Chapter X: Part 10

Troloo was the only person on foot, and he went hunting about like a pointer ranging a field, looking out for the tracks of the children. He soon found them, and quickly ran along the edge of the creek till he came to the place where they had crossed. He then went on, pointing out to Mr Harlow the hill which they intended to go round. It did not, however, take the turn they had expected, but ran off from the creek, and this it was that had thrown them out. Troloo now led on quickly till he found the spot where they had slept. He showed how they had got up in the morning, and how the eldest girl had knelt down just outside the hut with the little ones near her, and how they had then set off running. Soon the youngest had got tired and gone slower and slower. For several hours they went on, and then the eldest girl lifted up the youngest and carried her, and then they all sat down. Next, the boy got up and ran about in all directions and climbed a tree to try and find out the way they should take. He thought that he had found it, for he did not sit down again, but they all went on together quickly--sometimes he, and sometimes his sister, carrying the youngest, and sometimes she ran, they holding her hands. All this the black discovered as easily as if it had passed before his eyes, from the look of the grass and shrubs.

Were they getting nearer? No. All this time they were going farther and farther from home, and what seemed strange, going upwards towards some high hills in the distance. This is said to be always the case, when people lose themselves in the woods. If there is high land they are certain to go towards it.

They came after some time to a marshy spot where some rushes grew. The children had picked some of these and drank a little water from a pool which they had dug with their hands. They had had nothing to eat. Indeed, in few countries does a stranger find it more difficult to exist in the woods than in Australia, though the natives can nearly always obtain a meal from roots, or insects, or slugs, or birds, or small animals which they trap. At length they reached a spot where Troloo said that the children had spent their second night out. Bill had begun to build a hut as before, but he had got tired, and they had all slept close together with only a few boughs over them. The weather was fine, as it is in that country for the greater part of the year, but it was chilly at night. Again the children had started off by daylight, running at first, but soon growing tired, and sturdy Bill had carried little Mary for a long time on his back.

Before Mr Harlow's party could reach another of the children's camping places, it grew dark, and they were obliged to camp themselves. There was no longer much fear of their having fallen into the hands of the savages. There was much talk that night round the camp-fire about the poor children, and few of the party expected, after they had been lost so long, to find them alive.

"One thing is certain, my friends, that we must push on as fast as we can go, and Troloo can lead us. Without the help of the black we could not have found our way at all, and after this let none of us abuse the natives as stupid fellows. They make good use of the talents they possess. I wish that we could say the same of all white people."

So eager was Mr Harlow to push on, that he breakfasted before daybreak, and as soon as Troloo could make out the tracks of the children, the party moved on. It was wonderful how persevering the little creatures had been, and how they had held out. On and on they had gone, stopping to rest only for a short time. Little Mary now was too weak to walk alone. The other two held her up between them or carried her on their backs. Troloo had gone on without faltering as yet, but now they reached some hard, stony ground, and after going backwards and forwards several times he shook his head and said that he could not find the track of the children. They must go across it. Perhaps it might be found on the other side. Mr Harlow and his party went across the stony ground, but they looked up and down in vain. All the day was spent, night came on, and still Troloo was unsuccessful. They had again to camp.

"We must try again in the morning," said Mr Harlow, "I will never give up till I find them."

"Yes, Troloo find to-morrow," said the black, "Troloo lub Rudge."

The rest of the party said also that nothing would make them give in. They scarcely slept, so eager were they to be off, knowing that every minute might make a difference whether the lives of the children were saved or not. The instant they could see, after breakfast, they were on the move, looking in all directions for the tracks. Two hours or more passed, when Troloo was seen capering in the distance, and beckoning them to come on. He had found the tracks, and they were very clear. Now they pushed on faster than ever. The little creatures had toiled on, but they had become very weak, still the elder ones had carried the youngest. Once Bill had fallen, but had got up; Nancy had taken Mary from him, and they had gone on. It was near the evening when Troloo, who kept ahead, was seen to move on fast and beckon to the rest. Mr Harlow followed him fast. He stopped and pointed to a bank overhung by trees. There lay the three children. Were they alive? Mr Harlow's heart sunk within him. He leaped from his horse as he reached the spot, and leaned over the young children. They seemed to be sleeping.

"Father, are you come for us?" said a low voice. "We couldn't help it, we tried to get home."

It was Nancy who spoke; she had taken off her own outer petticoat and shawl to wrap up little Mary, who lay asleep in her arms by her side. Bill opened his eyes and said, "Father," and then closed them again.

"Thank God they are alive," exclaimed Mr Harlow, instantly mixing a little brandy-and-water and pouring it on their lips. Nancy was at once able to swallow a few drops--so could Bill after a little time. Mr Harlow had with forethought put some oranges in his pocket. A few drops helped little Mary to revive. He wisely fed the children very slowly; at first with only a few crumbs of biscuit at a time moistened with water. It seemed probable that they would not have lived another hour had they not been discovered; and certainly, had they been fed as Troloo would have liked to feed them, they would have died immediately. In a short time Nancy recovered enough to give an account of their adventures. It was then proved that Troloo had found out as he followed up their track exactly what had happened.

Mr Harlow now had a litter made on which the three children were carried towards his house. Having gone some distance, they camped, and a hut was built in which they were placed, and he and Sam and Tom Wells sat up all night by turns watching them and giving them food as they required it. It made Sam's heart leap with joy when little Mary looked up, and said, "Is dat oo Sam? Tank oo," and then went off to sleep calmly. The next day they reached Mr Harlow's station, where the young ladies took them in charge, and soon, under God's blessing, they were restored to health.

STORY FIVE, CHAPTER 6.

Mr Ramsay was joined in his pursuit of the blacks by a party of native police, who are just as ready to take up their countrymen as are the whites. As the whole party were well mounted, they soon came up with the runaways. As soon as the blacks saw their pursuers, they set off again, but were quickly overtaken. Several of them, including two of their chief men, were made prisoners. One of the police reported that he had seen a white man galloping away through the woods--that the stranger was very well mounted, and that he could not overtake him. This confirmed Mr Ramsay's suspicions that the blacks had been set on to attack the station by some white man, though as yet he had no idea who that person could be. The black prisoners were brought before him, and he examined them by means of the sergeant of the black police. It was a long business, for it was not always easy to understand the sergeant himself. However, at length Mr Ramsay came to the conclusion that the culprit was a stockman or shepherd living in the neighbourhood.

While the prisoners were carried to the station, Mr Ramsay went round to call at the huts of the stockmen. The first he reached was that of Peach. Neither he nor his mate were within. A kettle was on the hearth boiling, and a damper baking below. The provision casks were open, and pork and meal had evidently been taken from them in a hurry. Their guns and ammunition had also been carried off. There were other signs that the occupants of the hut had escaped in a hurry.

"We need not search farther," said Mr Ramsay with a sigh. "I thought that Peach was an honest man, but things are much against him at present."

Several of the men now spoke out, and said that they had no doubt that Peach was a rogue, that they had long thought him one, and that they were always surprised that the master trusted him.

"It would have been doing me a service if you had spoken before," said Mr Ramsay; "I might then have prevented Peach from committing an act for which he will be transported, if he escapes hanging."

It is to be hoped that they saw their error. Servants, by not giving warning of the misdeeds of others, often injure their employers and themselves, and do harm rather than good to those they wish to serve.

It was a happy day for Joseph Rudge and his wife when their children were restored to them as strong and well as ever; and truly grateful were they to Heaven for the mercