had only made out Father Bonnemort's stiff shadow, and this gaiety of the sick child frightened him. It was indeed too much if the little ones were going to die of it. With trembling voice he made up his mind. "Look here! this can't go on, we are done for. We must give it up." Maheude, who had been motionless and silent up to now, suddenly broke out, and treating him familiarly and swearing like a man, she shouted in his face: "What's that you say? It's you who say that, by God!" He was about to give reasons, but she would not let him speak. "Don't repeat that, by God! or, woman as I am, I'll put my fist into your face. Then we have been dying for two months, and I have sold my household, and my little ones have fallen ill of it, and there is to be nothing done, and the injustice is to begin again! Ah! do you know! when I think of that my blood stands still. No, no, I would burn everything, I would kill everything, rather than give up." She pointed at Maheu in the darkness, with a vague, threatening gesture. "Listen to this! If any man goes back to the pit, he'll find me waiting for him on the road to spit in his face and cry coward! Étienne could not see her, but he felt a heat like the breath of a barking animal. He had drawn back, astonished at this fury which was his work. She was so changed that he could no longer recognize the woman who was once so sensible, reproving his violent schemes, saying that we ought not to wish any one dead, and who was now refusing to listen to reason and talking of killing people. It was not he now, it was she, who talked politics, who dreamed of sweeping away the bourgeois at a stroke, who demanded the republic and the guillotine to free the earth of these rich robbers who fattened on the labour of starvelings. "Yes, I could flay them with my fingers. We've had enough of them! Our turn is come now; you used to say so yourself. When I think of the father, the grandfather, the grandfather's father, what all of them who went before have suffered, what we are suffering, and that our sons and our sons' sons will suffer it over again, it makes me mad--I could take a knife. The other day we didn't do enough at Montsou; we ought to have pulled the bloody place to the ground, down to the last brick. And do you know I've only one regret, that we didn't let the old man strangle the Piolaine girl. Hunger may strangle my little ones for all they care!" Her words fell like the blows of an axe in the night. The closed horizon would not open, and the impossible ideal was turning to poison in the depths of this skull which had been crushed by grief. "You have misunderstood," Étienne was able to say at last, beating a retreat. "We ought to come to an understanding with the Company. I know that the pits are suffering much, so that it would probably consent to an arrangement." "No, never!" she shouted. Just then Lénore and Henri came back with their hands empty. A gentleman had certainly given them two sous, but the girl kept kicking her little brother, and the two sous fell into the snow, and as Jeanlin had joined in the search they had not been able to find them. "Where is Jeanlin?" "He's gone away, mother; he said he had business." Étienne was listening with an aching heart. Once she had threatened to kill them if they ever held out their hands to beg. Now she sent them herself on to the roads, and proposed that all of them--the ten thousand colliers of Montsou--should take stick and wallet, like beggars of old, and scour the terrified country. The anguish continued to increase in the black room. The little urchins came back hungry, they wanted to eat; why could they not have something to eat? And they grumbled, flung themselves about, and at last trod on the feet of their dying sister, who groaned. The mother furiously boxed their ears in the darkness at random. Then, as they cried still louder, asking for bread, she burst into tears, and dropped on to the floor, seizing them in one embrace with the little invalid; then, for a long time, her tears fell in a nervous outbreak which left her limp and worn out, stammering over and over again the same phrase, calling for death: "O God! why do you not take us? O God! in pity take us, to have done with it!" The grandfather preserved his immobility, like an old tree twisted by the rain and wind; while the father continued walking between the fireplace and the cupboard, without turning his head. But the door opened, and this time it was Doctor Vanderhaghen. "The devil!" he said. "This light won't spoil your eyes. Look sharp! I'm in a hurry." As usual, he scolded, knocked up by work. Fortunately, he had matches with him, and the father had to strike six, one by one, and to hold them while he examined the invalid. Unwound from her coverlet, she shivered beneath this flickering light, as lean as a bird dying in the snow, so small that one only saw her hump. But she smiled with the wandering smile of the dying, and her eyes were very large; while her poor hands contracted over her hollow breast. And as the half-choked mother asked if it was right to take away from her the only child who helped in the household, so intelligent and gentle, the doctor grew vexed. "Ah! she is going. Dead of hunger, your blessed child. And not the only one, either; I've just seen another one over there. You all send for me, but I can't do anything; it's meat that you want to cure you." Maheu, with burnt fingers, had dropped the match, and the darkness closed over the little corpse, which was still warm. The doctor had gone away in a hurry. Étienne heard nothing more in the black room but Maheude's sobs, repeating her cry for death, that melancholy and endless lamentation: "O God! it is my turn, take me! O God! take my man, take the others, out of pity, to have done with it!" CHAPTER III On that Sunday, ever since eight o'clock, Souvarine had been sitting alone in the parlour of the Avantage, at his accustomed place, with his head against the wall. Not a single collier knew where to get two sous for a drink, and never had the bars had fewer customers. So Madame Rasseneur, motionless at the counter, preserved an irritated silence; while Rasseneur, standing before the iron fireplace, seemed to be gazing with a reflective air at the brown smoke from the coal. Suddenly, in this heavy silence of an over-heated room, three light quick blows struck against one of the window-panes made Souvarine turn his head. He rose, for he recognized the signal which Étienne had already used several times before, in order to call him, when he saw him from without, smoking his cigarette at an empty table. But before the engine-man could reach the door, Rasseneur had opened it, and, recognizing the man who stood there in the light from the window, he said to him: "Are you afraid that I shall sell you? You can talk better here than on the road." Étienne entered. Madame Rasseneur politely offered him a glass, which he refused, with a gesture. The innkeeper added: "I guessed long ago where you hide yourself. If I was a spy, as your friends say, I should have sent the police after you a week ago." "There is no need for you to defend yourself," replied the young man. "I know that you have never eaten that sort of bread. People may have different ideas and esteem each other all the same." And there was silence once more. Souvarine had gone back to his chair, with his back to the wall and his eyes fixed on the smoke from his cigarette, but his feverish fingers were moving restlessly, and he ran them over his knees, seeking the warm fur of Poland, who was absent this evening; it was an unconscious discomfort, something that was lacking, he could not exactly say what. Seated on the other side of the table, Étienne at last said: "To-morrow work begins again at the Voreux. The Belgians have come with little Négrel." "Yes, they landed them at nightfall," muttered Rasseneur, who remained standing. "As long as they don't kill each other after all!" Then raising his voice: "No, you know, I don't want to begin our disputes over again, but this will end badly if you hold out any longer. Why, your story is just like that of your International. I met Pluchart the day before yesterday, at Lille, where I went on business. It's going wrong, that machine of his." He gave details. The association, after having conquered the workers of the whole world, in an outburst of propaganda which had left the middle class still shuddering, was now being devoured and slowly destroyed by an internal struggle between vanities and ambitions. Since the anarchists had triumphed in it, chasing out the earlier evolutionists, everything was breaking up; the original aim, the reform of the wage-system, was lost in the midst of the squabbling of sects; the scientific framework was disorganized by the hatred of discipline. And already it was possible to foresee the final miscarriage of this general revolt which for a moment had threatened to carry away in a breath the old rotten society. "Pluchart is ill over it," Rasseneur went on. "And he has no voice at all now. All the same, he talks on in spite of everything and wants to go to Paris. And he told me three times over that our strike was done for." Étienne with his eyes on the ground let him talk on without interruption. The evening before he had chatted with some mates, and he felt that breaths of spite and suspicion were passing over him, those first breaths of unpopularity which forerun defeat. And he remained gloomy, he would not confess dejection in the presence of a man who had foretold to him that the crowd would hoot him in his turn on the day when they had to avenge themselves for a miscalculation. "No doubt the strike is done for, I know that as well as Pluchart," he said. "But we foresaw that. We accepted this strike against our wishes, we didn't count on finishing up with the Company. Only one gets carried away, one begins to expect things, and when it turns out badly one forgets that one ought to have expected that, instead of lamenting and quarrelling as if it were a catastrophe tumbled down from heaven." "Then if you think the game's lost," asked Rasseneur, "why don't you make the mates listen to reason?" The young man looked at him fixedly. "Listen! enough of this. You have your ideas, I have mine. I came in here to show you that I feel esteem for you in spite of everything. But I still think that if we come to grief over this trouble, our starved carcasses will do more for the people's cause than all your common-sense politics. Ah! if one of those bloody soldiers would just put a bullet in my heart, that would be a fine way of ending!" His eyes were moist, as in this cry there broke out the secret desire of the vanquished, the refuge in which he desired to lose his torment for ever. "Well said!" declared Madame Rasseneur, casting on her husband a look which was full of all the contempt of her radical opinions. Souvarine, with a vague gaze, feeling about with his nervous hands, did not appear to hear. His fair girlish face, with the thin nose and small pointed teeth, seemed to be growing savage in some mystic dream full of bloody visions. And he began to dream aloud, replying to a remark of Rasseneur's about the International which had been let fall in the course of the conversation. "They are all cowards; there is only one man who can make their machine into a terrible instrument of destruction. It requires will, and none of them have will; and that's why the revolution will miscarry once more." He went on in a voice of disgust, lamenting the imbecility of men, while the other two were disturbed by these somnambulistic confidences made in the darkness. In Russia there was nothing going on well, and he was in despair over the news he had received. His old companions were all turning to the politicians; the famous Nihilists who made Europe tremble--sons of village priests, of the lower middle class, of tradesmen--could not rise above the idea of national liberation, and seemed to believe that the world would be delivered--when they had killed their despot. As soon as he spoke to them of razing society to the ground like a ripe harvest--as soon as he even pronounced the infantile word "republic"--he felt that he was misunderstood and a disturber, henceforth unclassed, enrolled among the lost leaders of cosmopolitan revolution. His patriotic heart struggled, however, and it was with painful bitterness that he repeated his favourite expression: "Foolery! They'll never get out of it with their foolery." Then, lowering his voice still more, in a few bitter words he described his old dream of fraternity. He had renounced his rank and his fortune; he had gone among workmen, only in the hope of seeing at last the foundation of a new society of labour in common. All the sous in his pockets had long gone to the urchins of the settlement; he had been as tender as a brother with the colliers, smiling at their suspicion, winning them over by his quiet workmanlike ways and his dislike of chattering. But decidedly the fusion had not taken place; he remained a stranger, with his contempt of all bonds, his desire to keep himself free of all petty vanities and enjoyments. And since this morning he had been especially exasperated by reading an incident in the newspapers. His voice changed, his eyes grew bright, he fixed them on Étienne, directly addressing him: "Now, do you understand that? These hatworkers at Marseilles who have won the great lottery prize of a hundred thousand francs have gone off at once and invested it, declaring that they are going to live without doing anything! Yes, that is your idea, all of you French workmen; you want to unearth a treasure in order to devour it alone afterwards in some lazy, selfish corner. You may cry out as much as you like against the rich, you haven't got courage enough to give back to the poor the money that luck brings you. You will never be worthy of happiness as long as you own anything, and your hatred of the bourgeois proceeds solely from an angry desire to be bourgeois yourselves in their place." Rasseneur burst out laughing. The idea that the two Marseilles workmen ought to renounce the big prize seemed to him absurd. But Souvarine grew pale; his face changed and became terrible in one of those religious rages which exterminate nations. He cried: "You will all be mown down, overthrown, cast on the dung-heap. Someone will be born who will annihilate your race of cowards and pleasure-seekers. And look here! you see my hands; if my hands were able they would take up the earth, like that, and shake it until it was smashed to fragments, and you were all buried beneath the rubbish." "Well said," declared Madame Rasseneur, with her polite and convinced air. There was silence again. Then Étienne spoke once more of the Borinage men. He questioned Souvarine concerning the steps that had been taken at the Voreux. But the engine-man was still preoccupied, and scarcely replied. He only knew that cartridges would be distributed to the soldiers who were guarding the pit; and the nervous restlessness of his fingers over his knees increased to such an extent that, at last, he became conscious of what was lacking--the soft and soothing fur of the tame rabbit. "Where is Poland, then?" he asked. The innkeeper laughed again as he looked at his wife. After an awkward silence he made up his mind: "Poland? She is in the pot." Since her adventure with Jeanlin, the pregnant rabbit, no doubt wounded, had only brought forth dead young ones; and to avoid feeding a useless mouth they had resigned themselves that very day to serve her up with potatoes. "Yes, you ate one of her legs this evening. Eh! You licked your fingers after it!" Souvarine had not understood at first. Then he became very pale, and his face contracted with nausea; while, in spite of his stoicism, two large tears were swelling beneath his eyelids. But no one had time to notice this emotion, for the door had opened roughly and Chaval had appeared, pushing Catherine before him. After having made himself drunk with beer and bluster in all the public-houses of Montsou, the idea had occurred to him to go to the Avantage to show his old friends that he was not afraid. As he came in, he said to his mistress: "By God! I tell you you shall drink a glass in here; I'll break the jaws of the first man who looks askance at me!" Catherine, moved at the sight of Étienne, had become very pale. When Chaval in his turn perceived him, he grinned in his evil fashion. "Two glasses, Madame Rasseneur! We're wetting the new start of work." Without a word she poured out, as a woman who never refused her beer to any one. There was silence, and neither the landlord nor the two others stirred from their places. "I know people who've said that I was a spy," Chaval went on swaggeringly, "and I'm waiting for them just to say it again to my face, so that we can have a bit of explanation." No one replied, and the men turned their heads and gazed vaguely at the walls. "There are some who sham, and there are some who don't sham," he went on louder. "I've nothing to hide. I've left Deneulin's dirty shop, and to-morrow I'm going down to the Voreux with a dozen Belgians, who have been given me to lead because I'm held in esteem; and if any one doesn't like that, he can just say so, and we'll talk it over." Then, as the same contemptuous silence greeted his provocations, he turned furiously on Catherine. "Will you drink, by God? Drink with me to the confusion of all the dirty beasts who refuse to work." She drank, but with so trembling a hand that the two glasses struck together with a tinkling sound. He had now pulled out of his pocket a handful of silver, which he exhibited with drunken ostentation, saying that he had earned that with his sweat, and that he defied the shammers to show ten sous. The attitude of his mates exasperated him, and he began to come to direct insults. "Then it is at night that the moles come out? The police have to go to sleep before we meet the brigands." Étienne had risen, very calm and resolute. "Listen! You annoy me. Yes, you are a spy; your money still stinks of some treachery. You've sold yourself, and it disgusts me to touch your skin. No matter; I'm your man. It is quite time that one of us did for the other." Chaval clenched his fists. "Come along, then, cowardly dog! I must call you so to warm you up. You all alone--I'm quite willing; and you shall pay for all the bloody tricks that have been played on me." With suppliant arms Catherine advanced between them. But they had no need to repel her; she felt the necessity of the battle, and slowly drew back of her own accord. Standing against the wall, she remained silent, so paralysed with anguish that she no longer shivered, her large eyes gazing at these two men who were going to kill each other over her. Madame Rasseneur simply removed the glasses from the counter for fear that they might be broken. Then she sat down again on the bench, without showing any improper curiosity. But two old mates could not be left to murder each other like this. Rasseneur persisted in interfering, and Souvarine had to take him by the shoulder and lead him back to the table, saying: "It doesn't concern you. There is one of them too many, and the strongest must live." Without waiting for the attack, Chaval's fists were already dealing blows at space. He was the taller of the two, and his blows swung about aiming at the face, with furious cutting movements of both arms one after the other, as though he were handling a couple of sabres. And he went on talking, playing to the gallery with volleys of abuse, which served to excite him. "Ah! you damned devil, I'll have your nose! I'll do for your bloody nose! Just let me get at your chops, you whore's looking-glass; I'll make a hash for the bloody swine, and then we shall see if the strumpets will run after you!" In silence, and with clenched teeth, Étienne gathered up his small figure, according to the rules of the game, protecting his chest and face by both fists; and he watched and let them fly like springs released, with terrible straight blows. At first they did each other little damage. The whirling and blustering blows of the one, the cool watchfulness of the other, prolonged the struggle. A chair was overthrown; their heavy boots crushed the white sand scattered on the floor. But at last they were out of breath, their panting respiration was heard, while their faces became red and swollen as from an interior fire which flamed out from the clear holes of their eyes. "Played!" yelled Chaval; "trumps on your carcass!" In fact his fist, working like a flail, had struck his adversary's shoulder. Étienne restrained a groan of pain and the only sound that was heard was the dull bruising of the muscles. Étienne replied with a straight blow to Chaval's chest, which would have knocked him out, had he had not saved himself by one of his constant goat-like leaps. The blow, however, caught him on the left flank with such effect that he tottered, momentarily winded. He became furious on feeling his arm grow limp with pain, and kicked out like a wild beast, aiming at his adversary's belly with his heel. "Have at your guts!" he stammered in a choked voice. "I'll pull them out and unwind them for you!" Étienne avoided the blow, so indignant at this infraction of the laws of fair fighting that he broke silence. "Hold your tongue, brute! And no feet, by God! or I take a chair and bash you with it!" Then the struggle became serious. Rasseneur was disgusted, and would again have interfered, but a severe look from his wife held him back: had not two customers a right to settle an affair in the house? He simply placed himself before the fireplace, for fear lest they should tumble over into it. Souvarine, in his quiet way, had rolled a cigarette, but he forgot to light it. Catherine was motionless against the wall; only her hands had unconsciously risen to her waist, and with constant fidgeting movements were twisting and tearing at the stuff of her dress. She was striving as hard as possible not to cry out, and so, perhaps, kill one of them by declaring her preference; but she was, too, so distracted that she did not even know which she preferred. Chaval, who was bathed in sweat and striking at random, soon became exhausted. In spite of his anger, Étienne continued to cover himself, parrying nearly all the blows, a few of which grazed him. His ear was split, a finger nail had torn away a piece of his neck, and this so smarted that he swore in his turn as he drove out one of his terrible straight blows. Once more Chaval saved his chest by a leap, but he had lowered himself, and the fist reached his face, smashing his nose and crushing one eye. Immediately a jet of blood came from his nostrils, and his eye became swollen and bluish. Blinded by this red flood, and dazed by the shock to his skull, the wretch was beating the air with his arms at random, when another blow, striking him at last full in the chest, finished him. There was a crunching sound; he fell on his back with a heavy thud, as when a sack of plaster is emptied. Étienne waited. "Get up! if you want some more, we'll begin again." Without replying, Chaval, after a few minutes' stupefaction, moved on the ground and stretched his limbs. He picked himself up with difficulty, resting for a moment curled up on his knees, doing something with his hand in the bottom of his pocket which could not be observed. Then, when he was up, he rushed forward again, his throat swelling with a savage yell. But Catherine had seen; and in spite of herself a loud cry came from her heart, astonishing her like the avowal of a preference she had herself been ignorant of: "Take care! he's got his knife!" Étienne had only time to parry the first blow with his arm. His woollen jacket was cut by the thick blade, one of those blades fastened by a copper ferrule into a boxwood handle. He had already seized Chaval's wrist, and a terrible struggle began; for he felt that he would be lost if he let go, while the other shook his arm in the effort to free it and strike. The weapon was gradually lowered as their stiffened limbs grew fatigued. Étienne twice felt the cold sensation of the steel against his skin; and he had to make a supreme effort, so crushing the other's wrist that the knife slipped from his hand. Both of them had fallen to the earth, and it was Étienne who snatched it up, brandishing it in his turn. He held Chaval down beneath his knee and threatened to slit his throat open. "Ah, traitor! by God! you've got it coming to you now!" He felt an awful voice within, deafening him. It arose from his bowels and was beating in his head like a hammer, a sudden mania of murder, a need to taste blood. Never before had the crisis so shaken him. He was not drunk, however, and he struggled against the hereditary disease with the despairing shudder of a man who is mad with lust and struggles on the verge of rape. At last he conquered himself; he threw the knife behind him, stammering in a hoarse voice: "Get up--off you go!" This time Rasseneur had rushed forward, but without quite daring to venture between them, for fear of catching a nasty blow. He did not want any one to be murdered in his house, and was so angry that his wife, sitting erect at the counter, remarked to him that he always cried out too soon. Souvarine, who had nearly caught the knife in his legs, decided to light his cigarette. Was it, then, all over? Catherine was looking on stupidly at the two men, who were unexpectedly both living. "Off you go!" repeated Étienne. "Off you go, or I'll do for you!" Chaval arose, and with the back of his hand wiped away the blood which continued to flow from his nose; with jaw smeared red and bruised eye, he went away trailing his feet, furious at his defeat. Catherine mechanically followed him. Then he turned round, and his hatred broke out in a flood of filth. "No, no! since you want him, sleep with him, dirty jade! and don't put your bloody feet in my place again if you value your skin!" He violently banged the door. There was deep silence in the warm room, the low crackling of the coal was alone heard. On the ground there only remained the overturned chair and a rain of blood which the sand on the floor was drinking up. CHAPTER IV When they came out of Rasseneur's, Étienne and Catherine walked on in silence. The thaw was beginning, a slow cold thaw which stained the snow without melting it. In the livid sky a full moon could be faintly seen behind great clouds, black rags driven furiously by a tempestuous wind far above; and on the earth no breath was stirring, nothing could be heard but drippings from the roofs, the falling of white lumps with a soft thud. Étienne was embarrassed by this woman who had been given to him, and in his disquiet he could find nothing to say. The idea of taking her with him to hide at Réquillart seemed absurd. He had proposed to lead her back to the settlement, to her parents' house, but she had refused in terror. No, no! anything rather than be a burden on them once more after having behaved so badly to them! And neither of them spoke any more; they tramped on at random through the roads which were becoming rivers of mud. At first they went down towards the Voreux; then they turned to the right and passed between the pit-bank and the canal. "But you'll have to sleep somewhere," he said at last. "Now, if I only had a room, I could easily take you----" But a curious spasm of timidity interrupted him. The past came back to him, their old longings for each other, and the delicacies and the shames which had prevented them from coming together. Did he still desire her, that he felt so troubled, gradually warmed at the heart by a fresh longing? The recollection of the blows she had dealt him at Gaston-Marie now attracted him instead of filling him with spite. And he was surprised; the idea of taking her to Réquillart was becoming quite natural and easy to execute. "Now, come, decide; where would you like me to take you? You must hate me very much to refuse to come with me!" She was following him slowly, delayed by the painful slipping of her sabots into the ruts; and without raising her head she murmured: "I have enough trouble, good God! don't give me any more. What good would it do us, what you ask, now that I have a lover and you have a woman yourself?" She meant Mouquette. She believed that he still went with this girl, as the rumour ran for the last fortnight; and when he swore to her that it was not so she shook her head, for she remembered the evening when she had seen them eagerly kissing each other. "Isn't it a pity, all this nonsense?" he whispered, stopping. "We might understand each other so well." She shuddered slightly and replied: "Never mind, you've nothing to be sorry for; you don't lose much. If you knew what a trumpery thing I am--no bigger than two ha'porth of butter, so ill made that I shall never become a woman, sure enough!" And she went on freely accusing herself, as though the long delay of her puberty had been her own fault. In spite of the man whom she had had, this lessened her, placed her among the urchins. One has some excuse, at any rate, when one can produce a child. "My poor little one!" said Étienne, with deep pity, in a very low voice. They were at the foot of the pit-bank, hidden in the shadow of the enormous pile. An inky cloud was just then passing over the moon; they could no longer even distinguish their faces, their breaths were mingled, their lips were seeking each other for that kiss which had tormented them with desire for months. But suddenly the moon reappeared, and they saw the sentinel above them, at the top of the rocks white with light, standing out erect on the Voreux. And before they had kissed an emotion of modesty separated them, that old modesty in which there was something of anger, a vague repugnance, and much friendship. They set out again heavily, up to their ankles in mud. "Then it's settled. You don't want to have anything to do with me?" asked Étienne. "No," she said. "You after Chaval; and after you another, eh? No, that disgusts me; it doesn't give me any pleasure. What's the use of doing it?" They were silent, and walked some hundred paces without exchanging a word. "But, anyhow, do you know where to go to?" he said again. "I can't leave you out in a night like this." She replied, simply: "I'm going back. Chaval is my man. I have nowhere else to sleep but with him." "But he will beat you to death." There was silence again. She had shrugged her shoulders in resignation. He would beat her, and when he was tired of beating her he would stop. Was not that better than to roam the streets like a vagabond? Then she was used to blows; she said, to console herself, that eight out of ten girls were no better off than she was. If her lover married her some day it would, all the same, be very nice of him. Étienne and Catherine were moving mechanically towards Montsou, and as they came nearer their silences grew longer. It was as though they had never before been together. He could find no argument to convince her, in spite of the deep vexation which he felt at seeing her go back to Chaval. His heart was breaking, he had nothing better to offer than an existence of wretchedness and flight, a night with no to-morrow should a soldier's bullet go through his head. Perhaps, after all, it was wiser to suffer what he was suffering rather than risk a fresh suffering. So he led her back to her lover's, with sunken head, and made no protest when she stopped him on the main road, at the corner of the Yards, twenty metres from the Estaminet Piquette, saying: "Don't come any farther. If he sees you it will only make things worse." Eleven o'clock struck at the church. The estaminet was closed, but gleams came through the cracks. "Good-bye," she murmured. She had given him her hand; he kept it, and she had to draw it away painfully, with a slow effort, to leave him. Without turning her head, she went in through the little latched door. But he did not turn away, standing at the same place with his eyes on the house, anxious as to what was passing within. He listened, trembling lest he should hear the cries of a beaten woman. The house remained black and silent; he only saw a light appear at a first-floor window, and as this window opened, and he recognized the thin shadow that was leaning over the road, he came near. Catherine then whispered very low: "He's not come back. I'm going to bed. Please go away." Étienne went off. The thaw was increasing; a regular shower was falling from the roofs, a moist sweat flowed down the walls, the palings, the whole confused mass of this industrial district lost in night. At first he turned towards Réquillart, sick with fatigue and sadness, having no other desire except to disappear under the earth and to be annihilated there. Then the idea of the Voreux occurred to him again. He thought of the Belgian workmen who were going down, of his mates at the settlement, exasperated against the soldiers and resolved not to tolerate strangers in their pit. And he passed again along the canal through the puddles of melted snow. As he stood once more near the pit-bank the moon was shining brightly. He raised his eyes and gazed at the sky. The clouds were galloping by, whipped on by the strong wind which was blowing up there; but they were growing white, and ravelling out thinly with the misty transparency of troubled water over the moon's face. They succeeded each other so rapidly that the moon, veiled at moments, constantly reappeared in limpid clearness. With gaze full of this pure brightness, Étienne was lowering his head, when a spectacle on the summit of the pit-bank attracted his attention. The sentinel, stiffened by cold, was walking up and down, taking twenty-five paces towards Marchiennes, and then returning towards Montsou. The white glitter of his bayonet could be seen above his black silhouette, which stood out clearly against the pale sky. But what interested the young man, behind the cabin where Bonnemort used to take shelter on tempestuous nights, was a moving shadow--a crouching beast in ambush--which he immediately recognized as Jeanlin, with his long flexible spine like a marten's. The sentinel could not see him. That brigand of a child was certainly preparing some practical joke, for he was still furious against the soldiers, and asking when they were going to be freed from these murderers who had been sent here with guns to kill people. For a moment Étienne thought of calling him to prevent the execution of some stupid trick. The moon was hidden. He had seen him draw himself up ready to spring; but the moon reappeared, and the child remained crouching. At every turn the sentinel came as far as the cabin, then turned his back and walked in the opposite direction. And suddenly, as a cloud threw its shadow, Jeanlin leapt on to the soldier's shoulders with the great bound of a wild cat, and gripping him with his claws buried his large open knife in his throat. The horse-hair collar resisted; he had to apply both hands to the handle and hang on with all the weight of his body. He had often bled fowls which he had found behind farms. It was so rapid that there was only a stifled cry in the night, while the musket fell with the sound of old iron. Already the moon was shining again. Motionless with stupor, Étienne was still gazing. A shout had been choked in his chest. Above, the pit-bank was vacant; no shadow was any longer visible against the wild flight of clouds. He ran up and found Jeanlin on all fours before the corpse, which was lying back with extended arms. Beneath the limpid light the red trousers and grey overcoat contrasted harshly with the snow. Not a drop of blood had flowed, the knife was still in the throat up to the handle. With a furious, unreasoning blow of the fist he knocked the child down beside the body. "What have you done that for?" he stammered wildly. Jeanlin picked himself up and rested on his hands, with a feline movement of his thin spine; his large ears, his green eyes, his prominent jaws were quivering and aflame with the shock of his deadly blow. "By God! why have you done this?" "I don't know; I wanted to." He persisted in this reply. For three days he had wanted to. It tormented him, it made his head ache behind his ears, because he thought about it so much. Need one be so particular with these damned soldiers who were worrying the colliers in their own homes? Of the violent speeches he had heard in the forest, the cries of destruction and death shouted among the pits, five or six words had remained with him, and these he repeated like a street urchin playing at revolution. And he knew no more; no one had urged him on, it had come to him of itself, just as the desire to steal onions from a field came to him. Startled at this obscure growth of crime in the recesses of this childish brain, Étienne again pushed him away with a kick, like an unconscious animal. He trembled lest the guard at the Voreux had heard the sentinel's stifled cry, and looked towards the pit every time the moon was uncovered. But nothing stirred, and he bent down, felt the hands that were gradually becoming icy, and listened to the heart, which had stopped beneath the overcoat. Only the bone handle of the knife could be seen with the motto on it, the simple word "Amour," engraved in black letters. His eyes went from the throat to the face. Suddenly he recognized the little soldier; it was Jules, the recruit with whom he had talked one morning. And deep pity came over him in front of this fair gentle face, marked with freckles. The blue eyes, wide open, were gazing at the sky with that fixed gaze with which he had before seen him searching the horizon for the country of his birth. Where was it, that Plogof which had appeared to him beneath the dazzling sun? Over there, over there! The sea was moaning afar on this tempestuous night. That wind passing above had perhaps swept over the moors. Two women perhaps were standing there, the mother and the sister, clutching their wind-blown coifs, gazing as if they could see what was now happening to the little fellow through the leagues which separated them. They would always wait for him now. What an abominable thing it is for poor devils to kill each other for the sake of the rich! But this corpse had to be disposed of. Étienne at first thought of throwing it into the canal, but was deterred from this by the certainty that it would be found there. His anxiety became extreme, every minute was of importance; what decision should he take? He had a sudden inspiration: if he could carry the body as far as Réquillart, he would be able to bury it there for ever. "Come here," he said to Jeanlin. The child was suspicious. "No, you want to beat me. And then I have business. Good night." In fact, he had given a rendezvous to Bébert and Lydie in a hiding-place, a hole arranged under the wood supply at the Voreux. It had been arranged to sleep out, so as to be there if the Belgians' bones were to be broken by stoning when they went down the pit. "Listen!" repeated Étienne. "Come here, or I shall call the soldiers, who will cut your head off." And as Jeanlin was making up his mind, he rolled his handkerchief, and bound the soldier's neck tightly, without drawing out the knife, so as to prevent the blood from flowing. The snow was melting; on the soil there was neither a red patch nor the footmarks of a struggle. "Take the legs!" Jeanlin took the legs, while Étienne seized the shoulders, after having fastened the gun behind his back, and then they both slowly descended the pit-bank, trying to avoid rolling any rocks down. Fortunately the moon was hidden. But as they passed along the canal it reappeared brightly, and it was a miracle that the guard did not see them. Silently they hastened on, hindered by the swinging of the corpse, and obliged to place it on the ground every hundred metres. At the corner of the Réquillart lane they heard a sound which froze them with terror, and they only had time to hide behind a wall to avoid a patrol. Farther on, a man came across them, but he was drunk, and moved away abusing them. At last they reached the old pit, bathed in perspiration, and so exhausted that their teeth were chattering. Étienne had guessed that it would not be easy to get the soldier down the ladder shaft. It was an awful task. First of all Jeanlin, standing above, had to let the body slide down, while Étienne, hanging on to the bushes, had to accompany it to enable it to pass the first two ladders where the rungs were broken. Afterwards, at every ladder, he had to perform the same manoeuvre over again, going down first, then receiving the body in his arms; and he had thus, down thirty ladders, two hundred and ten metres, to feel it constantly falling over him. The gun scraped his spine; he had not allowed the child to go for the candle-end, which he preserved avariciously. What was the use? The light would only embarrass them in this narrow tube. When they arrived at the pit-eye, however, out of breath, he sent the youngster for the candle. He then sat down and waited for him in the darkness, near the body, with heart beating violently. As soon as Jeanlin reappeared with the light, Étienne consulted with him, for the child had explored these old workings, even to the cracks through which men could not pass. They set out again, dragging the dead body for nearly a kilometre, through a maze of ruinous galleries. At last the roof became low, and they found themselves kneeling beneath a sandy rock supported by half-broken planks. It was a sort of long chest in which they laid the little soldier as in a coffin; they placed his gun by his side; then with vigorous blows of their heels they broke the timber at the risk of being buried themselves. Immediately the rock gave way, and they scarcely had time to crawl back on their elbows and knees. When Étienne returned, seized by the desire to look once more, the roof was still falling in, slowly crushing the body beneath its enormous weight. And then there was nothing more left, nothing but the vast mass of the earth. Jeanlin, having returned to his own corner, his little cavern of villainy, was stretching himself out on the hay, overcome by weariness, and murmuring: "Heigho! the brats must wait for me; I'm going to have an hour's sleep." Étienne had blown out the candle, of which there was only a small end left. He also was worn out, but he was not sleepy; painful nightmare thoughts were beating like hammers in his skull. Only one at last remained, torturing him and fatiguing him with a question to which he could not reply: Why had he not struck Chaval when he held him beneath the knife? and why had this child just killed a soldier whose very name he did not know? It shook his revolutionary beliefs, the courage to kill, the right to kill. Was he, then, a coward? In the hay the child had begun snoring, the snoring of a drunken man, as if he were sleeping off the intoxication of his murder. Étienne was disgusted and irritated; it hurt him to know that the boy was there and to hear him. Suddenly he started, a breath of fear passed over his face. A light rustling, a sob, seemed to him to have come out of the depths of the earth. The image of the little soldier, lying over there with his gun beneath the rocks, froze his back and made his hair stand up. It was idiotic, the whole mine seemed to be filled with voices; he had to light the candle again, and only grew calm on seeing the emptiness of the galleries by this pale light. For another quarter of an hour he reflected, still absorbed in the same struggle, his eyes fixed on the burning wick. But there was a spluttering, the wick was going out, and everything fell back into darkness. He shuddered again; he could have boxed Jeanlin's ears, to keep him from snoring so loudly. The neighbourhood of the child became so unbearable that he escaped, tormented by the need for fresh air, hastening through the galleries and up the passage, as though he could hear a shadow, panting, at his heels. Up above, in the midst of the ruins of Réquillart, Étienne was at last able to breathe freely. Since he dared not kill, it was for him to die; and this idea of death, which had already touched him, came again and fixed itself in his head, as a last hope. To die bravely, to die for the revolution, that would end everything, would settle his account, good or bad, and prevent him from thinking more. If the men attacked the Borains, he would be in the first rank, and would have a good chance of getting a bad blow. It was with firmer step that he returned to prowl around the Voreux. Two o'clock struck, and the loud noise of voices was coming from the captains' room, where the guards who watched over the pit were posted. The disappearance of the sentinel had overcome the guards with surprise; they had gone to arouse the captain, and after a careful examination of the place, they concluded that it must be a case of desertion. Hiding in the shade, Étienne recollected this republican captain of whom the little soldier had spoken. Who knows if he might not be persuaded to pass over to the people's side! The troop would raise their rifles, and that would be the signal for a massacre of the bourgeois. A new dream took possession of him; he thought no more of dying, but remained for hours with his feet in the mud, and a drizzle from the thaw falling on his shoulders, filled by the feverish hope that victory was still possible. Up to five o'clock he watched for the Borains. Then he perceived that the Company had cunningly arranged that they should sleep at the Voreux. The descent had begun, and the few strikers from the Deux-Cent-Quarante settlement who had been posted as scouts had not yet warned their mates. It was he who told them of the trick, and they set out running, while he waited behind the pit-bank, on the towing-path. Six o'clock struck, and the earthy sky was growing pale and lighting up with a reddish dawn, when the Abbé Ranvier came along a path, holding up his cassock above his thin legs. Every Monday he went to say an early mass at a convent chapel on the other side of the pit. "Good morning, my friend," he shouted in a loud voice, after staring at the young man with his flaming eyes. But Étienne did not reply. Far away between the Voreux platforms he had just seen a woman pass, and he rushed forward anxiously, for he thought he recognized Catherine. Since midnight, Catherine had been walking about the thawing roads. Chaval, on coming back and finding her in bed, had knocked her out with a blow. He shouted to her to go at once by the door if she did not wish to go by the window; and scarcely dressed, in tears, and bruised by kicks in her legs, she had been obliged to go down, pushed outside by a final thrust. This sudden separation dazed her, and she sat down on a stone, looking up at the house, still expecting that he would call her back. It was not possible; he would surely look for her and tell her to come back when he saw her thus shivering and abandoned, with no one to take her in. At the end of two hours she made up her mind, dying of cold and as motionless as a dog thrown into the street. She left Montsou, then retraced her steps, but dared neither to call from the pathway nor to knock at the door. At last she went off by the main road to the right with the idea of going to the settlement, to her parents' house. But when she reached it she was seized by such shame that she rushed away along the gardens for fear of being recognized by someone, in spite of the heavy sleep which weighed on all eyes behind the closed shutters. And after that she wandered about, frightened at the slightest noise, trembling lest she should be seized and led away as a strumpet to that house at Marchiennes, the threat of which had haunted her like nightmare for months. Twice she stumbled against the Voreux, but terrified at the loud voices of the guard, she ran away out of breath, looking behind her to see if she was being pursued. The Réquillart lane was always full of drunken men; she went back to it, however, with the vague hope of meeting there him she had repelled a few hours earlier. Chaval had to go down that morning, and this thought brought Catherine again towards the pit, though she felt that it would be useless to speak to him: all was over between them. There was no work going on at Jean-Bart, and he had sworn to kill her if she worked again at the Voreux, where he feared that she would compromise him. So what was to be done?--to go elsewhere, to die of hunger, to yield beneath the blows of every man who might pass? She dragged herself along, tottering amid the ruts, with aching legs and mud up to her spine. The thaw had now filled the streets with a flood of mire. She waded through it, still walking, not daring to look for a stone to sit on. Day appeared. Catherine had just recognized the back of Chaval, who was cautiously going round the pit-bank, when she noticed Lydie and Bébert putting their noses out of their hiding-place beneath the wood supply. They had passed the night there in ambush, without going home, since Jeanlin's order was to await him; and while this latter was sleeping off the drunkenness of his murder at Réquillart, the two children were lying in each other's arms to keep warm. The wind blew between the planks of chestnut and oak, and they rolled themselves up as in some wood-cutter's abandoned hut. Lydie did not dare to speak aloud the sufferings of a small beaten woman, any more than Bébert found courage to complain of the captain's blows which made his cheeks swell; but the captain was really abusing his power, risking their bones in mad marauding expeditions while refusing to share the booty. Their hearts rose in revolt, and they had at last embraced each other in spite of his orders, careless of that box of the ears from the invisible with which he had threatened them. It never came, so they went on kissing each other softly, with no idea of anything else, putting into that caress the passion they had long struggled against--the whole of their martyred and tender natures. All night through they had thus kept each other warm, so happy, at the bottom of this secret hole, that they could not remember that they had ever been so happy before--not even on St. Barbara's day, when they had eaten fritters and drunk wine. The sudden sound of a bugle made Catherine start. She raised herself, and saw the Voreux guards taking up their arms. Étienne arrived running; Bébert and Lydie jumped out of their hiding-place with a leap. And over there, beneath the growing daylight, a band of men and women were coming from the settlement, gesticulating wildly with anger. CHAPTER V All the entrances to the Voreux had been closed, and the sixty soldiers, with grounded arms, were barring the only door left free, that leading to the receiving-room by a narrow staircase into which opened the captains' room and the shed. The men had been drawn up in two lines against the brick wall, so that they could not be attacked from behind. At first the band of miners from the settlement kept at a distance. They were some thirty at most, and talked together in a violent and confused way. Maheude, who had arrived first with dishevelled hair beneath a handkerchief knotted on in haste, and having Estelle asleep in her arms, repeated in feverish tones: "Don't let any one in or any one out! Shut them all in there!" Maheu approved, and just then Father Mouque arrived from Réquillart. They wanted to prevent him from passing. But he protested; he said that his horses ate their hay all the same, and cared precious little about a revolution. Besides, there was a horse dead, and they were waiting for him to draw it up. Étienne freed the old groom, and the soldiers allowed him to go to the shaft. A quarter of an hour later, as the band of strikers, which had gradually enlarged, was becoming threatening, a large door opened on the ground floor and some men appeared drawing out the dead beast, a miserable mass of flesh still fastened in the rope net; they left it in the midst of the puddles of melting snow. The surprise was so great that no one prevented the men from returning and barricading the door afresh. They all recognized the horse, with his head bent back and stiff against the plank. Whispers ran around: "It's Trompette, isn't it? it's Trompette." It was, in fact, Trompette. Since his descent he had never become acclimatized. He remained melancholy, with no taste for his task, as though tortured by regret for the light. In vain Bataille, the _doyen_ of the mine, would rub him with his ribs in his friendly way, softly biting his neck to impart to him a little of the resignation gained in his ten years beneath the earth. These caresses increased his melancholy, his skin quivered beneath the confidences of the comrade who had grown old in darkness; and both of them, whenever they met and snorted together, seemed to be grieving, the old one that he could no longer remember, the young one that he could not forget. At the stable they were neighbours at the manger, and lived with lowered heads, breathing in each other's nostrils, exchanging a constant dream of daylight, visions of green grass, of white roads, of infinite yellow light. Then, when Trompette, bathed in sweat, lay in agony in his litter, Bataille had smelled at him despairingly with short sniffs like sobs. He felt that he was growing cold, the mine was taking from him his last joy, that friend fallen from above, fresh with good odours, who recalled to him his youth in the open air. And he had broken his tether, neighing with fear, when he perceived that the other no longer stirred. Mouque had indeed warned the head captain a week ago. But much they troubled about a sick horse at such time as this! These gentlemen did not at all like moving the horses. Now, however, they had to make up their minds to take him out. The evening before the groom had spent an hour with two men tying up Trompette. They harnessed Bataille to bring him to the shaft. The old horse slowly pulled, dragging his dead comrade through so narrow a gallery that he could only shake himself at the risk of taking the skin off. And he tossed his head, listening to the grazing sound of the carcass as it went to the knacker's yard. At the pit-eye, when he was unharnessed, he followed with his melancholy eye the preparations for the ascent--the body pushed on to the cross-bars over the sump, the net fastened beneath a cage. At last the porters rang meat; he lifted his neck to see it go up, at first softly, then at once lost in the darkness, flown up for ever to the top of that black hole. And he remained with neck stretched out, his vague beast's memory perhaps recalling the things of the earth. But it was all over; he would never see his comrade again, and he himself would thus be tied up in a pitiful bundle on the day when he would ascend up there. His legs began to tremble, the fresh air which came from the distant country choked him, and he seemed intoxicated when he went heavily back to the stable. At the surface the colliers stood gloomily before Trompette's carcass. A woman said in a low voice: "Another man; that may go down if it likes!" But a new flood arrived from the settlement, and Levaque, who was at the head followed by his wife and Bouteloup, shouted: "Kill them, those Borains! No blacklegs here! Kill them! Kill them!" All rushed forward, and Étienne had to stop them. He went up to the captain, a tall thin young man of scarcely twenty-eight years, with a despairing, resolute face. He explained things to him; he tried to win him over, watching the effect of his words. What was the good of risking a useless massacre? Was not justice on the side of the miners? They were all brothers, and they ought to understand one another. When he came to use the world "republic" the captain made a nervous movement; but he preserved his military stiffness, and said suddenly: "Keep off! Do not force me to do my duty." Three times over Étienne tried again. Behind him his mates were growling. The report ran that M. Hennebeau was at the pit, and they talked of letting him down by the neck, to see if he would hew his coal himself. But it was a false report; only Négrel and Dansaert were there. They both showed themselves for a moment at a window of the receiving-room; the head captain stood in the background, rather out of countenance since his adventure with Pierronne, while the engineer bravely looked round on the crowd with his bright little eyes, smiling with that sneering contempt in which he enveloped men and things generally. Hooting arose, and they disappeared. And in their place only Souvarine's pale face was seen. He was just then on duty; he had not left his engine for a single day since the strike began, no longer talking, more and more absorbed by a fixed idea, which seemed to be shining like steel in the depths of his pale eyes. "Keep off!" repeated the captain loudly. "I wish to hear nothing. My orders are to guard the pit, and I shall guard it. And do not press on to my men, or I shall know how to drive you back." In spite of his firm voice, he was growing pale with increasing anxiety, as the flood of miners continued to swell. He would be relieved at midday; but fearing that he would not be able to hold out until then, he had sent a trammer from the pit to Montsou to ask for reinforcements. Shouts had replied to him: "Kill the blacklegs! Kill the Borains! We mean to be masters in our own place!" Étienne drew back in despair. The end had come; there was nothing more except to fight and to die. And he ceased to hold back his mates. The mob moved up to the little troop. There were nearly four hundred of them, and the people from the neighbouring settlements were all running up. They all shouted the same cry. Maheu and Levaque said furiously to the soldiers: "Get off with you! We have nothing against you! Get off with you!" "This doesn't concern you," said Maheude. "Let us attend to our own affairs." And from behind, the Levaque woman added, more violently: "Must we eat you to get through? Just clear out of the bloody place!" Even Lydie's shrill voice was heard. She had crammed herself in more closely, with Bébert, and was saying, in a high voice: "Oh, the pale-livered pigs!" Catherine, a few paces off, was gazing and listening, stupefied by new scenes of violence, into the midst of which ill luck seemed to be always throwing her. Had she not suffered too much already? What fault had she committed, then, that misfortune would never give her any rest? The day before she had understood nothing of the fury of the strike; she thought that when one has one's share of blows it is useless to go and seek for more. And now her heart was swelling with hatred; she remembered what Étienne had often told her when they used to sit up; she tried to hear what he was now saying to the soldiers. He was treating them as mates; he reminded them that they also belonged to the people, and that they ought to be on the side of the people against those who took advantage of their wretchedness. But a tremor ran through the crowd, and an old woman rushed up. It was Mother Brulé, terrible in her leanness, with her neck and arms in the air, coming up at such a pace that the wisps of her grey hair blinded her. "Ah! by God! here I am," she stammered, out of breath; "that traitor Pierron, who shut me up in the cellar!" And without waiting she fell on the soldiers, her black mouth belching abuse. "Pack of scoundrels! dirty scum! ready to lick their masters' boots, and only brave against poor people!" Then the others joined her, and there were volleys of insults. A few, indeed, cried: "Hurrah for the soldiers! to the shaft with the officer!" but soon there was only one clamour: "Down with the red breeches!" These men, who had listened quietly, with motionless mute faces, to the fraternal appeals and the friendly attempts to win them over, preserved the same stiff passivity beneath this hail of abuse. Behind them the captain had drawn his sword, and as the crowd pressed in on them more and more, threatening to crush them against the wall, he ordered them to present bayonets. They obeyed, and a double row of steel points was placed in front of the strikers' breasts. "Ah! the bloody swine!" yelled Mother Brulé, drawing back. But already they were coming on again, in excited contempt of death. The women were throwing themselves forward, Maheude and the Levaque shouting: "Kill us! Kill us, then! We want our rights!" Levaque, at the risk of getting cut, had seized three bayonets in his hands, shaking and pulling them in the effort to snatch them away. He twisted them in the strength of his fury; while Bouteloup, standing aside, and annoyed at having followed his mate, quietly watched him. "Just come and look here," said Maheu; "just look a bit if you are good chaps!" And he opened his jacket and drew aside his shirt, showing his naked breast, with his hairy skin tattooed by coal. He pressed on the bayonets, compelling the soldiers to draw back, terrible in his insolence and bravado. One of them had pricked him in the chest, and he became like a madman, trying to make it enter deeper and to hear his ribs crack. "Cowards, you don't dare! There are ten thousand behind us. Yes, you can kill us; there are ten thousand more of us to kill yet." The position of the soldiers was becoming critical, for they had received strict orders not to make use of their weapons until the last extremity. And how were they to prevent these furious people from impaling themselves? Besides, the space was getting less; they were now pushed back against the wall, and it was impossible to draw further back. Their little troop--a mere handful of men--opposed to the rising flood of miners, still held its own, however, and calmly executed the brief orders given by the captain. The latter, with keen eyes and nervously compressed lips, only feared lest they should be carried away by this abuse. Already a young sergeant, a tall lean fellow whose thin moustache was bristling up, was blinking his eyes in a disquieting manner. Near him an old soldier, with tanned skin and stripes won in twenty campaigns, had grown pale when he saw his bayonet twisted like a straw. Another, doubtless a recruit still smelling the fields, became very red every time he heard himself called "scum" and "riff-raff." And the violence did not cease, the outstretched fists, the abominable words, the shovelfuls of accusations and threats which buffeted their faces. It required all the force of order to keep them thus, with mute faces, in the proud, gloomy silence of military discipline. A collision seemed inevitable, when Captain Richomme appeared from behind the troop with his benevolent white head, overwhelmed by emotion. He spoke out loudly: "By God! this is idiotic! such tomfoolery can't go on!" And he threw himself between the bayonets and the miners. "Mates, listen to me. You know that I am an old workman, and that I have always been one of you. Well, by God! I promise you, that if they're not just with you, I'm the man to go and say to the bosses how things lie. But this is too much, it does no good at all to howl bad names at these good fellows, and try and get your bellies ripped up." They listened, hesitating. But up above, unfortunately, little Négrel's short profile reappeared. He feared, no doubt, that he would be accused of sending a captain in place of venturing out himself; and he tried to speak. But his voice was lost in the midst of so frightful a tumult that he had to leave the window again, simply shrugging his shoulders. Richomme then found it vain to entreat them in his own name, and to repeat that the thing must be arranged between mates; they repelled him, suspecting him. But he was obstinate and remained amongst them. "By God! let them break my head as well as yours, for I don't leave you while you are so foolish!" Étienne, whom he begged to help him in making them hear reason, made a gesture of powerlessness. It was too late, there were now more than five hundred of them. And besides the madmen who were rushing up to chase away the Borains, some came out of inquisitiveness, or to joke and amuse themselves over the battle. In the midst of one group, at some distance, Zacharie and Philoméne were looking on as at a theatre so peacefully that they had brought their two children, Achille and Désirée. Another stream was arriving from Réquillart, including Mouquet and Mouquette. The former at once went on, grinning, to slap his friend Zacharie on the back; while Mouquette, in a very excited condition, rushed to the first rank of the evil-disposed. Every minute, however, the captain looked down the Montsou road. The desired reinforcements had not arrived, and his sixty men could hold out no longer. At last it occurred to him to strike the imagination of the crowd, and he ordered his men to load. The soldiers executed the order, but the disturbance increased, the blustering, and the mockery. "Ah! these shammers, they're going off to the target!" jeered the women, the Brulé, the Levaque, and the others. Maheude, with her breast covered by the little body of Estelle, who was awake and crying, came so near that the sergeant asked her what she was going to do with that poor little brat. "What the devil's that to do with you?" she replied. "Fire at it if you dare!" The men shook their heads with contempt. None believed that they would fire on them. "There are no balls in their cartridges," said Levaque. "Are we Cossacks?" cried Maheu. "You don't fire against Frenchmen, by God!" Others said that when people had been through the Crimean campaign they were not afraid of lead. And all continued to thrust themselves on to the rifles. If firing had begun at this moment the crowd would have been mown down. In the front rank Mouquette was choking with fury, thinking that the soldiers were going to gash the women's skins. She had spat out all her coarse words at them, and could find no vulgarity low enough, when suddenly, having nothing left but that mortal offence with which to bombard the faces of the troop, she exhibited her backside. With both hands she raised her skirts, bent her back, and expanded the enormous rotundity. "Here, that's for you! and it's a lot too clean, you dirty blackguards!" She ducked and butted so that each might have his share, repeating after each thrust: "There's for the officer! there's for the sergeant! there's for the soldiers!" A tempest of laughter arose; Bébert and Lydie were in convulsions; Étienne himself, in spite of his sombre expectation, applauded this insulting nudity. All of them, the banterers as well as the infuriated, were now hooting the soldiers as though they had seen them stained by a splash of filth; Catherine only, standing aside on some old timber, remained silent with the blood at her heart, slowly carried away by the hatred that was rising within her. But a hustling took place. To calm the excitement of his men, the captain decided to make prisoners. With a leap Mouquette escaped, saving herself between the legs of her comrades. Three miners, Levaque and two others, were seized among the more violent, and kept in sight at the other end of the captains' room. Négrel and Dansaert, above, were shouting to the captain to come in and take refuge with them. He refused; he felt that these buildings with their doors without locks would be carried by assault, and that he would undergo the shame of being disarmed. His little troop was already growling with impatience; it was impossible to flee before these wretches in sabots. The sixty, with their backs to the wall and their rifles loaded, again faced the mob. At first there was a recoil, followed by deep silence; the strikers were astonished at this energetic stroke. Then a cry arose calling for the prisoners, demanding their immediate release. Some voices said that they were being murdered in there. And without any attempt at concerted action, carried away by the same impulse, by the same desire for revenge, they all ran to the piles of bricks which stood near, those bricks for which the marly soil supplied the clay, and which were baked on the spot. The children brought them one by one, and the women filled their skirts with them. Every one soon had her ammunition at her feet, and the battle of stones began. It was Mother Brulé who set to first. She broke the bricks on the sharp edge of her knee, and with both hands she discharged the two fragments. The Levaque woman was almost putting her shoulders out, being so large and soft that she had to come near to get her aim, in spite of Bouteloup's entreaties, and he dragged her back in the hope of being able to lead her away now that her husband had been taken off. They all grew excited, and Mouquette, tired of making herself bleed by breaking the bricks on her overfat thighs, preferred to throw them whole. Even the youngsters came into line, and Bébert showed Lydie how the brick ought to be sent from under the elbow. It was a shower of enormous hailstones, producing low thuds. And suddenly, in the midst of these furies, Catherine was observed with her fists in the air also brandishing half-bricks and throwing them with all the force of her little arms. She could not have said why, she was suffocating, she was dying of the desire to kill everybody. Would it not soon be done with, this cursed life of misfortune? She had had enough of it, beaten and driven away by her man, wandering about like a lost dog in the mud of the roads, without being able to ask a crust from her father, who was starving like herself. Things never seemed to get better; they were getting worse ever since she could remember. And she broke the bricks and threw them before her with the one idea of sweeping everything away, her eyes so blinded that she could not even see whose jaws she might be crushing. Étienne, who had remained in front of the soldiers, nearly had his skull broken. His ear was grazed, and turning round he started when he realized that the brick had come from Catherine's feverish hands; but at the risk of being killed he remained where he was, gazing at her. Many others also forgot themselves there, absorbed in the battle, with empty hands. Mouquet criticized the blows as though he were looking on at a game of _bouchon_. Oh, that was well struck! and that other, no luck! He joked, and with his elbow pushed Zacharie, who was squabbling with Philoméne because he had boxed Achille's and Désirée's ears, refusing to put them on his back so that they could see. There were spectators crowded all along the road. And at the top of the slope near the entrance to the settlement, old Bonnemort appeared, resting on his stick, motionless against the rust-coloured sky. As soon as the first bricks were thrown, Captain Richomme had again placed himself between the soldiers and the miners. He was entreating the one party, exhorting the other party, careless of danger, in such despair that large tears were flowing from his eyes. It was impossible to hear his words in the midst of the tumult; only his large grey moustache could be seen moving. But the hail of bricks came faster; the men were joining in, following the example of the women. Then Maheude noticed that Maheu was standing behind with empty hands and sombre air. "What's up with you?" she shouted. "Are you a coward? Are you going to let your mates be carried off to prison? Ah! if only I hadn't got this child, you should see!" Estelle, who was clinging to her neck, screaming, prevented her from joining Mother Brulé and the others. And as her man did not seem to hear, she kicked some bricks against his legs. "By God! will you take that? Must I spit in your face before people to get your spirits up?" Becoming very red, he broke some bricks and threw them. She lashed him on, dazing him, shouting behind him cries of death, stifling her daughter against her breast with the spasm of her arms; and he still moved forward until he was opposite the guns. Beneath this shower of stones the little troop was disappearing. Fortunately they struck too high, and the wall was riddled. What was to be done? The idea of going in, of turning their backs for a moment turned the captain's pale face purple; but it was no longer possible, they would be torn to pieces at the least movement. A brick had just broken the peak of his cap, drops of blood were running down his forehead. Several of his men were wounded; and he felt that they were losing self-control in that unbridled instinct of self-defence when obedience to leaders ceases. The sergeant had uttered a "By God!" for his left shoulder had nearly been put out, and his flesh bruised by a shock like the blow of a washerwoman's beetle against linen. Grazed twice over, the recruit had his thumb smashed, while his right knee was grazed. Were they to let themselves be worried much longer? A stone having bounded back and struck the old soldier with the stripes beneath the belly, his cheeks turned green, and his weapon trembled as he stretched it out at the end of his lean arms. Three times the captain was on the point of ordering them to fire. He was choked by anguish; an endless struggle for several seconds set at odds in his mind all ideas and duties, all his beliefs as a man and as a soldier. The rain of bricks increased, and he opened his mouth and was about to shout "Fire!" when the guns went off of themselves three shots at first, then five, then the roll of a volley, then one by itself, some time afterwards, in the deep silence. There was stupefaction on all sides. They had fired, and the gaping crowd stood motionless, as yet unable to believe it. But heart-rending cries arose while the bugle was sounding to cease firing. And here was a mad panic, the rush of cattle filled with grapeshot, a wild flight through the mud. Bébert and Lydie had fallen one on top of the other at the first three shots, the little girl struck in the face, the boy wounded beneath the left shoulder. She was crushed, and never stirred again. But he moved, seized her with both arms in the convulsion of his agony, as if he wanted to take her again, as he had taken her at the bottom of the black hiding-place where they had spent the past night. And Jeanlin, who just then ran up from Réquillart still half asleep, kicking about in the midst of the smoke, saw him embrace his little wife and die. The five other shots had brought down Mother Brulé and Captain Richomme. Struck in the back as he was entreating his mates, he had fallen on to his knees, and slipping on to one hip he was groaning on the ground with eyes still full of tears. The old woman, whose breast had been opened, had fallen back stiff and crackling, like a bundle of dry faggots, stammering one last oath in the gurgling of blood. But then the volley swept the field, mowing down the inquisitive groups who were laughing at the battle a hundred paces off. A ball entered Mouquet's mouth and threw him down with fractured skull at the feet of Zacharie and Philoméne, whose two youngsters were splashed with red drops. At the same moment Mouquette received two balls in the belly. She had seen the soldiers take aim, and in an instinctive movement of her good nature she had thrown herself in front of Catherine, shouting out to her to take care; she uttered a loud cry and fell on to her back overturned by the shock. Étienne ran up, wishing to raise her and take her away; but with a gesture she said it was all over. Then she groaned, but without ceasing to smile at both of them, as though she were glad to see them together now that she was going away. All seemed to be over, and the hurricane of balls was lost in the distance as far as the frontages of the settlement, when the last shot, isolated and delayed, was fired. Maheu, struck in the heart, turned round and fell with his face down into a puddle black with coal. Maheude leant down in stupefaction. "Eh! old man, get up. It's nothing, is it?" Her hands were engaged with Estelle, whom she had to put under one arm in order to turn her man's head. "Say something! where are you hurt?" His eyes were vacant, and his mouth was slavered with bloody foam. She understood: he was dead. Then she remained seated in the mud with her daughter under her arm like a bundle, gazing at her old man with a besotted air. The pit was free. With a nervous movement the captain had taken off and then put on his cap, struck by a stone; he preserved his pallid stiffness in face of the disaster of his life, while his men with mute faces were reloading. The frightened faces of Négrel and Dansaert could be seen at the window of the receiving-room. Souvarine was behind them with a deep wrinkle on his forehead, as though the nail of his fixed idea had printed itself there threateningly. On the other side of the horizon, at the edge of the plain, Bonnemort had not moved, supported by one hand on his stick, the other hand up to his brows to see better the murder of his people below. The wounded were howling, the dead were growing cold, in twisted postures, muddy with the liquid mud of the thaw, here and there forming puddles among the inky patches of coal which reappeared beneath the tattered snow. And in the midst of these human corpses, all small, poor and lean in their wretchedness, lay Trompette's carcass, a monstrous and pitiful mass of dead flesh. Étienne had not been killed. He was still waiting beside Catherine, who had fallen from fatigue and anguish, when a sonorous voice made him start. It was Abbé Ranvier, who was coming back after saying mass, and who, with both arms in the air, with the inspired fury of a prophet, was calling the wrath of God down on the murderers. He foretold the era of justice, the approaching extermination of the middle class by fire from heaven, since it was bringing its crimes to a climax by massacring the workers and the disinherited of the world. PART SEVEN CHAPTER I The shots fired at Montsou had reached as far as Paris with a formidable echo. For four days all the opposition journals had been indignant, displaying atrocious narratives on their front pages: twenty-five wounded, fourteen dead, including three women and two children. And there were prisoners taken as well; Levaque had become a sort of hero, and was credited with a reply of antique sublimity to the examining magistrate. The empire, hit in mid career by these few balls, affected the calm of omnipotence, without itself realizing the gravity of its wound. It was simply an unfortunate collision, something lost over there in the black country, very far from the Parisian boulevards which formed public opinion; it would soon be forgotten. The Company had received official intimation to hush up the affair, and to put an end to a strike which from its irritating duration was becoming a social danger. So on Wednesday morning three of the directors appeared at Montsou. The little town, sick at heart, which had not dared hitherto to rejoice over the massacre, now breathed again, and tasted the joy of being saved. The weather, too, had become fine; there was a bright sun--one of those first February days which, with their moist warmth, tip the lilac shoots with green. All the shutters had been flung back at the administration building, the vast structure seemed alive again. And cheering rumours were circulating; it was said that the directors, deeply affected by the catastrophe, had rushed down to open their paternal arms to the wanderers from the settlements. Now that the blow had fallen--a more vigorous one doubtless than they had wished for--they were prodigal in their task of relief, and decreed measures that were excellent though tardy. First of all they sent away the Borains, and made much of this extreme concession to their workmen. Then they put an end to the military occupation of the pits, which were no longer threatened by the crushed strikers. They also obtained silence regarding the sentinel who had disappeared from the Voreux; the district had been searched without finding either the gun or the corpse, and although there was a suspicion of crime, it was decided to consider the soldier a deserter. In every way they thus tried to attenuate matters, trembling with fear for the morrow, judging it dangerous to acknowledge the irresistible savagery of a crowd set free amid the falling structure of the old world. And besides, this work of conciliation did not prevent them from bringing purely administrative affairs to a satisfactory conclusion; for Deneulin had been seen to return to the administration buildings, where he met M. Hennebeau. The negotiations for the purchase of Vandame continued, and it was considered certain that Deneulin would accept the Company's offers. But what particularly stirred the country were the great yellow posters which the directors had stuck up in profusion on the walls. On them were to be read these few lines, in very large letters: "Workers of Montsou! We do not wish that the errors of which you have lately seen the sad effects should deprive sensible and willing workmen of their livelihood. We shall therefore reopen all the pits on Monday morning, and when work is resumed we shall examine with care and consideration those cases in which there may be room for improvement. We shall, in fact, do all that is just or possible to do." In one morning the ten thousand colliers passed before these placards. Not one of them spoke, many shook their heads, others went away with trailing steps, without changing one line in their motionless faces. Up till now the settlement of the Deux-Cent-Quarante had persisted in its fierce resistance. It seemed that the blood of their mates, which had reddened the mud of the pit, was barricading the road against the others. Scarcely a dozen had gone down, merely Pierron and some sneaks of his sort, whose departure and arrival were gloomily watched without a gesture or a threat. Therefore a deep suspicion greeted the placard stuck on to the church. Nothing was said about the returned certificates in that. Would the Company refuse to take them on again? and the fear of retaliations, the fraternal idea of protesting against the dismissal of the more compromised men, made them all obstinate still. It was dubious; they would see. They would return to the pit when these gentlemen were good enough to put things plainly. Silence crushed the low houses. Hunger itself seemed nothing; all might die now that violent death had passed over their roofs. But one house, that of the Maheus, remained especially black and mute in its overwhelming grief. Since she had followed her man to the cemetery, Maheude kept her teeth clenched. After the battle, she had allowed Étienne to bring back Catherine muddy and half dead; and as she was undressing her, before the young man, in order to put her to bed, she thought for a moment that her daughter also had received a ball in the belly, for the chemise was marked with large patches of blood. But she soon understood that it was the flood of puberty, which was at last breaking out in the shock of this abominable day. Ah! another piece of luck, that wound! A fine present, to be able to make children for the gendarmes to kill; and she never spoke to Catherine, nor did she, indeed, talk to Étienne. The latter slept with Jeanlin, at the risk of being arrested, seized by such horror at the idea of going back to the darkness of Réquillart that he would have preferred a prison. A shudder shook him, the horror of the night after all those deaths, an unacknowledged fear of the little soldier who slept down there underneath the rocks. Besides, he dreamed of a prison as of a refuge in the midst of the torment of his defeat; but they did not trouble him, and he dragged on his wretched hours, not knowing how to weary out his body. Only at times Maheude looked at both of them, at him and her daughter, with a spiteful air, as though she were asking them what they were doing in her house. Once more they were all snoring in a heap. Father Bonnemort occupied the former bed of the two youngsters, who slept with Catherine now that poor Alzire no longer dug her hump into her big sister's ribs. It was when going to bed that the mother felt the emptiness of the house by the coldness of her bed, which was now too large. In vain she took Estelle to fill the vacancy; that did not replace her man, and she wept quietly for hours. Then the days began to pass by as before, always without bread, but without the luck to die outright; things picked up here and there rendered to the wretches the poor service of keeping them alive. Nothing had changed in their existence, only her man was gone. On the afternoon of the fifth day, Étienne, made miserable by the sight of this silent woman, left the room, and walked slowly along the paved street of the settlement. The inaction which weighed on him impelled him to take constant walks, with arms swinging idly and lowered head, always tortured by the same thought. He tramped thus for half an hour, when he felt, by an increase in his discomfort, that his mates were coming to their doors to look at him. His little remaining popularity had been driven to the winds by that fusillade, and he never passed now without meeting fiery looks which pursued him. When he raised his head there were threatening men there, women drawing aside the curtains from their windows; and beneath this still silent accusation and the restrained anger of these eyes, enlarged by hunger and tears, he became awkward and could scarcely walk straight. These dumb reproaches seemed to be always increasing behind him. He became so terrified, lest he should hear the entire settlement come out to shout its wretchedness at him, that he returned shuddering. But at the Maheus' the scene which met him still further agitated him. Old Bonnemort was near the cold fireplace, nailed to his chair ever since two neighbours, on the day of the slaughter, had found him on the ground, with his stick broken, struck down like an old thunder-stricken tree. And while Lénore and Henri, to beguile their hunger, were scraping, with deafening noise, an old saucepan in which cabbages had been boiled the day before, Maheude, after having placed Estelle on the table, was standing up threatening Catherine with her fist. "Say that again, by God! Just dare to say that again!" Catherine had declared her intention to go back to the Voreux. The idea of not gaining her bread, of being thus tolerated in her mother's house, like a useless animal that is in the way, was becoming every day more unbearable; and if it had not been for the fear of Chaval she would have gone down on Tuesday. She said again, stammering: "What would you have? We can't go on doing nothing. We should get bread, anyhow." Maheude interrupted her. "Listen to me: the first one of you who goes to work, I'll do for you. No, that would be too much, to kill the father and go on taking it out of the children! I've had enough of it; I'd rather see you all put in your coffins, like him that's gone already." And her long silence broke out into a furious flood of words. A fine sum Catherine would bring her! hardly thirty sous, to which they might add twenty sous if the bosses were good enough to find work for that brigand Jeanlin. Fifty sous, and seven mouths to feed! The brats were only good to swallow soup. As to the grandfather, he must have broken something in his brain when he fell, for he seemed imbecile; unless it had turned his blood to see the soldiers firing at his mates. "That's it, old man, isn't it? They've quite done for you. It's no good having your hands still strong; you're done for." Bonnemort looked at her with his dim eyes without understanding. He remained for hours with fixed gaze, having no intelligence now except to spit into a plate filled with ashes, which was put beside him for cleanliness. "And they've not settled his pension, either," she went on. "And I'm sure they won't give it, because of our ideas. No! I tell you that we've had too much to do with those people who bring ill luck." "But," Catherine ventured to say, "they promise on the placard--" "Just let me alone with your damned placard! More birdlime for catching us and eating us. They can be mighty kind now that they have ripped us open." "But where shall we go, mother? They won't keep us at the settlement, sure enough." Maheude made a vague, terrified gesture. Where should they go to? She did not know at all; she avoided thinking, it made her mad. They would go elsewhere--somewhere. And as the noise of the saucepan was becoming unbearable, she turned round on Lénore and Henri and boxed their ears. The fall of Estelle, who had been crawling on all fours, increased the disturbance. The mother quieted her with a push--a good thing if it had killed her! She spoke of Alzire; she wished the others might have that child's luck. Then suddenly she burst out into loud sobs, with her head against the wall. Étienne, who was standing by, did not dare to interfere. He no longer counted for anything in the house, and even the children drew back from him suspiciously. But the unfortunate woman's tears went to his heart, and he murmured: "Come, come! courage! we must try to get out of it." She did not seem to hear him, and was bemoaning herself now in a low continuous complaint. "Ah! the wretchedness! is it possible? Things did go on before these horrors. We ate our bread dry, but we were all together; and what has happened, good God! What have we done, then, that we should have such troubles--some under the earth, and the others with nothing left but to long to get there too? It's true enough that they harnessed us like horses to work, and it's not at all a just sharing of things to be always getting the stick and making rich people's fortunes bigger without hope of ever tasting the good things. There's no pleasure in life when hope goes. Yes, that couldn't have gone on longer; we had to breathe a bit. If we had only known! Is it possible to make oneself so wretched through wanting justice?" Sighs swelled her breast, and her voice choked with immense sadness. "Then there are always some clever people there who promise you that everything can be arranged by just taking a little trouble. Then one loses one's head, and one suffers so much from things as they are that one asks for things that can't be. Now, I was dreaming like a fool; I seemed to see a life of good friendship with everybody; I went off into the air, my faith! into the clouds. And then one breaks one's back when one tumbles down into the mud again. It's not true; there's nothing over there of the things that people tell of. What there is, is only wretchedness, ah! wretchedness, as much as you like of it, and bullets into the bargain." Étienne listened to this lamentation, and every tear struck him with remorse. He knew not what to say to calm Maheude, broken by her terrible fall from the heights of the ideal. She had come back to the middle of the room, and was now looking at him; she addressed him with contemptuous familiarity in a last cry of rage: "And you, do you talk of going back to the pit, too, after driving us out of the bloody place! I've nothing to reproach you with; but if I were in your shoes I should be dead of grief by now after causing such harm to the mates." He was about to reply, but then shrugged his shoulders in despair. What was the good of explaining, for she would not understand in her grief? And he went away, for he was suffering too much, and resumed his wild walk outside. There again he found the settlement apparently waiting for him, the men at the doors, the women at the windows. As soon as he appeared growls were heard, and the crowd increased. The breath of gossip, which had been swelling for four days, was breaking out in a universal malediction. Fists were stretched towards him, mothers spitefully pointed him out to their boys, old men spat as they looked at him. It was the change which follows on the morrow of defeat, the fatal reverse of popularity, an execration exasperated by all the suffering endured without result. He had to pay for famine and death. Zacharie, who came up with Philoméne, hustled Étienne as he went out, grinning maliciously. "Well, he gets fat. It's filling, then, to live on other people's deaths?" The Levaque woman had already come to her door with Bouteloup. She spoke of Bébert, her youngster, killed by a bullet, and cried: "Yes, there are cowards who get children murdered! Let him go and look for mine in the earth if he wants to give it me back!" She was forgetting her man in prison, for the household was going on since Bouteloup remained; but she thought of him, however, and went on in a shrill voice: "Get along! rascals may walk about while good people are put away!" In avoiding her, Étienne tumbled on to Pierronne, who was running up across the gardens. She had regarded her mother's death as a deliverance, for the old woman's violence threatened to get them hanged; nor did she weep over Pierron's little girl, that street-walker Lydie--a good riddance. But she joined in with her neighbours with the idea of getting reconciled with them. "And my mother, eh, and the little girl? You were seen; you were hiding yourself behind them when they caught the lead instead of you!" What was to be done? Strangle Pierronne and the others, and fight the whole settlement? Étienne wanted to do so for a moment. The blood was throbbing in his head, he now looked upon his mates as brutes, he was irritated to see them so unintelligent and barbarous that they wanted to revenge themselves on him for the logic of facts. How stupid it all was! and he felt disgust at his powerlessness to tame them again; and satisfied himself with hastening his steps as though he were deaf to abuse. Soon it became a flight; every house hooted him as he passed, they hastened on his heels, it was a whole nation cursing him with a voice that was becoming like thunder in its overwhelming hatred. It was he, the exploiter, the murderer, who was the sole cause of their misfortune. He rushed out of the settlement, pale and terrified, with this yelling crowd behind his back. When he at last reached the main road most of them left him; but a few persisted, until at the bottom of the slope before the Avantage he met another group coming from the Voreux. Old Mouque and Chaval were there. Since the death of his daughter Mouquette, and of his son Mouquet, the old man had continued to act as groom without a word of regret or complaint. Suddenly, when he saw Étienne, he was shaken by fury, tears broke out from his eyes, and a flood of coarse words burst from his mouth, black and bleeding from his habit of chewing tobacco. "You devil! you bloody swine! you filthy snout! Wait, you've got to pay me for my poor children; you'll have to come to it!" He picked up a brick, broke it, and threw both pieces. "Yes! yes! clear him off!" shouted Chaval, who was grinning in excitement, delighted at this vengeance. "Every one gets his turn; now you're up against the wall, you dirty hound!" And he also attacked Étienne with stones. A savage clamour arose; they all took up bricks, broke them, and threw them, to rip him open, as they would like to have done to the soldiers. He was dazed and could not flee; he faced them, trying to calm them with phrases. His old speeches, once so warmly received, came back to his lips. He repeated the words with which he had intoxicated them at the time when he could keep them in hand like a faithful flock; but his power was dead, and only stones replied to him. He had just been struck on the left arm, and was drawing back, in great peril, when he found himself hemmed in against the front of the Avantage. For the last few moments Rasseneur had been at his door. "Come in," he said simply. Étienne hesitated; it choked him to take refuge there. "Come in; then I'll speak to them." He resigned himself, and took refuge at the other end of the parlour, while the innkeeper filled up the doorway with his broad shoulders. "Look here, my friends, just be reasonable. You know very well that I've never deceived you. I've always been in favour of quietness, and if you had listened to me, you certainly wouldn't be where you are now." Rolling his shoulders and belly, he went on at length, allowing his facile eloquence to flow with the lulling gentleness of warm water. And all his old success came back; he regained his popularity, naturally and without an effort, as if he had never been hooted and called a coward a month before. Voices arose in approval: "Very good! we are with you! that is the way to put it!" Thundering applause broke out. Étienne, in the background, grew faint, and there was bitterness at his heart. He recalled Rasseneur's prediction in the forest, threatening him with the ingratitude of the mob. What imbecile brutality! What an abominable forgetfulness of old services! It was a blind force which constantly devoured itself. And beneath his anger at seeing these brutes spoil their own cause, there was despair at his own fall and the tragic end of his ambition. What! was it already done for! He remembered hearing beneath the beeches three thousand hearts beating to the echo of his own. On that day he had held his popularity in both hands. Those people belonged to him; he felt that he was their master. Mad dreams had then intoxicated him. Montsou at his feet, Paris beyond, becoming a deputy perhaps, crushing the middle class in a speech, the first speech ever pronounced by a workman in a parliament. And it was all over! He awakened, miserable and detested; his people were dismissing him by flinging bricks. Rasseneur's voice rose higher: "Never will violence succeed; the world can't be remade in a day. Those who have promised you to change it all at one stroke are either making fun of you or they are rascals!" "Bravo! bravo!" shouted the crowd. Who then was the guilty one? And this question which Étienne put to himself overwhelmed him more than ever. Was it in fact his fault, this misfortune which was making him bleed, the wretchedness of some, the murder of others, these women, these children, lean, and without bread? He had had that lamentable vision one evening before the catastrophe. But then a force was lifting him, he was carried away with his mates. Besides, he had never led them, it was they who led him, who obliged him to do things which he would never have done if it were not for the shock of that crowd pushing behind him. At each new violence he had been stupefied by the course of events, for he had neither foreseen nor desired any of them. Could he anticipate, for instance, that his followers in the settlement would one day stone him? These infuriated people lied when they accused him of having promised them an existence all fodder and laziness. And in this justification, in this reasoning, in which he tried to fight against his remorse, was hidden the anxiety that he had not risen to the height of his task; it was the doubt of the half-cultured man still perplexing him. But he felt himself at the end of his courage, he was no longer at heart with his mates; he feared this enormous mass of the people, blind and irresistible, moving like a force of nature, sweeping away everything, outside rules and theories. A certain repugnance was detaching him from them--the discomfort of his new tastes, the slow movement of all his being towards a superior class. At this moment Rasseneur's voice was lost in the midst of enthusiastic shouts: "Hurrah for Rasseneur! he's the fellow! Bravo, bravo!" The innkeeper shut the door, while the band dispersed; and the two men looked at each other in silence. They both shrugged their shoulders. They finished up by having a drink together. On the same day there was a great dinner at Piolaine; they were celebrating the betrothal of Négrel and Cécile. Since the previous evening the Grégoires had had the dining-room waxed and the drawing-room dusted. Mélanie reigned in the kitchen, watching over the roasts and stirring the sauces, the odour of which ascended to the attics. It had been decided that Francis, the coachman, should help Honorine to wait. The gardener's wife would wash up, and the gardener would open the gate. Never had the substantial, patriarchal old house been in such a state of gaiety. Everything went off beautifully, Madame Hennebeau was charming with Cécile, and she smiled at Négrel when the Montsou lawyer gallantly proposed the health of the future household. M. Hennebeau was also very amiable. His smiling face struck the guests. The report circulated that he was rising in favour with the directors, and that he would soon be made an officer of the Legion of Honour, on account of the energetic manner in which he had put down the strike. Nothing was said about recent events; but there was an air of triumph in the general joy, and the dinner became the official celebration of a victory. At last, then, they were saved, and once more they could begin to eat and sleep in peace. A discreet allusion was made to those dead whose blood the Voreux mud had yet scarcely drunk up. It was a necessary lesson: and they were all affected when the Grégoires added that it was now the duty of all to go and heal the wounds in the settlements. They had regained their benevolent placidity, excusing their brave miners, whom they could already see again at the bottom of the mines, giving a good example of everlasting resignation. The Montsou notables, who had now left off trembling, agreed that this question of the wage system ought to be studied, cautiously. The roasts came on; and the victory became complete when M. Hennebeau read a letter from the bishop announcing Abbé Ranvier's removal. The middle class throughout the province had been roused to anger by the story of this priest who treated the soldiers as murderers. And when the dessert appeared the lawyer resolutely declared that he was a free-thinker. Deneulin was there with his two daughters. In the midst of the joy, he forced himself to hide the melancholy of his ruin. That very morning he had signed the sale of his Vandame concession to the Montsou Company. With the knife at his throat he had submitted to the directors' demands, at last giving up to them that prey they had been on the watch for so long, scarcely obtaining from them the money necessary to pay off his creditors. He had even accepted, as a lucky chance, at the last moment, their offer to keep him as divisional engineer, thus resigning himself to watch, as a simple salaried servant, over that pit which had swallowed up his fortune. It was the knell of small personal enterprises, the approaching disappearance of the masters, eaten up, one by one, by the ever-hungry ogre of capital, drowned in the rising flood of great companies. He alone paid the expenses of the strike; he understood that they were drinking to his disaster when they drank to M. Hennebeau's rosette. And he only consoled himself a little when he saw the fine courage of Lucie and Jeanne, who looked charming in their done-up toilettes, laughing at the downfall, like happy tomboys disdainful of money. When they passed into the drawing-room for coffee, M. Grégoire drew his cousin aside and congratulated him on the courage of his decision. "What would you have? Your real mistake was to risk the million of your Montsou denier over Vandame. You gave yourself a terrible wound, and it has melted away in that dog's labour, while mine, which has not stirred from my drawer, still keeps me comfortably doing nothing, as it will keep my grandchildren's children." CHAPTER II On Sunday Étienne escaped from the settlement at nightfall. A very clear sky, sprinkled with stars, lit up the earth with the blue haze of twilight. He went down towards the canal, and followed the bank slowly, in the direction of Marchiennes. It was his favourite walk, a grass-covered path two leagues long, passing straight beside this geometrical water-way, which unrolled itself like an endless ingot of molten silver. He never met any one there. But on this day he was vexed to see a man come up to him. Beneath the pale starlight, the two solitary walkers only recognized each other when they were face to face. "What! is it you?" said Étienne. Souvarine nodded his head without replying. For a moment they remained motionless, then side by side they set out towards Marchiennes. Each of them seemed to be continuing his own reflections, as though they were far away from each other. "Have you seen in the paper about Pluchart's success at Paris?" asked Étienne, at length. "After that meeting at Belleville, they waited for him on the pavement, and gave him an ovation. Oh! he's afloat now, in spite of his sore throat. He can do what he likes in the future." The engine-man shrugged his shoulders. He felt contempt for fine talkers, fellows who go into politics as one goes to the bar, to get an income out of phrases. Étienne was now studying Darwin. He had read fragments, summarized and popularized in a five-sou volume; and out of this ill-understood reading he had gained for himself a revolutionary idea of the struggle for existence, the lean eating the fat, the strong people devouring the pallid middle class. But Souvarine furiously attacked the stupidity of the Socialists who accept Darwin, that apostle of scientific inequality, whose famous selection was only good for aristocratic philosophers. His mate persisted, however, wishing to reason out the matter, and expressing his doubts by an hypothesis: supposing the old society were no longer to exist, swept away to the crumbs; well, was it not to be feared that the new world would grow up again, slowly spoilt by the same injustices, some sick and others flourishing, some more skilful and intelligent, fattening on everything, and others imbecile and lazy, becoming slaves again? But before this vision of eternal wretchedness, the engine-man shouted out fiercely that if justice was not possible with man, then man must disappear. For every rotten society there must be a massacre, until the last creature was exterminated. And there was silence again. For a long time, with sunken head, Souvarine walked over the short grass, so absorbed that he kept to the extreme edge, by the water, with the quiet certainty of a sleep-walker on a roof. Then he shuddered causelessly, as though he had stumbled against a shadow. His eyes lifted and his face was very pale; he said softly to his companion: "Did I ever tell you how she died?" "Whom do you mean?" "My wife, over there, in Russia." Étienne made a vague gesture, astonished at the tremor in his voice and at the sudden desire for confidence in this lad, who was usually so impassive in his stoical detachment from others and from himself. He only knew that the woman was his mistress, and that she had been hanged at Moscow. "The affair hadn't gone off," Souvarine said, with eyes still vacantly following the white stream of the canal between the bluish colonnades of tall trees. "We had been a fortnight at the bottom of a hole undermining the railway, and it was not the imperial train that was blown up, it was a passenger train. Then they arrested Annutchka. She brought us bread every evening, disguised as a peasant woman. She lit the fuse, too, because a man might have attracted attention. I followed the trial, hidden in the crowd, for six days." His voice became thick, and he coughed as though he were choking. "Twice I wanted to cry out, and to rush over the people's heads to join her. But what was the good? One man less would be one soldier less; and I could see that she was telling me not to come, when her large eyes met mine." He coughed again. "On the last day in the square I was there. It was raining; they stupidly lost their heads, put out by the falling rain. It took twenty minutes to hang the other four; the cord broke, they could not finish the fourth. Annutchka was standing up waiting. She could not see me, she was looking for me in the crowd. I got on to a post and she saw me, and our eyes never turned from each other. When she was dead she was still looking at me. I waved my hat; I came away." There was silence again. The white road of the canal unrolled to the far distance, and they both walked with the same quiet step as though each had fallen back into his isolation. At the horizon, the pale water seemed to open the sky with a little hole of light. "It was our punishment," Souvarine went on roughly. "We were guilty to love each other. Yes, it is well that she is dead; heroes will be born from her blood, and I no longer have any cowardice at my heart. Ah! nothing, neither parents, nor wife, nor friend! Nothing to make my hand tremble on the day when I must take others' lives or give up my own." Étienne had stopped, shuddering in the cool night. He discussed no more, he simply said: "We have gone far; shall we go back?" They went back towards the Voreux slowly, and he added, after a few paces: "Have you seen the new placards?" The Company had that morning put up some more large yellow posters. They were clearer and more conciliatory, and the Company undertook to take back the certificates of those miners who went down on the following day. Everything would be forgotten, and pardon was offered even to those who were most implicated. "Yes, I've seen," replied the engine-man. "Well, what do you think of it?" "I think that it's all up. The flock will go down again. You are all too cowardly." Étienne feverishly excused his mates: a man may be brave, a mob which is dying of hunger has no strength. Step by step they were returning to the Voreux; and before the black mass of the pit he continued swearing that he, at least, would never go down; but he could forgive those who did. Then, as the rumour ran that the carpenters had not had time to repair the tubbing, he asked for information. Was it true? Had the weight of the soil against the timber which formed the internal skirt of scaffolding to the shaft so pushed it in that the winding-cages rubbed as they went down for a length of over fifty metres? Souvarine, who once more became uncommunicative, replied briefly. He had been working the day before, and the cage did, in fact, jar; the engine-men had even had to double the speed to pass that spot. But all the bosses received any observations with the same irritating remark: it was coal they wanted; that could be repaired later on. "You see that will smash up!" Étienne murmured. "It will be a fine time!" With eyes vaguely fixed on the pit in the shadow, Souvarine quietly concluded: "If it does smash up, the mates will know it, since you advise them to go down again." Nine o'clock struck at the Montsou steeple; and his companion having said that he was going to bed, he added, without putting out his hand: "Well, good-bye. I'm going away." "What! you're going away?" "Yes, I've asked for my certificate back. I'm going elsewhere." Étienne, stupefied and affected, looked at him. After walking for two hours he said that to him! And in so calm a voice, while the mere announcement of this sudden separation made his own heart ache. They had got to know each other, they had toiled together; that always makes one sad, the idea of not seeing a person again. "You're going away! And where do you go?" "Over there--I don't know at all." "But I shall see you again?" "No, I think not." They were silent and remained for a moment facing each other without finding anything to say. "Then good-bye." "Good-bye." While Étienne ascended toward the settlement, Souvarine turned and again went along the canal bank; and there, now alone, he continued to walk, with sunken head, so lost in the darkness that he seemed merely a moving shadow of the night. Now and then he stopped, he counted the hours that struck afar. When he heard midnight strike he left the bank and turned towards the Voreux. At that time the pit was empty, and he only met a sleepy-eyed captain. It was not until two o'clock that they would begin to get up steam to resume work. First he went to take from a cupboard a jacket which he pretended to have forgotten. Various tools--a drill armed with its screw, a small but very strong saw, a hammer, and a chisel--were rolled up in this jacket. Then he left. But instead of going out through the shed he passed through the narrow corridor which led to the ladder passage. With his jacket under his arm he quietly went down without a lamp, measuring the depth by counting the ladders. He knew that the cage jarred at three hundred and seventy-four metres against the fifth row of the lower tubbing. When he had counted fifty-four ladders he put out his hand and was able to feel the swelling of the planking. It was there. Then, with the skill and coolness of a good workman who has been reflecting over his task for a long time, he set to work. He began by sawing a panel in the brattice so as to communicate with the winding-shaft. With the help of matches, quickly lighted and blown out, he was then able to ascertain the condition of the tubbing and of the recent repairs. Between Calais and Valenciennes the sinking of mine shafts was surrounded by immense difficulties on account of the masses of subterranean water in great sheets at the level of the lowest valleys. Only the construction of tubbings, frameworks jointed like the stays of a barrel, could keep out the springs which flow in and isolate the shafts in the midst of the lakes, which with deep obscure waves beat against the walls. It had been necessary in sinking the Voreux to establish two tubbings: that of the upper level, in the shifting sands and white clays bordering the chalky stratum, and fissured in every part, swollen with water like a sponge; then that of the lower level, immediately above the coal stratum, in a yellow sand as fine as flour, flowing with liquid fluidity; it was here that the Torrent was to be found, that subterranean sea so dreaded in the coal pits of the Nord, a sea with its storms and its shipwrecks, an unknown and unfathomable sea, rolling its dark floods more than three hundred metres beneath the daylight. Usually the tubbings resisted the enormous pressure; the only thing to be dreaded was the piling up of the neighbouring soil, shaken by the constant movement of the old galleries which were filling up. In this descent of the rocks lines of fracture were sometimes produced which slowly extended as far as the scaffolding, at last perforating it and pushing it into the shaft; and there was the great danger of a landslip and a flood filling the pit with an avalanche of earth and a deluge of springs. Souvarine, sitting astride in the opening he had made, discovered a very serious defect in the fifth row of tubbing. The wood was bellied out from the framework; several planks had even come out of their shoulder-pieces. Abundant filtrations, _pichoux_ the miners call them, were jetting out of the joints through the tarred oakum with which they were caulked. The carpenters, pressed for time, had been content to place iron squares at the angles, so carelessly that not all the screws were put in. A considerable movement was evidently going on behind in the sand of the Torrent. Then with his wimble he unscrewed the squares so that another push would tear them all off. It was a foolhardy task, during which he frequently only just escaped from falling headlong down the hundred and eighty metres which separated him from the bottom. He had been obliged to seize the oak guides, the joists along which the cages slid; and suspended over the void he traversed the length of the cross-beams with which they were joined from point to point, slipping along, sitting down, turning over, simply buttressing himself on an elbow or a knee, with tranquil contempt of death. A breath would have sent him over, and three times he caught himself up without a shudder. First he felt with his hand and then worked, only lighting a match when he lost himself in the midst of these slimy beams. After loosening the screws he attacked the wood itself, and the peril became still greater. He had sought for the key, the piece which held the others; he attacked it furiously, making holes in it, sawing it, thinning it so that it lost its resistance; while through the holes and the cracks the water which escaped in small jets blinded him and soaked him in icy rain. Two matches were extinguished. They all became damp and then there was night, the bottomless depth of darkness. From this moment he was seized by rage. The breath of the invisible intoxicated him, the black horror of this rain-beaten hole urged him to mad destruction. He wreaked his fury at random against the tubbing, striking where he could with his wimble, with his saw, seized by the desire to bring the whole thing at once down on his head. He brought as much ferocity to the task as though he had been digging a knife into the skin of some execrated living creature. He would kill the Voreux at last, that evil beast with ever-open jaws which had swallowed so much human flesh! The bite of his tools could be heard, his spine lengthened, he crawled, climbed down, then up again, holding on by a miracle, in continual movement, the flight of a nocturnal bird amid the scaffolding of a belfry. But he grew calm, dissatisfied with himself. Why could not things be done coolly? Without haste he took breath, and then went back into the ladder passage, stopping up the hole by replacing the panel which he had sawn. That was enough; he did not wish to raise the alarm by excessive damage which would have been repaired immediately. The beast was wounded in the belly; we should see if it was still alive at night. And he had left his mark; the frightened world would know that the beast had not died a natural death. He took his time in methodically rolling up his tools in his jacket, and slowly climbed up the ladders. Then, when he had emerged from the pit without being seen, it did not even occur to him to go and change his clothes. Three o'clock struck. He remained standing on the road waiting. At the same hour Étienne, who was not asleep, was disturbed by a slight sound in the thick night of the room. He distinguished the low breath of the children, and the snoring of Bonnemort and Maheude; while Jeanlin near him was breathing with a prolonged flute-like whistle. No doubt he had dreamed, and he was turning back when the noise began again. It was the creaking of a palliasse, the stifled effort of someone who is getting up. Then he imagined that Catherine must be ill. "I say, is it you? What is the matter?" he asked in a low voice. No one replied, and the snoring of the others continued. For five minutes nothing stirred. Then there was fresh creaking. Feeling certain this time that he was not mistaken, he crossed the room, putting his hands out into the darkness to feel the opposite bed. He was surprised to find the young girl sitting up, holding in her breath, awake and on the watch. "Well! why don't you reply? What are you doing, then?" At last she said: "I'm getting up." "Getting up at this hour?" "Yes, I'm going back to work at the pit." Étienne felt deeply moved, and sat down on the edge of the palliasse, while Catherine explained her reasons to him. She suffered too much by living thus in idleness, feeling continual looks of reproach weighing on her; she would rather run the risk of being knocked about down there by Chaval. And if her mother refused to take her money when she brought it, well! she was big enough to act for herself and make her own soup. "Go away; I want to dress. And don't say anything, will you, if you want to be kind?" But he remained near her; he had put his arms round her waist in a caress of grief and pity. Pressed one against the other in their shirts, they could feel the warmth of each other's naked flesh, at the edge of this bed, still moist with the night's sleep. She had at first tried to free herself; then she began to cry quietly, in her turn taking him by the neck to press him against her in a despairing clasp. And they remained, without any further desires, with the past of their unfortunate love, which they had not been able to satisfy. Was it, then, done with for ever? Would they never dare to love each other some day, now that they were free? It only needed a little happiness to dissipate their shame--that awkwardness which prevented them from coming together because of all sorts of ideas which they themselves could not read clearly. "Go to bed again," she whispered. "I don't want to light up, it would wake mother. It is time; leave me." He could not hear; he was pressing her wildly, with a heart drowned in immense sadness. The need for peace, an irresistible need for happiness, was carrying him away; and he saw himself married, in a neat little house, with no other ambition than to live and to die there, both of them together. He would be satisfied with bread; and if there were only enough for one, she should have it. What was the good of anything else? Was there anything in life worth more? But she was unfolding her naked arms. "Please, leave me." Then, in a sudden impulse, he said in her ear: "Wait, I'm coming with you." And he was himself surprised at what he had said. He had sworn never to go down again; whence then came this sudden decision, arising from his lips without thought of his, without even a moment's discussion? There was now such calm within him, so complete a cure of his doubts, that he persisted like a man saved by chance, who has at last found the only harbour from his torment. So he refused to listen to her when she became alarmed, understanding that he was devoting himself for her and fearing the ill words which would greet him at the pit. He laughed at everything; the placards promised pardon and that was enough. "I want to work; that's my idea. Let us dress and make no noise." They dressed themselves in the darkness, with a thousand precautions. She had secretly prepared her miner's clothes the evening before; he took a jacket and breeches from the cupboard; and they did not wash themselves for fear of knocking the bowl. All were asleep, but they had to cross the narrow passage where the mother slept. When they started, as ill luck would have it, they stumbled against a chair. She woke and asked drowsily: "Eh! what is it?" Catherine had stopped, trembling, and violently pressing Étienne's hand. "It's me; don't trouble yourself," he said. "I feel stifled and am going outside to breathe a bit." "Very well." And Maheude fell asleep again. Catherine dared not stir. At last she went down into the parlour and divided a slice of bread-and-butter which she had reserved from a loaf given by a Montsou lady. Then they softly closed the door and went away. Souvarine had remained standing near the Avantage, at the corner of the road. For half an hour he had been looking at the colliers who were returning to work in the darkness, passing by with the dull tramp of a herd. He was counting them, as a butcher counts his beasts at the entrance to the slaughter-house, and he was surprised at their number; even his pessimism had not foreseen that the number of cowards would have been so great. The stream continued to pass by, and he grew stiff, very cold, with clenched teeth and bright eyes. But he started. Among the men passing by, whose faces he could not distinguish, he had just recognized one by his walk. He came forward and stopped him. "Where are you going to?" Étienne, in surprise, instead of replying, stammered: "What! you've not set out yet!" Then he confessed he was going back to the pit. No doubt he had sworn; only it could not be called life to wait with folded arms for things which would perhaps happen in a hundred years; and, besides, reasons of his own had decided him. Souvarine had listened to him, shuddering. He seized him by the shoulder, and pushed him towards the settlement. "Go home again; I want you to. Do you understand?" But Catherine having approached, he recognized her also. Étienne protested, declaring that he allowed no one to judge his conduct. And the engine-man's eyes went from the young girl to her companion, while he stepped back with a sudden, relinquishing movement. When there was a woman in a man's heart, that man was done for; he might die. Perhaps he saw again in a rapid vision his mistress hanging over there at Moscow, that last link cut from his flesh, which had rendered him free of the lives of others and of his own life. He said simply: "Go." Étienne, feeling awkward, was delaying, and trying to find some friendly word, so as not to separate in this manner. "Then you're still going?" "Yes." "Well, give me your hand, old chap. A pleasant journey, and no ill feeling." The other stretched out an icy hand. Neither friend nor wife. "Good-bye for good this time." "Yes, good-bye." And Souvarine, standing motionless in the darkness, watched Étienne and Catherine entering the Voreux. CHAPTER III At four o'clock the descent began. Dansaert, who was personally installed at the marker's office in the lamp cabin, wrote down the name of each worker who presented himself and had a lamp given to him. He took them all, without remark, keeping to the promise of the placards. When, however, he noticed Étienne and Catherine at the wicket, he started and became very red, and was opening his mouth to refuse their names; then, he contented himself with the triumph, and a jeer. Ah! ah! so the strong man was thrown? The Company was, then, in luck since the terrible Montsou wrestler had come back to it to ask for bread? Étienne silently took his lamp and went towards the shaft with the putter. But it was there, in the receiving-room, that Catherine feared the mates' bad words. At the very entrance she recognized Chaval, in the midst of some twenty miners, waiting till a cage was free. He came furiously towards her, but the sight of Étienne stopped him. Then he affected to sneer with an offensive shrug of the shoulders. Very good! he didn't care a hang, since the other had come to occupy the place that was still warm; good riddance! It only concerned the gentleman if he liked the leavings; and beneath the exhibition of this contempt he was again seized by a tremor of jealousy, and his eyes flamed. For the rest, the mates did not stir, standing silent, with eyes lowered. They contented themselves with casting a sidelong look at the new-comers; then, dejected and without anger, they again stared fixedly at the mouth of the shaft, with their lamps in their hands, shivering beneath their thin jackets, in the constant draughts of this large room. At last the cage was wedged on to the keeps, and they were ordered to get in. Catherine and Étienne were squeezed in one tram, already containing Pierron and two pikemen. Beside them, in the other tram, Chaval was loudly saying to Father Mouque that the directors had made a mistake in not taking advantage of the opportunity to free the pits of the blackguards who were corrupting them; but the old groom, who had already fallen back into the dog-like resignation of his existence, no longer grew angry over the death of his children, and simply replied by a gesture of conciliation. The cage freed itself and slipped down into the darkness. No one spoke. Suddenly, when they were in the middle third of the descent, there was a terrible jarring. The iron creaked, and the men were thrown on to each other. "By God!" growled Étienne, "are they going to flatten us? We shall end by being left here for good, with their confounded tubbing. And they talk about having repaired it!" The cage had, however, cleared the obstacle. It was now descending beneath so violent a rain, like a storm, that the workmen anxiously listened to the pouring. A number of leaks must then have appeared in the caulking of the joints. Pierron, who had been working for several days, when asked about it did not like to show his fear, which might be considered as an attack on the management, so he only replied: "Oh, no danger! it's always like that. No doubt they've not had time to caulk the leaks." The torrent was roaring over their heads, and they at last reached the pit-eye beneath a veritable waterspout. Not one of the captains had thought of climbing up the ladders to investigate the matter. The pump would be enough, the carpenters would examine the joints the following night. The reorganization of work in the galleries gave considerable trouble. Before allowing the pikemen to return to their hewing cells, the engineer had decided that for the first five days all the men should execute certain works of consolidation which were extremely urgent. Landslips were threatening everywhere; the passages had suffered to such an extent that the timbering had to be repaired along a length of several hundred metres. Gangs of ten men were therefore formed below, each beneath the control of a captain. Then they were set to work at the most damaged spots. When the descent was complete, it was found that three hundred and twenty-two miners had gone down, about half of those who worked there when the pit was in full swing. Chaval belonged to the same gang as Catherine and Étienne. This was not by chance; he had at first hidden behind his mates, and had then forced the captain's hand. This gang went to the end of the north gallery, nearly three kilometres away, to clear out a landslip which was stopping up a gallery in the Dix-Huit-Pouces seam. They attacked the fallen rocks with shovel and pick. Étienne, Chaval, and five others cleared away the rubbish while Catherine, with two trammers, wheeled the earth up to the upbrow. They seldom spoke, and the captain never left them. The putter's two lovers, however, were on the point of coming to blows. While growling that he had had enough of this trollop, Chaval was still thinking of her, and slyly hustling her about, so that Étienne had threatened to settle him if he did not leave her alone. They eyed each other fiercely, and had to be separated. Towards eight o'clock Dansaert passed to give a glance at the work. He appeared to be in a very bad humour, and was furious with the captain; nothing had gone well, what was the meaning of such work, the planking would everywhere have to be done over again! And he went away declaring that he would come back with the engineer. He had been waiting for Négrel since morning, and could not understand the cause of this delay. Another hour passed by. The captain had stopped the removal of the rubbish to employ all his people in supporting the roof. Even the putter and the two trammers left off wheeling to prepare and bring pieces of timber. At this end of the gallery the gang formed a sort of advance guard at the very extremity of the mine, now without communication with the other stalls. Three or four times strange noises, distant rushes, made the workers turn their heads to listen. What was it, then? One would have said that the passages were being emptied and the mates already returning at a running pace. But the sound was lost in the deep silence, and they set to wedging their wood again, dazed by the loud blows of the hammer. At last they returned to the rubbish, and the wheeling began once more. Catherine came back from her first journey in terror, saying that no one was to be found at the upbrow. "I called, but there was no reply. They've all cleared out of the place." The bewilderment was so great that the ten men threw down their tools to rush away. The idea that they were abandoned, left alone at the bottom of the mine, so far from the pit-eye, drove them wild. They only kept their lamps and ran in single file--the men, the boys, the putter; the captain himself lost his head and shouted out appeals, more and more frightened at the silence in this endless desert of galleries. What then had happened that they did not meet a soul? What accident could thus have driven away their mates? Their terror was increased by the uncertainty of the danger, this threat which they felt there without knowing what it was. When they at last came near the pit-eye, a torrent barred their road. They were at once in water to the knees, and were no longer able to run, laboriously fording the flood with the thought that one minute's delay might mean death. "By God! it's the tubbing that's given way," cried Étienne. "I said we should be left here for good." Since the descent Pierron had anxiously observed the increase of the deluge which fell from the shaft. As with two others he loaded the trams he raised his head, his face covered with large drops, and his ears ringing with the roar of the tempest above. But he trembled especially when he noticed that the sump beneath him, that pit ten metres deep, was filling; the water was already spurting through the floor and covering the metal plates. This showed that the pump was no longer sufficient to fight against the leaks. He heard it panting with the groan of fatigue. Then he warned Dansaert, who swore angrily, replying that they must wait for the engineer. Twice he returned to the charge without extracting anything else but exasperated shrugs of the shoulder. Well! the water was rising; what could he do? Mouque appeared with Bataille, whom he was leading to work, and he had to hold him with both hands, for the sleepy old horse had suddenly reared up, and, with a shrill neigh, was stretching his head towards the shaft. "Well, philosopher, what troubles you? Ah! it's because it rains. Come along, that doesn't concern you." But the beast quivered all over his skin, and Mouque forcibly drew him to the haulage gallery. Almost at the same moment as Mouque and Bataille were disappearing at the end of a gallery, there was a crackling in the air, followed by the prolonged noise of a fall. It was a piece of tubbing which had got loose and was falling a hundred and eighty metres down, rebounding against the walls. Pierron and the other porters were able to get out of the way, and the oak plank only smashed an empty tram. At the same time, a mass of water, the leaping flood of a broken dyke, rushed down. Dansaert proposed to go up and examine; but, while he was still speaking, another piece rolled down. And in terror before the threatening catastrophe, he no longer hesitated, but gave the order to go up, sending captains to warn the men in their stalls. Then a terrible hustling began. From every gallery rows of workers came rushing up, trying to take the cages by assault. They crushed madly against each other in order to be taken up at once. Some who had thought of trying the ladder passage came down again shouting that it was already stopped up. That was the terror they all felt each time that the cage rose; this time it was able to pass, but who knew if it would be able to pass again in the midst of the obstacles obstructing the shaft? The downfall must be continuing above, for a series of low detonations was heard, the planks were splitting and bursting amid the continuous and increasing roar of a storm. One cage soon became useless, broken in and no longer sliding between the guides, which were doubtless broken. The other jarred to such a degree that the cable would certainly break soon. And there remained a hundred men to be taken up, all panting, clinging to one another, bleeding and half-drowned. Two were killed by falls of planking. A third, who had seized the cage, fell back fifty metres up and disappeared in the sump. Dansaert, however, was trying to arrange matters in an orderly manner. Armed with a pick he threatened to open the skull of the first man who refused to obey; and he tried to arrange them in file, shouting that the porters were to go up last after having sent up their mates. He was not listened to, and he had to prevent the pale and cowardly Pierron from entering among the first. At each departure he pushed him aside with a blow. But his own teeth were chattering, a minute more and he would be swallowed up; everything was smashing up there, a flood had broken loose, a murderous rain of scaffolding. A few men were still running up when, mad with fear, he jumped into a tram, allowing Pierron to jump in behind him. The cage rose. At this moment the gang to which Étienne and Chaval belonged had just reached the pit-eye. They saw the cage disappear and rushed forward, but they had to draw back from the final downfall of the tubbing; the shaft was stopped up and the cage would not come down again. Catherine was sobbing, and Chaval was choked with shouting oaths. There were twenty of them; were those bloody bosses going to abandon them thus? Father Mouque, who had brought back Bataille without hurrying, was still holding him by the bridle, both of them stupefied, the man and the beast, in the face of this rapid flow of the inundation. The water was already rising to their thighs. Étienne in silence, with clenched teeth, supported Catherine between his arms. And the twenty yelled with their faces turned up, obstinately gazing at the shaft like imbeciles, that shifting hole which was belching out a flood and from which no help could henceforth come to them. At the surface, Dansaert, on arriving, perceived Négrel running up. By some fatality, Madame Hennebeau had that morning delayed him on rising, turning over the leaves of catalogues for the purchase of wedding presents. It was ten o'clock. "Well! what's happening, then?" he shouted from afar. "The pit is ruined," replied the head captain. And he described the catastrophe in a few stammered words, while the engineer incredulously shrugged his shoulders. What! could tubbing be demolished like that? They were exaggerating; he would make an examination. "I suppose no one has been left at the bottom?" Dansaert was confused. No, no one; at least, so he hoped. But some of the men might have been delayed. "But," said Négrel, "what in the name of creation have you come up for, then? You can't leave your men!" He immediately gave orders to count the lamps. In the morning three hundred and twenty-two had been distributed, and now only two hundred and fifty-five could be found; but several men acknowledged that in the hustling and panic they had dropped theirs and left them behind. An attempt was made to call over the men, but it was impossible to establish the exact number. Some of the miners had gone away, others did not hear their names. No one was agreed as to the number of the missing mates. It might be twenty, perhaps forty. And the engineer could only make out one thing with certainty: there were men down below, for their yells could be distinguished through the sound of the water and the fallen scaffolding, on leaning over the mouth of the shaft. Négrel's first care was to send for M. Hennebeau, and to try to close the pit; but it was already too late. The colliers who had rushed to the Deux-Cent-Quarante settlement, as though pursued by the cracking tubbing, had frightened the families; and bands of women, old men, and little ones came running up, shaken by cries and sobs. They had to be pushed back, and a line of overseers was formed to keep them off, for they would have interfered with the operations. Many of the men who had come up from the shaft remained there stupidly without thinking of changing their clothes, riveted by fear before this terrible hole in which they had nearly remained for ever. The women, rushing wildly around them, implored them for names. Was So-and-so among them? and that one? and this one? They did not know, they stammered; they shuddered terribly, and made gestures like madmen, gestures which seemed to be pushing away some abominable vision which was always present to them. The crowd rapidly increased, and lamentations arose from the roads. And up there on the pit-bank, in Bonnemort's cabin, on the ground was seated a man, Souvarine, who had not gone away, who was looking on. "The names! the names!" cried the women, with voices choked by tears. Négrel appeared for a moment, and said hurriedly: "As soon as we know the names they shall be given out, but nothing is lost so far: every one will be saved. I am going down." Then, silent with anguish, the crowd waited. The engineer, in fact, with quiet courage was preparing to go down. He had had the cage unfastened, giving orders to replace it at the end of the cable by a tub; and as he feared that the water would extinguish his lamp, he had another fastened beneath the tub, which would protect it. Several captains, trembling and with white, disturbed faces, assisted in these preparations. "You will come with me, Dansaert," said Négrel, abruptly. Then, when he saw them all without courage, and that the head captain was tottering, giddy with terror, he pushed him aside with a movement of contempt. "No, you will be in my way. I would rather go alone." He was already in the narrow bucket, which swayed at the end of the cable; and holding his lamp in one hand and the signal-cord in the other, he shouted to the engine-man: "Gently!" The engine set the drums in movement, and Négrel disappeared in the gulf, from which the yells of the wretches below still arose. At the upper part nothing had moved. He found that the tubbing here was in good condition. Balanced in the middle of the shaft he lighted up the walls as he turned round; the leaks between the joints were so slight that his lamp did not suffer. But at three hundred metres, when he reached the lower tubbing, the lamp was extinguished, as he expected, for a jet had filled the tub. After that he was only able to see by the hanging lamp which preceded him in the darkness, and, in spite of his courage, he shuddered and turned pale in the face of the horror of the disaster. A few pieces of timber alone remained; the others had fallen in with their frames. Behind, enormous cavities had been hollowed out, and the yellow sand, as fine as flour, was flowing in considerable masses; while the waters of the Torrent, that subterranean sea with its unknown tempests and shipwrecks, were discharging in a flow like a weir. He went down lower, lost in the midst of these chasms which continued to multiply, beaten and turned round by the waterspout of the springs, so badly lighted by the red star of the lamp moving on below, that he seemed to distinguish the roads and squares of some destroyed town far away in the play of the great moving shadows. No human work was any longer possible. His only remaining hope was to attempt to save the men in peril. As he sank down he heard the cries becoming louder, and he was obliged to stop; an impassable obstacle barred the shaft--a mass of scaffolding, the broken joists of the guides, the split brattices entangled with the metal-work torn from the pump. As he looked on for a long time with aching heart, the yelling suddenly ceased. No doubt, the rapid rise of the water had forced the wretches to flee into the galleries, if, indeed, the flood had not already filled their mouths. Négrel resigned himself to pulling the signal-cord as a sign to draw up. Then he had himself stopped again. He could not conceive the cause of this sudden accident. He wished to investigate it, and examined those pieces of the tubbing which were still in place. At a distance the tears and cuts in the wood had surprised him. His lamp, drowned in dampness, was going out, and, touching with his fingers, he clearly recognized the marks of the saw and of the wimble--the whole abominable labour of destruction. Evidently this catastrophe had been intentionally produced. He was stupefied, and the pieces of timber, cracking and falling down with their frames in a last slide, nearly carried him with them. His courage fled. The thought of the man who had done that made his hair stand on end, and froze him with a supernatural fear of evil, as though, mixed with the darkness, the men were still there paying for his immeasurable crime. He shouted and shook the cord furiously; and it was, indeed, time, for he perceived that the upper tubbing, a hundred metres higher, was in its turn beginning to move. The joints were opening, losing their oakum caulking, and streams were rushing through. It was now only a question of hours before the tubbing would all fall down. At the surface M. Hennebeau was anxiously waiting for Négrel. "Well, what?" he asked. But the engineer was choked, and could not speak; he felt faint. "It is not possible; such a thing was never seen. Have you examined?" He nodded with a cautious look. He refused to talk in the presence of some captains who were listening, and led his uncle ten metres away, and not thinking this far enough, drew still farther back; then, in a low whisper, he at last told of the outrage, the torn and sawn planks, the pit bleeding at the neck and groaning. Turning pale, the manager also lowered his voice, with that instinctive need of silence in face of the monstrosity of great orgies and great crimes. It was useless to look as though they were trembling before the ten thousand Montsou men; later on they would see. And they both continued whispering, overcome at the thought that a man had had the courage to go down, to hang in the midst of space, to risk his life twenty times over in his terrible task. They could not even understand this mad courage in destruction; they refused to believe, in spite of the evidence, just as we doubt those stories of celebrated escapes of prisoners who fly through windows thirty metres above the ground. When M. Hennebeau came back to the captains a nervous spasm was drawing his face. He made a gesture of despair, and gave orders that the mine should be evacuated at once. It was a kind of funeral procession, in silent abandonment, with glances thrown back at those great masses of bricks, empty and still standing, but which nothing henceforth could save. And as the manager and the engineer came down last from the receiving-room, the crowd met them with its clamour, repeating obstinately: "The names! the names! Tell us the names!" Maheude was now there, among the women. She recollected the noise in the night; her daughter and the lodger must have gone away together, and they were certainly down at the bottom. And after having cried that it was a good thing, that they deserved to stay there, the heartless cowards, she had run up, and was standing in the first row, trembling with anguish. Besides, she no longer dared to doubt; the discussion going on around her informed her as to the names of those who were down. Yes, yes, Catherine was among them, Étienne also--a mate had seen them. But there was not always agreement with regard to the others. No, not this one; on the contrary, that one, perhaps Chaval, with whom, however, a trammer declared that he had ascended. The Levaque and Pierronne, although none of their people were in danger, cried out and lamented as loudly as the others. Zacharie, who had come up among the first, in spite of his inclination to make fun of everything had weepingly kissed his wife and mother, and remained near the latter, quivering, and showing an unexpected degree of affection for his sister, refusing to believe that she was below so long as the bosses made no authoritative statement. "The names! the names! For pity's sake, the names!" Négrel, who was exhausted, shouted to the overseers: "Can't you make them be still? It's enough to kill one with vexation! We don't know the names!" Two hours passed away in this manner. In the first terror no one had thought of the other shaft at the old Réquillart mine, M. Hennebeau was about to announce that the rescue would be attempted from that side, when a rumour ran round: five men had just escaped the inundation by climbing up the rotten ladders of the old unused passage, and Father Mouque was named. This caused surprise, for no one knew he was below. But the narrative of the five who had escaped increased the weeping; fifteen mates had not been able to follow them, having gone astray, and been walled up by falls. And it was no longer possible to assist them, for there were already ten metres of water in Réquillart. All the names were known, and the air was filled with the groans of a slaughtered multitude. "Will you make them be still?" Négrel repeated furiously. "Make them draw back! Yes, yes, to a hundred metres! There is danger; push them back, push them back!" It was necessary to struggle against these poor people. They were imagining all sorts of misfortunes, and they had to be driven away so that the deaths might be concealed; the captains explained to them that the shaft would destroy the whole mine. This idea rendered them mute with terror, and they at last allowed themselves to be driven back step by step; the guards, however, who kept them back had to be doubled, for they were fascinated by the spot and continually returned. Thousands of people were hustling each other along the road; they were running up from all the settlements, and even from Montsou. And the man above, on the pit-bank, the fair man with the girlish face, smoked cigarettes to occupy himself, keeping his clear eyes fixed on the pit. Then the wait began. It was midday; no one had eaten, but no one moved away. In the misty sky, of a dirty grey colour, rusty clouds were slowly passing by. A big dog, behind Rasseneur's hedge, was barking furiously without cessation, irritated by the living breath of the crowd. And the crowd had gradually spread over the neighbouring ground, forming a circle at a hundred metres round the pit. The Voreux arose in the centre of the great space. There was not a soul there, not a sound; it was a desert. The windows and the doors, left open, showed the abandonment within; a forgotten ginger cat, divining the peril in this solitude, jumped from a staircase and disappeared. No doubt the stoves of the boilers were scarcely extinguished, for the tall brick chimney gave out a light smoke beneath the dark clouds; while the weathercock on the steeple creaked in the wind with a short, shrill cry, the only melancholy voice of these vast buildings which were about to die. At two o'clock nothing had moved, M. Hennebeau, Négrel, and other engineers who had hastened up, formed a group in black coats and hats standing in front of the crowd; and they, too, did not move away, though their legs were aching with fatigue, and they were feverish and ill at their impotence in the face of such a disaster, only whispering occasional words as though at a dying person's bedside. The upper tubbing must nearly all have fallen in, for sudden echoing sounds could be heard as of deep broken falls, succeeded by silence. The wound was constantly enlarging; the landslip which had begun below was rising and approaching the surface. Négrel was seized by nervous impatience; he wanted to see, and he was already advancing alone into this awful void when he was seized by the shoulders. What was the good? he could prevent nothing. An old miner, however, circumventing the overseers, rushed into the shed; but he quietly reappeared, he had gone for his sabots. Three o'clock struck. Still nothing. A falling shower had soaked the crowd, but they had not withdrawn a step. Rasseneur's dog had begun to bark again. And it was at twenty minutes past three only that the first shock was felt. The Voreux trembled, but continued solid and upright. Then a second shock followed immediately, and a long cry came from open mouths; the tarred screening-shed, after having tottered twice, had fallen down with a terrible crash. Beneath the enormous pressure the structures broke and jarred each other so powerfully that sparks leapt out. From this moment the earth continued to tremble, the shocks succeeded one another, subterranean downfalls, the rumbling of a volcano in eruption. Afar the dog was no longer barking, but he howled plaintively as though announcing the oscillations which he felt coming; and the women, the children, all these people who were looking on, could not keep back a clamour of distress at each of these blows which shook them. In less than ten minutes the slate roof of the steeple fell in, the receiving-room and the engine-rooms were split open, leaving a considerable breach. Then the sounds ceased, the downfall stopped, and there was again deep silence. For an hour the Voreux remained thus, broken into, as though bombarded by an army of barbarians. There was no more crying out; the enlarged circle of spectators merely looked on. Beneath the piled-up beams of the sifting-shed, fractured tipping cradles could be made out with broken and twisted hoppers. But the rubbish had especially accumulated at the receiving-room, where there had been a rain of bricks, and large portions of wall and masses of plaster had fallen in. The iron scaffold which bore the pulleys had bent, half-buried in the pit; a cage was still suspended, a torn cable-end was hanging; then there was a hash of trams, metal plates, and ladders. By some chance the lamp cabin remained standing, exhibiting on the left its bright rows of little lamps. And at the end of its disembowelled chamber, the engine could be seen seated squarely on its massive foundation of masonry; its copper was shining and its huge steel limbs seemed to possess indestructible muscles. The enormous crank, bent in the air, looked like the powerful knee of some giant quietly reposing in his strength. After this hour of respite, M. Hennebeau's hopes began to rise. The movement of the soil must have come to an end, and there would be some chance of saving the engine and the remainder of the buildings. But he would not yet allow any one to approach, considering another half-hour's patience desirable. This waiting became unbearable; the hope increased the anguish and all hearts were beating quickly. A dark cloud, growing large at the horizon, hastened the twilight, a sinister dayfall over this wreck of earth's tempests. Since seven o'clock they had been there without moving or eating. And suddenly, as the engineers were cautiously advancing, a supreme convulsion of the soil put them to flight. Subterranean detonations broke out; a whole monstrous artillery was cannonading in the gulf. At the surface, the last buildings were tipped over and crushed. At first a sort of whirlpool carried away the rubbish from the sifting-shed and the receiving-room. Next, the boiler building burst and disappeared. Then it was the low square tower, where the pumping-engine was groaning, which fell on its face like a man mown down by a bullet. And then a terrible thing was seen; the engine, dislocated from its massive foundation, with broken limbs was struggling against death; it moved, it straightened its crank, its giant's knee, as though to rise; but, crushed and swallowed up, it was dying. The chimney alone, thirty metres high, still remained standing, though shaken, like a mast in the tempest. It was thought that it would be crushed to fragments and fly to powder, when suddenly it sank in one block, drunk down by the earth, melted like a colossal candle; and nothing was left, not even the point of the lightning conductor. It was done for; the evil beast crouching in this hole, gorged with human flesh, was no longer breathing with its thick, long respiration. The Voreux had been swallowed whole by the abyss. The crowd rushed away yelling. The women hid their eyes as they ran. Terror drove the men along like a pile of dry leaves. They wished not to shout and they shouted, with swollen breasts, and arms in the air, before the immense hole which had been hollowed out. This crater, as of an extinct volcano, fifteen metres deep, extended from the road to the canal for a space of at least forty metres. The whole square of the mine had followed the buildings, the gigantic platforms, the foot-bridges with their rails, a complete train of trams, three wagons; without counting the wood supply, a forest of cut timber, gulped down like straw. At the bottom it was only possible to distinguish a confused mass of beams, bricks, iron, plaster, frightful remains, piled up, entangled, soiled in the fury of the catastrophe. And the hole became larger, cracks started from the edges, reaching afar, across the fields. A fissure ascended as far as Rasseneur's bar, and his front wall had cracked. Would the settlement itself pass into it? How far ought they to flee to reach shelter at the end of this abominable day, beneath this leaden cloud which also seemed about to crush the earth? A cry of pain escaped Négrel. M. Hennebeau, who had drawn back, was in tears. The disaster was not complete; one bank of the canal gave way, and the canal emptied itself like one bubbling sheet through one of the cracks. It disappeared there, falling like a cataract down a deep valley. The mine drank down this river; the galleries would now be submerged for years. Soon the crater was filled and a lake of muddy water occupied the place where once stood the Voreux, like one of those lakes beneath which sleep accursed towns. There was a terrified silence, and nothing now could be heard but the fall of this water rumbling in the bowels of the earth. Then on the shaken pit-bank Souvarine rose up. He had recognized Maheude and Zacharie sobbing before this downfall, the weight of which was so heavy on the heads of the wretches who were in agony beneath. And he threw down his last cigarette; he went away, without looking back, into the now dark night. Afar his shadow diminished and mingled with the darkness. He was going over there, to the unknown. He was going tranquilly to extermination, wherever there might be dynamite to blow up towns and men. He will be there, without doubt, when the middle class in agony shall hear the pavement of the streets bursting up beneath their feet. CHAPTER IV On the night that followed the collapse of the Voreux M. Hennebeau started for Paris, wishing to inform the directors in person before the newspapers published the news. And when he returned on the following day he appeared to be quite calm, with his usual correct administrative air. He had evidently freed himself from responsibility; he did not appear to have decreased in favour. On the contrary, the decree appointing him officer of the Legion of Honour was signed twenty-four hours afterwards. But if the manager remained safe, the Company was tottering beneath the terrible blow. It was not the few million francs that had been lost, it was the wound in the flank, the deep incessant fear of the morrow in face of this massacre of one of their mines. The Company was so impressed that once more it felt the need of silence. What was the good of stirring up this abomination? If the villain were discovered, why make a martyr of him in order that his awful heroism might turn other heads, and give birth to a long line of incendiaries and murderers? Besides, the real culprit was not suspected. The Company came to think that there was an army of accomplices, not being able to believe that a single man could have had courage and strength for such a task; and it was precisely this thought which weighed on them, this thought of an ever-increasing threat to the existence of their mines. The manager had received orders to organize a vast system of espionage, and then to dismiss quietly, one by one, the dangerous men who were suspected of having had a hand in the crime. They contented themselves with this method of purification--a prudent and politic method. There was only one immediate dismissal, that of Dansaert, the head captain. Ever since the scandal at Pierronne's house he had become impossible. A pretext was made of his attitude in danger, the cowardice of a captain abandoning his men. This was also a prudent sop thrown to the miners, who hated him. Among the public, however, many rumours had circulated, and the directors had to send a letter of correction to one newspaper, contradicting a story in which mention was made of a barrel of powder lighted by the strikers. After a rapid inquiry the Government inspector had concluded that there had been a natural rupture of the tubbing, occasioned by the piling up of the soil; and the Company had preferred to be silent, and to accept the blame of a lack of superintendence. In the Paris press, after the third day, the catastrophe had served to increase the stock of general news; nothing was talked of but the men perishing at the bottom of the mine, and the telegrams published every morning were eagerly read. At Montsou people grew pale and speechless at the very name of the Voreux, and a legend had formed which made the boldest tremble as they whispered it. The whole country showed great pity for the victims; visits were organized to the destroyed pit, and whole families hastened up to shudder at the ruins which lay so heavily over the heads of the buried wretches. Deneulin, who had been appointed divisional engineer, came into the midst of the disaster on beginning his duties; and his first care was to turn the canal back into its bed, for this torrent increased the damage every hour. Extensive works were necessary, and he at once set a hundred men to construct a dyke. Twice over the impetuosity of the stream carried away the first dams. Now pumps were set up and a furious struggle was going on; step by step the vanished soil was being violently reconquered. But the rescue of the engulfed miners was a still more absorbing work. Négrel was appointed to attempt a supreme effort, and arms were not lacking to help him; all the colliers rushed to offer themselves in an outburst of brotherhood. They forgot the strike, they did not trouble themselves at all about payment; they might get nothing, they only asked to risk their lives as soon as there were mates in danger of death. They were all there with their tools, quivering as they waited to know where they ought to strike. Many of them, sick with fright after the accident, shaken by nervous tremors, soaked in cold sweats, and the prey of continual nightmares, got up in spite of everything, and were as eager as any in their desire to fight against the earth, as though they had a revenge to take on it. Unfortunately, the difficulty began when the question arose, What could be done? how could they go down? from what side could they attack the rocks? Négrel's opinion was that not one of the unfortunate people was alive; the fifteen had surely perished, drowned or suffocated. But in these mine catastrophes the rule is always to assume that buried men are alive, and he acted on this supposition. The first problem which he proposed to himself was to decide where they could have taken refuge. The captains and old miners whom he consulted were agreed on one point: in the face of the rising water the men had certainly come up from gallery to gallery to the highest cuttings, so that they were, without doubt, driven to the end of some upper passages. This agreed with Father Mouque's information, and his confused narrative even gave reason to suppose that in the wild flight the band had separated into smaller groups, leaving fugitives on the road at every level. But the captains were not unanimous when the discussion of possible attempts at rescue arose. As the passages nearest to the surface were a hundred and fifty metres down, there could be no question of sinking a shaft. Réquillart remained the one means of access, the only point by which they could approach. The worst was that the old pit, now also inundated, no longer communicated with the Voreux; and above the level of the water only a few ends of galleries belonging to the first level were left free. The pumping process would require years, and the best plan would be to visit these galleries and ascertain if any of them approached the submerged passages at the end of which the distressed miners were suspected to be. Before logically arriving at this point, much discussion had been necessary to dispose of a crowd of impracticable plans. Négrel now began to stir up the dust of the archives; he discovered the old plans of the two pits, studied them, and decided on the points at which their investigations ought to be carried on. Gradually this hunt excited him; he was, in his turn, seized by a fever of devotion, in spite of his ironical indifference to men and things. The first difficulty was in going down at Réquillart; it was necessary to clear out the rubbish from the mouth of the shaft, to cut down the mountain ash, and raze the sloes and the hawthorns; they had also to repair the ladders. Then they began to feel around. The engineer, having gone down with ten workmen, made them strike the iron of their tools against certain parts of the seam which he pointed out to them; and in deep silence they each placed an ear to the coal, listening for any distant blows to reply. But they went in vain through every practicable gallery; no echo returned to them. Their embarrassment increased. At what spot should they cut into the bed? Towards whom should they go, since no once appeared to be there? They persisted in seeking, however, notwithstanding the exhaustion produced by their growing anxiety. On the first day, Maheude came in the morning to Réquillart. She sat down on a beam in front of the shaft, and did not stir from it till evening. When a man came up, she rose and questioned him with her eyes: Nothing? No, nothing! And she sat down again, and waited still, without a word, with hard, fixed face. Jeanlin also, seeing that his den was invaded, prowled around with the frightened air of a beast of prey whose burrow will betray his booty. He thought of the little soldier lying beneath the rocks, fearing lest they should trouble his sound sleep; but that side of the mine was beneath the water, and, besides, their investigations were directed more to the left, in the west gallery. At first, Philoméne had also come, accompanying Zacharie, who was one of the gang; then she became wearied at catching cold, without need or result, and went back to the settlement, dragging through her days, a limp, indifferent woman, occupied from morning to night in coughing. Zacharie on the contrary, lived for nothing else; he would have devoured the soil to get back his sister. At night he shouted out that he saw, her, he heard her, very lean from hunger, her chest sore with calling for help. Twice he had tried to dig without orders, saying that it was there, that he was sure of it. The engineer would not let him go down any more, and he would not go away from the pit, from which he was driven off; he could not even sit down and wait near his mother, he was so deeply stirred by the need to act, which drove him constantly on. It was the third day. Négrel, in despair, had resolved to abandon the attempt in the evening. At midday, after lunch, when he came back with his men to make one last effort, he was surprised to see Zacharie, red and gesticulating, come out of the mine shouting: "She's there! She's replied to me! Come along, quickly!" He had slid down the ladders, in spite of the watchman, and was declaring that he had heard hammering over there, in the first passage of the Guillaume seam. "But we have already been twice in that direction," Négrel observed, sceptically. "Anyhow, we'll go and see." Maheude had risen, and had to be prevented from going down. She waited, standing at the edge of the shaft, gazing down into the darkness of the hole. Négrel, down below, himself struck three blows, at long intervals. He then applied his ear to the coal, cautioning the workers to be very silent. Not a sound reached him, and he shook his head; evidently the poor lad was dreaming. In a fury, Zacharie struck in his turn, and listened anew with bright eyes, and limbs trembling with joy. Then the other workmen tried the experiment, one after the other, and all grew animated, hearing the distant reply quite clearly. The engineer was astonished; he again applied his ear, and was at last able to catch a sound of aerial softness, a rhythmical roll scarcely to be distinguished, the well-known cadence beaten by the miners when they are fighting against the coal in the midst of danger. The coal transmits the sound with crystalline limpidity for a very great distance. A captain who was there estimated that the thickness of the block which separated them from their mates could not be less than fifty metres. But it seemed as if they could already stretch out a hand to them, and general gladness broke out. Négrel decided to begin at once the work of approach. When Zacharie, up above, saw Maheude again, they embraced each other. "It won't do to get excited," Pierronne, who had come for a visit of inquisitiveness, was cruel enough to say. "If Catherine isn't there, it would be such a grief afterwards!" That was true; Catherine might be somewhere else. "Just leave me alone, will you? Damn it!" cried Zacharie in a rage. "She's there; I know it!" Maheude sat down again in silence, with motionless face, continuing to wait. As soon as the story was spread at Montsou, a new crowd arrived. Nothing was to be seen; but they remained there all the same, and had to be kept at a distance. Down below, the work went on day and night. For fear of meeting an obstacle, the engineer had had three descending galleries opened in the seam, converging to the point where the enclosed miners were supposed to be. Only one pikeman could hew at the coal on the narrow face of the tube; he was relieved every two hours, and the coal piled in baskets was passed up, from hand to hand, by a chain of men, increased as the hole was hollowed out. The work at first proceeded very quickly; they did six metres a day. Zacharie had secured a place among the workers chosen for the hewing. It was a post of honour which was disputed over, and he became furious when they wished to relieve him after his regulation two hours of labour. He robbed his mates of their turn, and refused to let go the pick. His gallery was soon in advance of the others. He fought against the coal so fiercely that his breath could be heard coming from the tube like the roar of a forge within his breast. When he came out, black and muddy, dizzy with fatigue, he fell to the ground and had to be wrapped up in a covering. Then, still tottering, he plunged back again, and the struggle began anew--the low, deep blows, the stifled groans, the victorious fury of massacre. The worst was that the coal now became hard; he twice broke his tool, and was exasperated that he could not get on so fast. He suffered also from the heat, which increased with every metre of advance, and was unbearable at the end of this narrow hole where the air could not circulate. A hand ventilator worked well, but aeration was so inadequate that on three occasions it was necessary to take out fainting hewers who were being asphyxiated. Négrel lived below with his men. His meals were sent down to him, and he sometimes slept for a couple of hours on a truss of straw, rolled in a cloak. The one thing that kept them up was the supplication of the wretches beyond, the call which was sounded ever more distinctly to hasten on the rescue. It now rang very clearly with a musical sonority, as though struck on the plates of a harmonica. It led them on; they advanced to this crystalline sound as men advance to the sound of cannon in battle. Every time that a pikeman was relieved, Négrel went down and struck, then applied his ear; and every time, so far, the reply had come, rapid and urgent. He had no doubt remaining; they were advancing in the right direction, but with what fatal slowness! They would never arrive soon enough. On the first two days they had indeed hewn through thirteen metres; but on the third day they fell to five, and then on the fourth to three. The coal was becoming closer and harder, to such an extent that they now with difficulty struck through two metres. On the ninth day, after superhuman efforts, they had advanced thirty-two metres, and calculated that some twenty must still be left before them. For the prisoners it was the beginning of the twelfth day; twelve times over had they passed twenty-four hours without bread, without fire, in that icy darkness! This awful idea moistened the eyelids and stiffened the arm of the workers. It seemed impossible that Christians could live longer. The distant blows had become weaker since the previous day, and every moment they trembled lest they should stop. Maheude came regularly every morning to sit at the mouth of the shaft. In her arms she brought Estelle, who could not remain alone from morning to night. Hour by hour she followed the workers, sharing their hopes and fears. There was feverish expectation among the groups standing around, and even as far as Montsou, with endless discussion. Every heart in the district was beating down there beneath the earth. On the ninth day, at the breakfast hour, no reply came from Zacharie when he was called for the relay. He was like a madman, working on furiously with oaths. Négrel, who had come up for a moment, was not there to make him obey, and only a captain and three miners were below. No doubt Zacharie, infuriated with the feeble vacillating light, which delayed his work, committed the imprudence of opening his lamp, although severe orders had been given, for leakages of fire-damp had taken place, and the gas remained in enormous masses in these narrow, unventilated passages. Suddenly, a roar of thunder was heard, and a spout of fire darted out of the tube as from the mouth of a cannon charged with grapeshot. Everything flamed up and the air caught fire like powder, from one end of the galleries to the other. This torrent of flame carried away the captain and three workers, ascended the pit, and leapt up to the daylight in an eruption which split the rocks and the ruins around. The inquisitive fled, and Maheude arose, pressing the frightened Estelle to her breast. When Négrel and the men came back they were seized by a terrible rage. They struck their heels on the earth as on a stepmother who was killing her children at random in the imbecile whims of her cruelty. They were devoting themselves, they were coming to the help of their mates, and still they must lose some of their men! After three long hours of effort and danger they reached the galleries once more, and the melancholy ascent of the victims took place. Neither the captain nor the workers were dead, but they were covered by awful wounds which gave out an odour of grilled flesh; they had drunk of fire, the burns had got into their throats, and they constantly moaned and prayed to be finished off. One of the three miners was the man who had smashed the pump at Gaston-Marie with a final blow of the shovel during the strike; the two others still had scars on their hands, and grazed, torn fingers from the energy with which they had thrown bricks at the soldiers. The pale and shuddering crowd took off their hats when they were carried by. Maheude stood waiting. Zacharie's body at last appeared. The clothes were burnt, the body was nothing but black charcoal, calcined and unrecognizable. The head had been smashed by the explosion and no longer existed. And when these awful remains were placed on a stretcher, Maheude followed them mechanically, her burning eyelids without a tear. With Estelle drowsily lying in her arms, she went along, a tragic figure, her hair lashed by the wind. At the settlement Philoméne seemed stupid; her eyes were turned into fountains and she was quickly relieved. But the mother had already returned with the same step to Réquillart; she had accompanied her son, she was returning to wait for her daughter. Three more days passed by. The rescue work had been resumed amid incredible difficulties. The galleries of approach had fortunately not fallen after the fire-damp explosion; but the air was so heavy and so vitiated that more ventilators had to be installed. Every twenty minutes the pikemen relieved one another. They were advancing; scarcely two metres separated them from their mates. But now they worked feeling cold at their hearts, striking hard only out of vengeance; for the noises had ceased, and the low, clear cadence of the call no longer sounded. It was the twelfth day of their labours, the fifteenth since the catastrophe; and since the morning there had been a death-like silence. The new accident increased the curiosity at Montsou, and the inhabitants organized excursions with such spirit that the Grégoires decided to follow the fashion. They arranged a party, and it was agreed that they should go to the Voreux in their carriage, while Madame Hennebeau took Lucie and Jeanne there in hers. Deneulin would show them over his yards and then they would return by Réquillart, where Négrel would tell them the exact state of things in the galleries, and if there was still hope. Finally, they would dine together in the evening. When the Grégoires and their daughter Cécile arrived at the ruined mine, toward three o'clock, they found Madame Hennebeau already there, in a sea-blue dress, protecting herself under her parasol from the pale February sun. The warmth of spring was in the clear sky. M. Hennebeau was there with Deneulin, and she was listening, with listless ear, to the account which the latter gave her of the efforts which had been made to dam up the canal. Jeanne, who always carried a sketch-book with her, began to draw, carried away by the horror of the subject; while Lucie, seated beside her on the remains of a wagon, was crying out with pleasure, and finding it awfully jolly. The incomplete dam allowed numerous leaks, and frothy streams fell in a cascade down the enormous hole of the engulfed mine. The crater was being emptied, however, and the water, drunk by the earth, was sinking, and revealing the fearful ruin at the bottom. Beneath the tender azure of this beautiful day there lay a sewer, the ruins of a town drowned and melted in mud. "And people come out of their way to see that!" exclaimed M. Grégoire, disillusioned. Cécile, rosy with health and glad to breathe so pure an air, was cheerfully joking, while Madame Hennebeau made a little grimace of repugnance as she murmured: "The fact is, this is not pretty at all." The two engineers laughed. They tried to interest the visitors, taking them round and explaining to them the working of the pumps and the manipulation of the stamper which drove in the piles. But the ladies became anxious. They shuddered when they knew that the pumps would have to work for six or seven years before the shaft was reconstructed and all the water exhausted from the mine. No, they would rather think of something else; this destruction was only good to give bad dreams. "Let us go," said Madame Hennebeau, turning towards her carriage. Lucie and Jeanne protested. What! so soon! and the drawing which was not finished. They wanted to remain; their father would bring them to dinner in the evening. M. Hennebeau alone took his place with his wife in the carriage, for he wished to question Négrel. "Very well! go on before," said M. Grégoire. "We will follow you; we have a little visit of five minutes to make over there at the settlement. Go on, go on! we shall be at Réquillart as soon as you." He got up behind Madame Grégoire and Cécile, and while the other carriage went along by the canal, theirs gently ascended the slope. Their excursion was to be completed by a visit of charity. Zacharie's death had filled them with pity for this tragical Maheu family, about whom the whole country was talking. They had no pity for the father, that brigand, that slayer of soldiers, who had to be struck down like a wolf. But the mother touched them, that poor woman who had just lost her son after having lost her husband, and whose daughter was perhaps a corpse beneath the earth; to say nothing of an invalid grandfather, a child who was lame as the result of a landslip, and a little girl who died of starvation during the strike. So that, though this family had in part deserved its misfortunes by the detestable spirit it had shown, they had resolved to assert the breadth of their charity, their desire for forgetfulness and conciliation, by themselves bringing on alms. Two parcels, carefully wrapped up, had been placed beneath a seat of the carriage. An old woman pointed out to the coachman Maheude's house, No. 16 in the second block. But when the Grégoires alighted with the parcels, they knocked in vain; at last they struck their fists against the door, still without reply; the house echoed mournfully, like a house emptied by grief, frozen and dark, long since abandoned. "There's no one there," said Cécile, disappointed. "What a nuisance! What shall we do with all this?" Suddenly the door of the next house opened, and the Levaque woman appeared. "Oh, sir! I beg pardon, ma'am. Excuse me, miss. It's the neighbour that you want? She's not there; she's at Réquillart." With a flow of words she told them the story, repeating to them that people must help one another, and that she was keeping Lénore and Henri in her house to allow the mother to go and wait over there. Her eyes had fallen on the parcels, and she began to talk about her poor daughter, who had become a widow, displaying her own wretchedness, while her eyes shone with covetousness. Then, in a hesitating way, she muttered: "I've got the key. If the lady and gentleman would really like---- The grandfather is there." The Grégoires looked at her in stupefaction. What! The grandfather was there! But no one had replied. He was sleeping, then? And when the Levaque made up her mind to open the door, what they saw stopped them on the threshold. Bonnemort was there alone, with large fixed eyes, nailed to his chair in front of the cold fireplace. Around him the room appeared larger without the clock or the polished deal furniture which formerly animated it; there only remained against the green crudity of the walls the portraits of the Emperor and Empress, whose rosy lips were smiling with official benevolence. The old man did not stir nor wink his eyelids beneath the sudden light from the door; he seemed imbecile, as though he had not seen all these people come in. At his feet lay his plate, garnished with ashes, such as is placed for cats for ordure. "Don't mind if he's not very polite," said the Levaque woman, obligingly. "Seems he's broken something in his brain. It's a fortnight since he left off speaking." But Bonnemort was shaken by some agitation, a deep scraping which seemed to arise from his belly, and he expectorated into the plate a thick black expectoration. The ashes were soaked into a coaly mud, all the coal of the mine which he drew from his chest. He had already resumed his immobility. He stirred no more, except at intervals, to spit. Uneasy, and with stomachs turned, the Grégoires endeavoured to utter a few friendly and encouraging words. "Well, my good man," said the father, "you have a cold, then?" The old man, with his eyes to the wall, did not turn his head. And a heavy silence fell once more. "They ought to make you a little gruel," added the mother. He preserved his mute stiffness. "I say, papa," murmured Cécile, "they certainly told us he was an invalid; only we did not think of it afterwards--" She interrupted herself, much embarrassed. After having placed on the table a _pot-au-feu_ and two bottles of wine, she undid the second parcel and drew from it a pair of enormous boots. It was the present intended for the grandfather, and she held one boot in each hand, in confusion, contemplating the poor man's swollen feet, which would never walk again. "Eh! they come a little late, don't they, my worthy fellow?" said M. Grégoire again, to enliven the situation. "It doesn't matter, they're always useful." Bonnemort neither heard nor replied, with his terrible face as cold and as hard as a stone. Then Cécile furtively placed the boots against the wall. But in spite of her precautions the nails clanked; and those enormous boots stood oppressively in the room. "He won't say thank you," said the Levaque woman, who had cast a look of deep envy on the boots. "Might as well give a pair of spectacles to a duck, asking your pardon." She went on; she was trying to draw the Grégoires into her own house, where she hoped to gain their pity. At last she thought of a pretext; she praised Henri and Lénore, who were so good, so gentle, and so intelligent, answering like angels the questions that they were asked. They would tell the lady and gentleman all that they wished to know. "Will you come for a moment, my child?" asked the father, glad to get away. "Yes, I'll follow you," she replied. Cécile remained alone with Bonnemort. What kept her there trembling and fascinated, was the thought that she seemed to recognize this old man: where then had she met this square livid face, tattooed with coal? Suddenly she remembered; she saw again a mob of shouting people who surrounded her, and she felt cold hands pressing her neck. It was he; she saw the man again; she looked at his hands placed on his knees, the hands of an invalid workman whose whole strength is in his wrists, still firm in spite of age. Gradually Bonnemort seemed to awake, he perceived her and examined her in his turn. A flame mounted to his cheeks, a nervous spasm drew his mouth, from which flowed a thin streak of black saliva. Fascinated, they remained opposite each other--she flourishing, plump, and fresh from the long idleness and sated comfort of her race; he swollen with water, with the pitiful ugliness of a foundered beast, destroyed from father to son by a century of work and hunger. At the end of ten minutes, when the Grégoires, surprised at not seeing Cécile, came back into the Maheus' house, they uttered a terrible cry. Their daughter was lying on the ground, with livid face, strangled. At her neck fingers had left the red imprint of a giant's hand. Bonnemort, tottering on his dead legs, had fallen beside her without power to rise. His hands were still hooked, and he looked round with his imbecile air and large open eyes. In his fall he had broken his plate, the ashes were spread round, the mud of the black expectoration had stained the floor; while the great pair of boots, safe and sound, stood side by side against the wall. It was never possible to establish the exact facts. Why had Cécile come near? How could Bonnemort, nailed to his chair, have been able to seize her throat? Evidently, when he held her, he must have become furious, constantly pressing, overthrown with her, and stifling her cries to the last groan. Not a sound, not a moan had traversed the thin partition to the neighbouring house. It seemed to be an outbreak of sudden madness, a longing to murder before this white young neck. Such savagery was stupefying in an old invalid, who had lived like a worthy man, an obedient brute, opposed to new ideas. What rancour, unknown to himself, by some slow process of poisoning, had risen from his bowels to his brain? The horror of it led to the conclusion that he was unconscious, that it was the crime of an idiot. The Grégoires, meanwhile, on their knees, were sobbing, choked with grief. Their idolized daughter, that daughter desired so long, on whom they had lavished all their goods, whom they used to watch sleeping, on tiptoe, whom they never thought sufficiently well nourished, never sufficiently plump! It was the downfall of their very life; what was the good of living, now that they would have to live without her? The Levaque woman in distraction cried: "Ah, the old beggar! what's he done there? Who would have expected such a thing? And Maheude, who won't come back till evening! Shall I go and fetch her?" The father and mother were crushed, and did not reply. "Eh? It will be better. I'll go." But, before going, the Levaque woman looked at the boots. The whole settlement was excited, and a crowd was already hustling around. Perhaps they would get stolen. And then the Maheus had no man, now, to put them on. She quietly carried them away. They would just fit Bouteloup's feet. At Réquillart the Hennebeaus, with Négrel, waited a long time for the Grégoires. Négrel, who had come up from the pit, gave details. They hoped to communicate that very evening with the prisoners, but they would certainly find nothing but corpses, for the death-like silence continued. Behind the engineer, Maheude, seated on the beam, was listening with white face, when the Levaque woman came up and told her the old man's strange deed. And she only made a sweeping gesture of impatience and irritation. She followed her, however. Madame Hennebeau was much affected. What an abomination! That poor Cécile, so merry that very day, so full of life an hour before! M. Hennebeau had to lead his wife for a moment into old Mouque's hovel. With his awkward hands he unfastened her dress, troubled by the odour of musk which her open bodice exhaled. And as with streaming tears she clasped Négrel, terrified at this death which cut short the marriage, the husband watched them lamenting together, and was delivered from one anxiety. This misfortune would arrange everything; he preferred to keep his nephew for fear of his coachman. CHAPTER V At the bottom of the shaft the abandoned wretches were yelling with terror. The water now came up to their hips. The noise of the torrent dazed them, the final falling in of the tubbing sounded like the last crack of doom; and their bewilderment was completed by the neighing of the horses shut up in the stable, the terrible, unforgettable death-cry of an animal that is being slaughtered. Mouque had let go Bataille. The old horse was there, trembling, with its dilated eye fixed on this water which was constantly rising. The pit-eye was rapidly filling; the greenish flood slowly enlarged under the red gleam of the three lamps which were still burning under the roof. And suddenly, when he felt this ice soaking his coat, he set out in a furious gallop, and was engulfed and lost at the end of one of the haulage galleries. Then there was a general rush, the men following the beast. "Nothing more to be done in this damned hole!" shouted Mouque. "We must try at Réquillart." The idea that they might get out by the old neighbouring pit if they arrived before the passage was cut off, now carried them away. The twenty hustled one another as they went in single file, holding their lamps in the air so that the water should not extinguish them. Fortunately, the gallery rose with an imperceptible slope, and they proceeded for two hundred metres, struggling against the flood, which was not now gaining on them. Sleeping beliefs reawakened in these distracted souls; they invoked the earth, for it was the earth that was avenging herself, discharging the blood from the vein because they had cut one of her arteries. An old man stammered forgotten prayers, bending his thumbs backwards to appease the evil spirits of the mine. But at the first turning disagreement broke out; the groom proposed turning to the left, others declared that they could make a short cut by going to the right. A minute was lost. "Well, die there! what the devil does it matter to me?" Chaval brutally exclaimed. "I go this way." He turned to the right, and two mates followed him. The others continued to rush behind Father Mouque, who had grown up at the bottom of Réquillart. He himself hesitated, however, not knowing where to turn. They lost their heads; even the old men could no longer recognize the passages, which lay like a tangled skein before them. At every bifurcation they were pulled up short by uncertainty, and yet they had to decide. Étienne was running last, delayed by Catherine, who was paralysed by fatigue and fear. He would have gone to the right with Chaval, for he thought that the better road; but he had not, preferring to part from Chaval. The rush continued, however; some of the mates had gone from their side, and only seven were left behind old Mouque. "Hang on to my neck and I will carry you," said Étienne to the young girl, seeing her grow weak. "No, let me be," she murmured. "I can't do more; I would rather die at once." They delayed and were left fifty metres behind; he was lifting her, in spite of her resistance, when the gallery was suddenly stopped up; an enormous block fell in and separated them from the others. The inundation was already soaking the soil, which was shifting on every side. They had to retrace their steps; then they no longer knew in what direction they were going. There was an end of all hope of escaping by Réquillart. Their only remaining hope was to gain the upper workings, from which they might perhaps be delivered if the water sank. Étienne at last recognized the Guillaume seam. "Good!" he exclaimed. "Now I know where we are. By God! we were in the right road; but we may go to the devil now! Here, let us go straight on; we will climb up the passage." The flood was beating against their breasts, and they walked very slowly. As long as they had light they did not despair, and they blew out one of the lamps to economize the oil, meaning to empty it into the other lamp. They had reached the chimney passage, when a noise behind made them turn. Was it some mates, then, who had also found the road barred and were returning? A roaring sound came from afar; they could not understand this tempest which approached them, spattering foam. And they cried out when they saw a gigantic whitish mass coming out of the shadow and trying to rejoin them between the narrow timbering in which it was being crushed. It was Bataille. On leaving the pit-eye he had wildly galloped along the dark galleries. He seemed to know his road in this subterranean town which he had inhabited for eleven years, and his eyes saw clearly in the depths of the eternal night in which he had lived. He galloped on and on, bending his head, drawing up his feet, passing through these narrow tubes in the earth, filled by his great body. Road succeeded to road, and the forked turnings were passed without any hesitation. Where was he going? Over there, perhaps, towards that vision of his youth, to the mill where he had been born on the bank of the Scarpe, to the confused recollection of the sun burning in the air like a great lamp. He desired to live, his beast's memory awoke; the longing to breathe once more the air of the plains drove him straight onwards to the discovery of that hole, the exit beneath the warm sun into light. Rebellion carried away his ancient resignation; this pit was murdering him after having blinded him. The water which pursued him was lashing him on the flanks and biting him on the crupper. But as he went deeper in, the galleries became narrower, the roofs lower, and the walls protruded. He galloped on in spite of everything, grazing himself, leaving shreds of his limbs on the timber. From every side the mine seemed to be pressing on to him to take him and to stifle him. Then Étienne and Catherine, as he came near them, perceived that he was strangling between the rocks. He had stumbled and broken his two front legs. With a last effort, he dragged himself a few metres, but his flanks could not pass; he remained hemmed in and garrotted by the earth. With his bleeding head stretched out, he still sought for some crack with his great troubled eyes. The water was rapidly covering him; he began to neigh with that terrible prolonged death-rattle with which the other horses had already died in the stable. It was a sight of fearful agony, this old beast shattered and motionless, struggling at this depth, far from the daylight. The flood was drowning his mane, and his cry of distress never ceased; he uttered it more hoarsely, with his large open mouth stretched out. There was a last rumble, the hollow sound of a cask which is being filled; then deep silence fell. "Oh, my God! take me away!" Catherine sobbed. "Ah, my God! I'm afraid; I don't want to die. Take me away! take me away!" She had seen death. The fallen shaft, the inundated mine, nothing had seized her with such terror as this clamour of Bataille in agony. And she constantly heard it; her ears were ringing with it; all her flesh was shuddering with it. "Take me away! take me away!" Étienne had seized her and lifted her; it was, indeed, time. They ascended the chimney passage, soaked to the shoulders. He was obliged to help her, for she had no strength to cling to the timber. Three times over he thought that she was slipping from him and falling back into that deep sea of which the tide was roaring beneath them. However, they were able to breathe for a few minutes when they reached the first gallery, which was still free. The water reappeared, and they had to hoist themselves up again. And for hours this ascent continued, the flood chasing them from passage to passage, and constantly forcing them to ascend. At the sixth level a respite rendered them feverish with hope, and it seemed that the waters were becoming stationary. But a more rapid rise took place, and they had to climb to the seventh and then to the eighth level. Only one remained, and when they had reached it they anxiously watched each centimetre by which the water gained on them. If it did not stop they would then die like the old horse, crushed against the roof, and their chests filled by the flood. Landslips echoed every moment. The whole mine was shaken, and its distended bowels burst with the enormous flood which gorged them. At the end of the galleries the air, driven back, pressed together and crushed, exploded terribly amid split rocks and overthrown soil. It was a terrifying uproar of interior cataclysms, a remnant of the ancient battle when deluges overthrew the earth, burying the mountains beneath the plains. And Catherine, shaken and dazed by this continuous downfall, joined her hands, stammering the same words without cessation: "I don't want to die! I don't want to die!" To reassure her, Étienne declared that the water was not now moving. Their flight had lasted for fully six hours, and they would soon be rescued. He said six hours without knowing, for they had lost all count of time. In reality, a whole day had already passed in their climb up through the Guillaume seam. Drenched and shivering, they settled themselves down. She undressed herself without shame and wrung out her clothes, then she put on again the jacket and breeches, and let them finish drying on her. As her feet were bare, he made her take his own sabots. They could wait patiently now; they had lowered the wick of the lamp, leaving only the feeble gleam of a night-light. But their stomachs were torn by cramp, and they both realized that they were dying of hunger. Up till now they had not felt that they were living. The catastrophe had occurred before breakfast, and now they found their bread-and-butter swollen by the water and changed into sop. She had to become angry before he would accept his share. As soon as she had eaten she fell asleep from weariness, on the cold earth. He was devoured by insomnia, and watched over her with fixed eyes and forehead between his hands. How many hours passed by thus? He would have been unable to say. All that he knew was that before him, through the hole they had ascended, he had seen the flood reappear, black and moving, the beast whose back was ceaselessly swelling out to reach them. At first it was only a thin line, a supple serpent stretching itself out; then it enlarged into a crawling, crouching flank; and soon it reached them, and the sleeping girl's feet were touched by it. In his anxiety he yet hesitated to wake her. Was it not cruel to snatch her from this repose of unconscious ignorance, which was, perhaps, lulling her with a dream of the open air and of life beneath the sun? Besides, where could they fly? And he thought and remembered that the upbrow established at this part of the seam communicated end to end with that which served the upper level. That would be a way out. He let her sleep as long as possible, watching the flood gain on them, waiting for it to chase them away. At last he lifted her gently, and a great shudder passed over her. "Ah, my God! it's true! it's beginning again, my God!" She remembered, she cried out, again finding death so near. "No! calm yourself," he whispered. "We can pass, upon my word!" To reach the upbrow they had to walk doubled up, again wetted to the shoulders. And the climbing began anew, now more dangerous, through this hole entirely of timber, a hundred metres long. At first they wished to pull the cable so as to fix one of the carts at the bottom, for if the other should come down during their ascent, they would be crushed. But nothing moved, some obstacle interfered with the mechanism. They ventured in, not daring to make use of the cable which was in their way, and tearing their nails against the smooth framework. He came behind, supporting her by his head when she slipped with torn hands. Suddenly they came across the splinters of a beam which barred the way. A portion of the soil had fallen down and prevented them from going any higher. Fortunately a door opened here and they passed into a passage. They were stupefied to see the flicker of a lamp in front of them. A man cried wildly to them: "More clever people as big fools as I am!" They recognized Chaval, who had found himself blocked by the landslip which filled the upbrow; his two mates who had set out with him had been left on the way with fractured skulls. He was wounded in the elbow, but had had the courage to go back on his knees, take their lamps, and search them to steal their bread-and-butter. As he escaped, a final downfall behind his back had closed the gallery. He immediately swore that he would not share his victuals with these people who came up out of the earth. He would sooner knock their brains out. Then he, too, recognized them; his anger fell, and he began to laugh with a laugh of evil joy. "Ah! it's you, Catherine! you've broken your nose, and you want to join your man again. Well, well! we'll play out the game together." He pretended not to see Étienne. The latter, overwhelmed by this encounter, made a gesture as though to protect the putter, who was pressing herself against him. He must, however, accept the situation. Speaking as though they had left each other good friends an hour before, he simply asked: "Have you looked down below? We can't pass through the cuttings, then?" Chaval still grinned. "Ah, bosh! the cuttings! They've fallen in too; we are between two walls, a real mousetrap. But you can go back by the brow if you are a good diver." The water, in fact, was rising; they could hear it rippling. Their retreat was already cut off. And he was right; it was a mousetrap, a gallery-end obstructed before and behind by considerable falls of earth. There was not one issue; all three were walled up. "Then you'll stay?" Chaval added, jeeringly. "Well, it's the best you can do, and if you'll just leave me alone, I shan't even speak to you. There's still room here for two men. We shall soon see which will die first, provided they don't come to us, which seems a tough job." The young man said: "If we were to hammer, they would hear us, perhaps." "I'm tired of hammering. Here, try yourself with this stone." Étienne picked up the fragment of sandstone which the other had already broken off, and against the seam at the end he struck the miner's call, the prolonged roll by which workmen in peril signal their presence. Then he placed his ear to listen. Twenty times over he persisted; no sound replied. During this time Chaval affected to be coolly attending to his little household. First he arranged the three lamps against the wall; only one was burning, the others could be used later on. Afterwards, he placed on a piece of timber the two slices of bread-and-butter which were still left. That was the sideboard; he could last quite two days with that, if he were careful. He turned round saying: "You know, Catherine, there will be half for you when you are famished." The young girl was silent. It completed her unhappiness to find herself again between these two men. And their awful life began. Neither Chaval nor Étienne opened their mouths, seated on the earth a few paces from each other. At a hint from the former the latter extinguished his lamp, a piece of useless luxury; then they sank back into silence. Catherine was lying down near Étienne, restless under the glances of her former lover. The hours passed by; they heard the low murmur of the water for ever rising; while from time to time deep shocks and distant echoes announced the final settling down of the mine. When the lamp was empty and they had to open another to light it, they were, for a moment, disturbed by the fear of fire-damp; but they would rather have been blown up at once than live on in darkness. Nothing exploded, however; there was no fire-damp. They stretched themselves out again, and the hours continued to pass by. A noise aroused Étienne and Catherine, and they raised their heads. Chaval had decided to eat; he had cut off half a slice of bread-and-butter, and was chewing it slowly, to avoid the temptation of swallowing it all. They gazed at him, tortured by hunger. "Well, do you refuse?" he said to the putter, in his provoking way. "You're wrong." She had lowered her eyes, fearing to yield; her stomach was torn by such cramps that tears were swelling beneath her eyelids. But she understood what he was asking; in the morning he had breathed over her neck; he was seized again by one of his old furies of desire on seeing her near the other man. The glances with which he called her had a flame in them which she knew well, the flame of his crises of jealousy when he would fall on her with his fists, accusing her of committing abominations with her mother's lodger. And she was not willing; she trembled lest, by returning to him, she should throw these two men on to each other in this narrow cave, where they were all in agony together. Good God! why could they not end together in comradeship! Étienne would have died of inanition rather than beg a mouthful of bread from Chaval. The silence became heavy; an eternity seemed to be prolonging itself with the slowness of monotonous minutes which passed by, one by one, without hope. They had now been shut up together for a day. The second lamp was growing pale, and they lighted the third. Chaval started on his second slice of bread-and-butter, and growled: "Come then, stupid!" Catherine shivered. Étienne had turned away in order to leave her free. Then, as she did not stir, he said to her in a low voice: "Go, my child." The tears which she was stifling then rushed forth. She wept for a long time, without even strength to rise, no longer knowing if she was hungry, suffering with pain which she felt all over her body. He was standing up, going backward and forwards, vainly beating the miners call, enraged at this remainder of life which he was obliged to live here tied to a rival whom he detested. Not even enough space to die away from each other! As soon as he had gone ten paces he must come back and knock up against this man. And she, this sorrowful girl whom they were disputing over even in the earth! She would belong to the one who lived longest; that man would steal her from him should he go first. There was no end to it; the hours followed the hours; the revolting promiscuity became worse, with the poison of their breaths and the ordure of their necessities satisfied in common. Twice he rushed against the rocks as though to open them with his fists. Another day was done, and Chaval had seated himself near Catherine, sharing with her his last half-slice. She was chewing the mouthfuls painfully; he made her pay for each with a caress, in his jealous obstinacy not willing to die until he had had her again in the other man's presence. She abandoned herself in exhaustion. But when he tried to take her she complained. "Oh, leave me! you're breaking my bones." Étienne, with a shudder, had placed his forehead against the timber so as not to see. He came back with a wild leap. "Leave her, by God!" "Does it concern you?" said Chaval. "She's my woman; I suppose she belongs to me!" And he took her again and pressed her, out of bravado, crushing his red moustache against her mouth, and continuing: "Will you leave us alone, eh? Will you be good enough to look over there if we are at it?" But Étienne, with white lips, shouted: "If you don't let her go, I'll do for you!" The other quickly stood up, for he had understood by the hiss of the voice that his mate was in earnest. Death seemed to them too slow; it was necessary that one of them should immediately yield his place. It was the old battle beginning over again, down in the earth where they would soon sleep side by side; and they had so little room that they could not swing their fists without grazing them. "Look out!" growled Chaval. "This time I'll have you." From that moment Étienne became mad. His eyes seemed drowned in red vapour, his chest was congested by the flow of blood. The need to kill seized him irresistibly, a physical need, like the irritation of mucus which causes a violent spasm of coughing. It rose and broke out beyond his will, beneath the pressure of the hereditary disease. He had seized a sheet of slate in the wall and he shook it and tore it out, a very large, heavy piece. Then with both hands and with tenfold strength he brought it down on Chaval's skull. The latter had not time to jump backwards. He fell, his face crushed, his skull broken. The brains had bespattered the roof of the gallery, and a purple jet flowed from the wound, like the continuous jet of a spring. Immediately there was a pool, which reflected the smoky star of the lamp. Darkness was invading the walled-up cave, and this body, lying on the earth, looked like the black boss of a mass of rough coal. Leaning over, with wide eyes, Étienne looked at him. It was done, then; he had killed. All his struggles came back to his memory confusedly, that useless fight against the poison which slept in his muscles, the slowly accumulated alcohol of his race. He was, however, only intoxicated by hunger; the remote intoxication of his parents had been enough. His hair stood up before the horror of this murder; and yet, in spite of the revolt which came from his education, a certain gladness made his heart beat, the animal joy of an appetite at length satisfied. He felt pride, too, the pride of the stronger man. The little soldier appeared before him, with his throat opened by a knife, killed by a child. Now he, too, had killed. But Catherine, standing erect, uttered a loud cry: "My God! he is dead!" "Are you sorry?" asked Étienne, fiercely. She was choking, she stammered. Then, tottering, she threw herself into his arms. "Ah, kill me too! Ah, let us both die!" She clasped him, hanging to his shoulders, and he clasped her; and they hoped that they would die. But death was in no hurry, and they unlocked their arms. Then, while she hid her eyes, he dragged away the wretch, and threw him down the upbrow, to remove him from the narrow space in which they still had to live. Life would no longer have been possible with that corpse beneath their feet. And they were terrified when they heard it plunge into the midst of the foam which leapt up. The water had already filled that hole, then? They saw it; it was entering the gallery. Then there was a new struggle. They had lighted the last lamp; it was becoming exhausted in illuminating this flood, with its regular, obstinate rise which never ceased. At first the water came up to their ankles; then it wetted their knees. The passage sloped up, and they took refuge at the end. This gave them a respite for some hours. But the flood caught them up, and bathed them to the waist. Standing up, brought to bay, with their spines close against the rock, they watched it ever and ever increasing. When it reached their mouths, all would be over. The lamp, which they had fastened up, threw a yellow light on the rapid surge of the little waves. It was becoming pale; they could distinguish no more than a constantly diminishing semicircle, as though eaten away by the darkness which seemed to grow with the flood; and suddenly the darkness enveloped them. The lamp had gone out, after having spat forth its last drop of oil. There was now complete and absolute night, that night of the earth which they would have to sleep through without ever again opening their eyes to the brightness of the sun. "By God!" Étienne swore, in a low voice. Catherine, as though she had felt the darkness seize her, sheltered herself against him. She repeated, in a whisper, the miner's saying: "Death is blowing out the lamp." Yet in the face of this threat their instincts struggled, the fever for life animated them. He violently set himself to hollow out the slate with the hook of the lamp, while she helped him with her nails. They formed a sort of elevated bench, and when they had both hoisted themselves up to it, they found themselves seated with hanging legs and bent backs, for the vault forced them to lower their heads. They now only felt the icy water at their heels; but before long the cold was at their ankles, their calves, their knees, with its invincible, truceless movement. The bench, not properly smoothed, was soaked in moisture, and so slippery that they had to hold themselves on vigorously to avoid slipping off. It was the end; what could they expect, reduced to this niche where they dared not move, exhausted, starving, having neither bread nor light? and they suffered especially from the darkness, which would not allow them to see the coming of death. There was deep silence; the mine, being gorged with water, no longer stirred. They had nothing beneath them now but the sensation of that sea, swelling out its silent tide from the depths of the galleries. The hours succeeded one another, all equally black; but they were not able to measure their exact duration, becoming more and more vague in their calculation of time. Their tortures, which might have been expected to lengthen the minutes, rapidly bore them away. They thought that they had only been shut up for two days and a night, when in reality the third day had already come to an end. All hope of help had gone; no one knew they were there, no one could come down to them. And hunger would finish them off if the inundation spared them. For one last time it occurred to them to beat the call, but the stone was lying beneath the water. Besides, who would hear them? Catherine was leaning her aching head against the seam, when she sat up with a start. "Listen!" she said. At first Étienne thought she was speaking of the low noise of the ever-rising water. He lied in order to quiet her. "It's me you hear; I'm moving my legs." "No, no; not that! Over there, listen!" And she placed her ear to the coal. He understood, and did likewise. They waited for some seconds, with stifled breath. Then, very far away and very weak, they heard three blows at long intervals. But they still doubted; their ears were ringing; perhaps it was the cracking of the soil. And they knew not what to strike with in answer. Étienne had an idea. "You have the sabots. Take them off and strike with the heels." She struck, beating the miner's call; and they listened and again distinguished the three blows far off. Twenty times over they did it, and twenty times the blows replied. They wept and embraced each other, at the risk of losing their balance. At last the mates were there, they were coming. An overflowing joy and love carried away the torments of expectation and the rage of their vain appeals, as though their rescuers had only to split the rock with a finger to deliver them. "Eh!" she cried merrily; "wasn't it lucky that I leant my head?" "Oh, you've got an ear!" he said in his turn. "Now, _I_ heard nothing." From that moment they relieved each other, one of them always listening, ready to answer at the least signal. They soon caught the sounds of the pick; the work of approaching them was beginning, a gallery was being opened. Not a sound escaped them. But their joy sank. In vain they laughed to deceive each other; despair was gradually seizing them. At first they entered into long explanations; evidently they were being approached from Réquillart. The gallery descended in the bed; perhaps several were being opened, for there were always three men hewing. Then they talked less, and were at last silent when they came to calculate the enormous mass which separated them from their mates. They continued their reflections in silence, counting the days and days that a workman would take to penetrate such a block. They would never be reached soon enough; they would have time to die twenty times over. And no longer venturing to exchange a word in this redoubled anguish, they gloomily replied to the appeals by a roll of the sabots, without hope, only retaining the mechanical need to tell the others that they were still alive. Thus passed a day, two days. They had been at the bottom six days. The water had stopped at their knees, neither rising nor falling, and their legs seemed to be melting away in this icy bath. They could certainly keep them out for an hour or so, but their position then became so uncomfortable that they were twisted by horrible cramps, and were obliged to let their feet fall in again. Every ten minutes they hoisted themselves back by a jerk on the slippery rock. The fractures of the coal struck into their spines, and they felt at the back of their necks a fixed intense pain, through having to keep constantly bent in order to avoid striking their heads. And their suffocation increased; the air, driven back by the water, was compressed into a sort of bell in which they were shut up. Their voices were muffled, and seemed to come from afar. Their ears began to buzz, they heard the peals of a furious tocsin, the tramp of a flock beneath a storm of hail, going on unceasingly. At first Catherine suffered horribly from hunger. She pressed her poor shrivelled hands against her breasts, her breathing was deep and hollow, a continuous tearing moan, as though tongs were tearing her stomach. Étienne, choked by the same torture, was feeling feverishly round him in the darkness, when his fingers came upon a half-rotten piece of timber, which his nails could crumble. He gave a handful of it to the putter, who swallowed it greedily. For two days they lived on this worm-eaten wood, devouring it all, in despair when it was finished, grazing their hands in the effort to crush the other planks which were still solid with resisting fibres. Their torture increased, and they were enraged that they could not chew the cloth of their clothes. A leather belt, which he wore round the waist, relieved them a little. He bit small pieces from it with his teeth, and she chewed them, and endeavoured to swallow them. This occupied their jaws, and gave them the illusion of eating. Then, when the belt was finished, they went back to their clothes, sucking them for hours. But soon these violent crises subsided; hunger became only a low deep ache with the slow progressive languor of their strength. No doubt they would have succumbed if they had not had as much water as they desired. They merely bent down and drank from the hollow of the hand, and that very frequently, parched by a thirst which all this water could not quench. On the seventh day Catherine was bending down to drink, when her hand struck some floating body before her. "I say, look! What's this?" Étienne felt in the darkness. "I can't make out; it seems like the cover of a ventilation door." She drank, but as she was drawing up a second mouthful the body came back, striking her hand. And she uttered a terrible cry. "My God! it's he!" "Whom do you mean?" "Him! You know well enough. I felt his moustache." It was Chaval's corpse, risen from the upbrow and pushed on to them by the flow. Étienne stretched out his arm; he, too, felt the moustache and the crushed nose, and shuddered with disgust and fear. Seized by horrible nausea, Catherine had spat out the water which was still in her mouth. It seemed to her that she had been drinking blood, and that all the deep water before her was now that man's blood. "Wait!" stammered Étienne. "I'll push him off!" He kicked the corpse, which moved off. But soon they felt it again striking against their legs. "By God! Get off!" And the third time Étienne had to leave it. Some current always brought it back. Chaval would not go; he desired to be with them, against them. It was an awful companion, at last poisoning the air. All that day they never drank, struggling, preferring to die. It was not until the next day that their suffering decided them: they pushed away the body at each mouthful and drank in spite of it. It had not been worth while to knock his brains out, for he came back between him and her, obstinate in his jealousy. To the very end he would be there, even though he was dead, preventing them from coming together. A day passed, and again another day. At every shiver of the water Étienne perceived a slight blow from the man he had killed, the simple elbowing of a neighbour who is reminding you of his presence. And every time it came he shuddered. He continually saw it there, swollen, greenish, with the red moustache and the crushed face. Then he no longer remembered; he had not killed him; the other man was swimming and trying to bite him. Catherine was now shaken by long endless fits of crying, after which she was completely prostrated. She fell at last into a condition of irresistible drowsiness. He would arouse her, but she stammered a few words and at once fell asleep again without even raising her eyelids; and fearing lest she should be drowned, he put his arm round her waist. It was he now who replied to the mates. The blows of the pick were now approaching, he could hear them behind his back. But his strength, too, was diminishing; he had lost all courage to strike. They were known to be there; why weary oneself more? It no longer interested him whether they came or not. In the stupefaction of waiting he would forget for hours at a time what he was waiting for. One relief comforted them a little: the water sank, and Chaval's body moved off. For nine days the work of their deliverance had been going on, and they were for the first time taking a few steps in the gallery when a fearful commotion threw them to the ground. They felt for each other and remained in each other's arms like mad people, not understanding, thinking the catastrophe was beginning over again. Nothing more stirred, the sound of the picks had ceased. In the corner where they were seated holding each other, side by side, a low laugh came from Catherine. "It must be good outside. Come, let's go out of here." Étienne at first struggled against this madness. But the contagion was shaking his stronger head, and he lost the exact sensation of reality. All their senses seemed to go astray, especially Catherine's. She was shaken by fever, tormented now by the need to talk and move. The ringing in her ears had become the murmur of flowing water, the song of birds; she smelled the strong odour of crushed grass, and could see clearly great yellow patches floating before her eyes, so large that she thought she was out of doors, near the canal, in the meadows on a fine summer day. "Eh? how warm it is! Take me, then; let us keep together. Oh, always, always!" He pressed her, and she rubbed herself against him for a long time, continuing to chatter like a happy girl: "How silly we have been to wait so long! I would have liked you at once, and you did not understand; you sulked. Then, do you remember, at our house at night, when we could not sleep, with our faces out listening to each other's breathing, with such a longing to come together?" He was won by her gaiety, and joked over the recollection of their silent tenderness. "You struck me once. Yes, yes, blows on both cheeks!" "It was because I loved you," she murmured. "You see, I prevented myself from thinking of you. I said to myself that it was quite done with, and all the time I knew that one day or another we should get together. It only wanted an opportunity--some lucky chance. Wasn't it so?" A shudder froze him. He tried to shake off this dream; then he repeated slowly: "Nothing is ever done with; a little happiness is enough to make everything begin again." "Then you'll keep me, and it will be all right this time?" And she slipped down fainting. She was so weak that her low voice died out. In terror he kept her against his heart. "Are you in pain?" She sat up surprised. "No, not at all. Why?" But this question aroused her from her dream. She gazed at the darkness with distraction, wringing her hands in another fit of sobbing. "My God, my God, how black it is!" It was no longer the meadows, the odour of the grass, the song of larks, the great yellow sun; it was the fallen, inundated mine, the stinking gloom, the melancholy dripping of this cellar where they had been groaning for so many days. Her perverted senses now increased the horror of it; her childish superstitions came back to her; she saw the Black Man, the old dead miner who returns to the pit to twist naughty girls' necks. "Listen! did you hear?" "No, nothing; I heard nothing." "Yes, the Man--you know? Look! he is there. The earth has let all the blood out of the vein to revenge itself for being cut into; and he is there--you can see him--look! blacker than night. Oh, I'm so afraid, I'm so afraid!" She became silent, shivering. Then in a very low voice she whispered: "No, it's always the other one." "What other one?" "Him who is with us; who is not alive." The image of Chaval haunted her, she talked of him confusedly, she described the dog's life she led with him, the only day when he had been kind to her at Jean-Bart, the other days of follies and blows, when he would kill her with caresses after having covered her with kicks. "I tell you that he's coming, that he will still keep us from being together! His jealousy is coming on him again. Oh, push him off! Oh, keep me close!" With a sudden impulse she hung on to him, seeking his mouth and pressing her own passionately to it. The darkness lighted up, she saw the sun again, and she laughed a quiet laugh of love. He shuddered to feel her thus against his flesh, half naked beneath the tattered jacket and trousers, and he seized her with a reawakening of his virility. It was at length their wedding night, at the bottom of this tomb, on this bed of mud, the longing not to die before they had had their happiness, the obstinate longing to live and make life one last time. They loved each other in despair of everything, in death. After that there was nothing more. Étienne was seated on the ground, always in the same corner, and Catherine was lying motionless on his knees. Hours and hours passed by. For a long time he thought she was sleeping; then he touched her; she was very cold, she was dead. He did not move, however, for fear of arousing her. The idea that he was the first who had possessed her as a woman, and that she might be pregnant, filled him with tenderness. Other ideas, the desire to go away with her, joy at what they would both do later on, came to him at moments, but so vaguely that it seemed only as though his forehead had been touched by a breath of sleep. He grew weaker, he only had strength to make a little gesture, a slow movement of the hand, to assure himself that she was certainly there, like a sleeping child in her frozen stiffness. Everything was being annihilated; the night itself had disappeared, and he was nowhere, out of space, out of time. Something was certainly striking beside his head, violent blows were approaching him; but he had been too lazy to reply, benumbed by immense fatigue; and now he knew nothing, he only dreamed that she was walking before him, and that he heard the slight clank of her sabots. Two days passed; she had not stirred; he touched her with his mechanical gesture, reassured to find her so quiet. Étienne felt a shock. Voices were sounding, rocks were rolling to his feet. When he perceived a lamp he wept. His blinking eyes followed the light, he was never tired of looking at it, enraptured by this reddish point which scarcely stained the darkness. But some mates carried him away, and he allowed them to introduce some spoonfuls of soup between his clenched teeth. It was only in the Réquillart gallery that he recognized someone standing before him, the engineer, Négrel; and these two men, with their contempt for each other--the rebellious workman and the sceptical master--threw themselves on each other's necks, sobbing loudly in the deep upheaval of all the humanity within them. It was an immense sadness, the misery of generations, the extremity of grief into which life can fall. At the surface, Maheude, stricken down near dead Catherine, uttered a cry, then another, then another--very long, deep, incessant moans. Several corpses had already been brought up, and placed in a row on the ground: Chaval, who was thought to have been crushed beneath a landslip, a trammer, and two hewers, also crushed, with brainless skulls and bellies swollen with water. Women in the crowd went out of their minds, tearing their skirts and scratching their faces. When Étienne was at last taken out, after having been accustomed to the lamps and fed a little, he appeared fleshless, and his hair was quite white. People turned away and shuddered at this old man. Maheude left off crying to stare at him stupidly with her large fixed eyes. CHAPTER VI It was four o'clock in the morning, and the fresh April night was growing warm at the approach of day. In the limpid sky the stars were twinkling out, while the east grew purple with dawn. And a slight shudder passed over the drowsy black country, the vague rumour which precedes awakening. Étienne, with long strides, was following the Vandame road. He had just passed six weeks at Montsou, in bed at the hospital. Though very thin and yellow, he felt strength to go, and he went. The Company, still trembling for its pits, was constantly sending men away, and had given him notice that he could not be kept on. He was offered the sum of one hundred francs, with the paternal advice to leave off working in mines, as it would now be too severe for him. But he refused the hundred francs. He had already received a letter from Pluchart, calling him to Paris, and enclosing money for the journey. His old dream would be realized. The night before, on leaving the hospital, he had slept at the Bon-Joyeux, Widow Désir's. And he rose early; only one desire was left, to bid his mates farewell before taking the eight o'clock train at Marchiennes. For a moment Étienne stopped on the road, which was now becoming rose-coloured. It was good to breathe that pure air of the precocious spring. It would turn out a superb day. The sun was slowly rising, and the life of the earth was rising with it. And he set out walking again, vigorously striking with his brier stick, watching the plain afar, as it rose from the vapours of the night. He had seen no one; Maheude had come once to the hospital, and, probably, had not been able to come again. But he knew that the whole settlement of the Deux-Cent-Quarante was now going down at Jean-Bart, and that she too had taken work there. Little by little the deserted roads were peopled, and colliers constantly passed Étienne with pallid, silent faces. The Company, people said, was abusing its victory. After two and a half months of strike, when they had returned to the pits, conquered by hunger, they had been obliged to accept the timbering tariff, that disguised decrease in wages, now the more hateful because stained with the blood of their mates. They were being robbed of an hour's work, they were being made false to their oath never to submit; and this imposed perjury stuck in their throats like gall. Work was beginning again everywhere, at Mirou, at Madeleine, at Crévecoeur, at the Victoire. Everywhere, in the morning haze, along the roads lost in darkness, the flock was tramping on, rows of men trotting with faces bent towards the earth, like cattle led to the slaughter-house. They shivered beneath their thin garments, folding their arms, rolling their hips, expanding their backs with the humps formed by the brick between the shirt and the jacket. And in this wholesale return to work, in these mute shadows, all black, without a laugh, without a look aside, one felt the teeth clenched with rage, the hearts swollen with hatred, a simple resignation to the necessity of the belly. The nearer Étienne approached the pit the more their number increased. They nearly all walked alone; those who came in groups were in single file, already exhausted, tired of one another and of themselves. He noticed one who was very old, with eyes that shone like hot coals beneath his livid forehead. Another, a young man, was panting with the restrained fury of a storm. Many had their sabots in their hands; one could scarcely hear the soft sound of their coarse woollen stockings on the ground. It was an endless rustling, a general downfall, the forced march of a beaten army, moving on with lowered heads, sullenly absorbed in the desire to renew the struggle and achieve revenge. When Étienne arrived, Jean-Bart was emerging from the shade; the lanterns, hooked on to the platform, were still burning in the growing dawn. Above the obscure buildings a trail of steam arose like a white plume delicately tinted with carmine. He passed up the sifting-staircase to go to the receiving-room. The descent was beginning, and the men were coming from the shed. For a moment he stood by, motionless amid the noise and movement. The rolling of the trams shook the metal floor, the drums were turning, unrolling the cables in the midst of cries from the trumpet, the ringing of bells, blows of the mallet on the signal block; he found the monster again swallowing his daily ration of human flesh, the cages rising and plunging, engulfing their burden of men, without ceasing, with the facile gulp of a voracious giant. Since his accident he had a nervous horror of the mine. The cages, as they sank down, tore his bowels. He had to turn away his head; the pit exasperated him. But in the vast and still sombre hall, feebly lighted up by the exhausted lanterns, he could perceive no friendly face. The miners, who were waiting there with bare feet and their lamps in their hands, looked at him with large restless eyes, and then lowered their faces, drawing back with an air of shame. No doubt they knew him and no longer had any spite against him; they seemed, on the contrary, to fear him, blushing at the thought that he would reproach them with cowardice. This attitude made his heart swell; he forgot that these wretches had stoned him, he again began to dream of changing them into heroes, of directing a whole people, this force of nature which was devouring itself. A cage was embarking its men, and the batch disappeared; as others arrived he saw at last one of his lieutenants in the strike, a worthy fellow who had sworn to die. "You too!" he murmured, with aching heart. The other turned pale and his lips trembled; then, with a movement of excuse: "What would you have? I've got a wife." Now in the new crowd coming from the shed he recognized them all. "You too!--you too!--you too!" And all shrank back, stammering in choked voices: "I have a mother."--"I have children."--"One must get bread." The cage did not reappear; they waited for it mournfully, with such sorrow at their defeat that they avoided meeting each other's eyes, obstinately gazing at the shaft. "And Maheude?" Étienne asked. They made no reply. One made a sign that she was coming. Others raised their arms, trembling with pity. Ah, poor woman! what wretchedness! The silence continued, and when Étienne stretched out his hand to bid them farewell, they all pressed it vigorously, putting into that mute squeeze their rage at having yielded, their feverish hope of revenge. The cage was there; they got into it and sank, devoured by the gulf. Pierron had appeared with his naked captain's lamp fixed into the leather of his cap. For the past week he had been chief of the gang at the pit-eye, and the men moved away, for promotion had rendered him bossy. The sight of Étienne annoyed him; he came up, however, and was at last reassured when the young man announced his departure. They talked. His wife now kept the Estaminet du Progrés, thanks to the support of all those gentlemen, who had been so good to her. But he interrupted himself and turned furiously on to Father Mouque, whom he accused of not sending up the dung-heap from his stable at the regulation hour. The old man listened with bent shoulders. Then, before going down, suffering from this reprimand, he, too, gave his hand to Étienne, with the same long pressure as the others, warm with restrained anger and quivering with future rebellion. And this old hand which trembled in his, this old man who was forgiving him for the loss of his dead children, affected Étienne to such a degree that he watched him disappear without saying a word. "Then Maheude is not coming this morning?" he asked Pierron after a time. At first the latter pretended not to understand, for there was ill luck even in speaking of her. Then, as he moved away, under the pretext of giving an order, he said at last: "Eh! Maheude? There she is." In fact, Maheude had reached the shed with her lamp in her hand, dressed in trousers and jacket, with her head confined in the cap. It was by a charitable exception that the Company, pitying the fate of this unhappy woman, so cruelly afflicted, had allowed her to go down again at the age of forty; and as it seemed difficult to set her again at haulage work, she was employed to manipulate a small ventilator which had been installed in the north gallery, in those infernal regions beneath Tartaret, where there was no movement of air. For ten hours, with aching back, she turned her wheel at the bottom of a burning tube, baked by forty degrees of heat. She earned thirty sous. When Étienne saw her, a pitiful sight in her male garments--her breast and belly seeming to be swollen by the dampness of the cuttings--he stammered with surprise, trying to find words to explain that he was going away and that he wished to say good-bye to her. She looked at him without listening, and said at last, speaking familiarly: "Eh? it surprises you to see me. It's true enough that I threatened to wring the neck of the first of my children who went down again; and now that I'm going down I ought to wring my own, ought I not? Ah, well! I should have done it by now if it hadn't been for the old man and the little ones at the house." And she went on in her low, fatigued voice. She did not excuse herself, she simply narrated things--that they had been nearly starved, and that she had made up her mind to it, so that they might not be sent away from the settlement. "How is the old man?" asked Étienne. "He is always very gentle and very clean. But he is quite off his nut. He was not brought up for that affair, you know. There was talk of shutting him up with the madmen, but I was not willing; they would have done for him in his soup. His story has, all the same, been very bad for us, for he'll never get his pension; one of those gentlemen told me that it would be immoral to give him one." "Is Jeanlin working?" "Yes, those gentlemen found something for him to do at the top. He gets twenty sous. Oh! I don't complain; the bosses have been very good, as they told me themselves. The brat's twenty sous and my thirty, that makes fifty. If there were not six of us we should get enough to eat. Estelle devours now, and the worst is that it will be four or five years before Lénore and Henri are old enough to come to the pit." Étienne could not restrain a movement of pain. "They, too!" Maheude's pale cheeks turned red, and her eyes flamed. But her shoulders sank as if beneath the weight of destiny. "What would you have? They after the others. They have all been done for there; now it's their turn." She was silent; some landers, who were rolling trams, disturbed them. Through the large dusty windows the early sun was entering, drowning the lanterns in grey light; and the engine moved every three minutes, the cables unrolled, the cages continued to swallow down men. "Come along, you loungers, look sharp!" shouted Pierron. "Get in; we shall never have done with it today." Maheude, whom he was looking at, did not stir. She had already allowed three cages to pass, and she said, as though arousing herself and remembering Étienne's first words: "Then you're going away?" "Yes, this morning." "You're right; better be somewhere else if one can. And I'm glad to have seen you, because you can know now, anyhow, that I've nothing on my mind against you. For a moment I could have killed you, after all that slaughter. But one thinks, doesn't one? One sees that when all's reckoned up it's nobody's fault. No, no! it's not your fault; it's the fault of everybody." Now she talked with tranquillity of her dead, of her man, of Zacharie, of Catherine; and tears only came into her eyes when she uttered Alzire's name. She had resumed her calm reasonableness, and judged things sensibly. It would bring no luck to the middle class to have killed so many poor people. Sure enough, they would be punished for it one day, for everything has to be paid for. There would even be no need to interfere; the whole thing would explode by itself. The soldiers would fire on the masters just as they had fired on the men. And in her everlasting resignation, in that hereditary discipline under which she was again bowing, a conviction had established itself, the certainty that injustice could not last longer, and that, if there were no good God left, another would spring up to avenge the wretched. She spoke in a low voice, with suspicious glances round. Then, as Pierron was coming up, she added, aloud: "Well, if you're going, you must take your things from our house. There are still two shirts, three handkerchiefs, and an old pair of trousers." Étienne, with a gesture, refused these few things saved from the dealers. "No, it's not worth while; they can be for the children. At Paris I can arrange for myself." Two more cages had gone down, and Pierron decided to speak straight to Maheude. "I say now, over there, they are waiting for you! Is that little chat nearly done?" But she turned her back. Why should he be so zealous, this man who had sold himself? The descent didn't concern him. His men hated him enough already on his level. And she persisted, with her lamp in her hand, frozen amid the draughts in spite of the mildness of the season. Neither Étienne nor she found anything more to say. They remained facing each other with hearts so full that they would have liked to speak once more. At last she spoke for the sake of speaking. "The Levaque is in the family way. Levaque is still in prison; Bouteloup is taking his place meanwhile." "Ah, yes! Bouteloup." "And, listen! did I tell you? Philoméne has gone away." "What! gone away?" "Yes, gone away with a Pas-de-Calais miner. I was afraid she would leave the two brats on me. But no, she took them with her. Eh? A woman who spits blood and always looks as if she were on the point of death!" She mused for a moment, and then went on in a slow voice: "There's been talk on my account. You remember they said I slept with you. Lord! After my man's death that might very well have happened if I had been younger. But now I'm glad it wasn't so, for we should have regretted it, sure enough." "Yes, we should have regretted it," Étienne repeated, simply. That was all; they spoke no more. A cage was waiting for her; she was being called angrily, threatened with a fine. Then she made up her mind, and pressed his hand. Deeply moved, he still looked at her, so worn and worked out, with her livid face, her discoloured hair escaping from the blue cap, her body as of a good over-fruitful beast, deformed beneath the jacket and trousers. And in this last pressure of the hands he felt again the long, silent pressure of his mates, giving him a rendezvous for the day when they would begin again. He understood perfectly. There was a tranquil faith in the depths of her eyes. It would be soon, and this time it would be the final blow. "What a damned shammer!" exclaimed Pierron. Pushed and hustled, Maheude squeezed into a tram with four others. The signal-cord was drawn to strike for meat, the cage was unhooked and fell into the night, and there was nothing more but the rapid flight of the cable. Then Étienne left the pit. Below, beneath the screening-shed, he noticed a creature seated on the earth, with legs stretched out, in the midst of a thick pile of coal. It was Jeanlin, who was employed there to clean the large coal. He held a block of coal between his thighs, and freed it with a hammer from the fragments of slate. A fine powder drowned him in such a flood of soot that the young man would never have recognized him if the child had not lifted his ape-like face, with the protruding ears and small greenish eyes. He laughed, with a joking air, and, giving a final blow to the block, disappeared in the black dust which arose. Outside, Étienne followed the road for a while, absorbed in his thoughts. All sorts of ideas were buzzing in his head. But he felt the open air, the free sky, and he breathed deeply. The sun was appearing in glory at the horizon, there was a reawakening of gladness over the whole country. A flood of gold rolled from the east to the west on the immense plain. This heat of life was expanding and extending in a tremor of youth, in which vibrated the sighs of the earth, the song of birds, all the murmuring sounds of the waters and the woods. It was good to live, and the old world wanted to live through one more spring. And penetrated by that hope, Étienne slackened his walk, his eyes wandering to right and to left amid the gaiety of the new season. He thought about himself, he felt himself strong, seasoned by his hard experiences at the bottom of the mine. His education was complete, he was going away armed, a rational soldier of the revolution, having declared war against society as he saw it and as he condemned it. The joy of rejoining Pluchart and of being, like Pluchart, a leader who was listened to, inspired him with speeches, and he began to arrange the phrases. He was meditating an enlarged programme; that middle-class refinement, which had raised him above his class, had deepened his hatred of the middle class. He felt the need of glorifying these workers, whose odour of wretchedness was now unpleasant to him; he would show that they alone were great and stainless, the only nobility and the only strength in which humanity could be dipped afresh. He already saw himself in the tribune, triumphing with the people, if the people did not devour him. The loud song of a lark made him look up towards the sky. Little red clouds, the last vapours of the night, were melting in the limpid blue; and the vague faces of Souvarine and Rasseneur came to his memory. Decidedly, all was spoilt when each man tried to get power for himself. Thus that famous International which was to have renewed the world had impotently miscarried, and its formidable army had been cut up and crumbled away from internal dissensions. Was Darwin right, then, and the world only a battlefield, where the strong ate the weak for the sake of the beauty and continuance of the race? This question troubled him, although he settled it like a man who is satisfied with his knowledge. But one idea dissipated his doubts and enchanted him--that of taking up his old explanation of the theory the first time that he should speak. If any class must be devoured, would not the people, still new and full of life, devour the middle class, exhausted by enjoyment? The new society would arise from new blood. And in this expectation of an invasion of barbarians, regenerating the old decayed nations, reappeared his absolute faith in an approaching revolution, the real one--that of the workers--the fire of which would inflame this century's end with that purple of the rising sun which he saw like blood on the sky. He still walked, dreaming, striking his brier stick against the flints on the road, and when he glanced around him he recognized the various places. Just there, at the Fourche-aux-Boeufs, he remembered that he had taken command of the band that morning when the pits were sacked. Today the brutish, deathly, ill-paid work was beginning over again. Beneath the earth, down there at seven hundred metres, it seemed to him he heard low, regular, continuous blows; it was the men he had just seen go down, the black workers, who were hammering in their silent rage. No doubt they were beaten. They had left their dead and their money on the field; but Paris would not forget the volleys fired at the Voreux, and the blood of the empire, too, would flow from that incurable wound. And if the industrial crisis was drawing to an end, if the workshops were opening again one by one, a state of war was no less declared, and peace was henceforth impossible. The colliers had reckoned up their men; they had tried their strength, with their cry for justice arousing the workers all over France. Their defeat, therefore, reassured no one. The Montsou bourgeois, in their victory, felt the vague uneasiness that arises on the morrow of a strike, looking behind them to see if their end did not lie inevitably over there, in spite of all beyond that great silence. They understood that the revolution would be born again unceasingly, perhaps to-morrow, with a general strike--the common understanding of all workers having general funds, and so able to hold out for months, eating their own bread. This time a push only had been given to a ruinous society, but they had heard the rumbling beneath their feet, and they felt more shocks arising, and still more, until the old edifice would be crushed, fallen in and swallowed, going down like the Voreux to the abyss. Étienne took the Joiselle road, to the left. He remembered that he had prevented the band from rushing on to Gaston-Marie. Afar, in the clear sky he saw the steeples of several pits--Mirou to the right, Madeleine and Crévecoeur side by side. Work was going on everywhere; he seemed to be able to catch the blows of the pick at the bottom of the earth, striking now from one end of the plain to the other, one blow, and another blow, and yet more blows, beneath the fields and roads and villages which were laughing in the light, all the obscure labour of the underground prison, so crushed by the enormous mass of the rocks that one had to know it was underneath there to distinguish its great painful sigh. And he now thought that, perhaps, violence would not hasten things. Cutting cables, tearing up rails, breaking lamps, what a useless task it was! It was not worth while for three thousand men to rush about in a devastating band doing that. He vaguely divined that lawful methods might one day be more terrible. His reason was ripening, he had sown the wild oats of his spite. Yes, Maheude had well said, with her good sense, that that would be the great blow--to organize quietly, to know one another, to unite in associations when the laws would permit it; then, on the morning when they felt their strength, and millions of workers would be face to face with a few thousand idlers, to take the power into their own hands and become the masters. Ah! what a reawakening of truth and justice! The sated and crouching god would at once get his death-blow, the monstrous idol hidden in the depths of his sanctuary, in that unknown distance where poor wretches fed him with their flesh without ever having seen him. But Étienne, leaving the Vandame road, now came on to the paved street. On the right he saw Montsou, which was lost in the valley. Opposite were the ruins of the Voreux, the accursed hole where three pumps worked unceasingly. Then there were the other pits at the horizon, the Victoire, Saint-Thomas, Feutry-Cantel; while, towards the north, the tall chimneys of the blast furnaces, and the batteries of coke ovens, were smoking in the transparent morning air. If he was not to lose the eight o'clock train he must hasten, for he had still six kilometres before him. And beneath his feet, the deep blows, those obstinate blows of the pick, continued. The mates were all there; he heard them following him at every stride. Was not that Maheude beneath the beetroots, with bent back and hoarse respiration accompanying the rumble of the ventilator? To left, to right, farther on, he seemed to recognize others beneath the wheatfields, the hedges, the young trees. Now the April sun, in the open sky, was shining in his glory, and warming the pregnant earth. From its fertile flanks life was leaping out, buds were bursting into green leaves, and the fields were quivering with the growth of the grass. On every side seeds were swelling, stretching out, cracking the plain, filled by the need of heat and light. An overflow of sap was mixed with whispering voices, the sound of the germs expanding in a great kiss. Again and again, more and more distinctly, as though they were approaching the soil, the mates were hammering. In the fiery rays of the sun on this youthful morning the country seemed full of that sound. Men were springing forth, a black avenging army, germinating slowly in the furrows, growing towards the harvests of the next century, and their germination would soon overturn the earth.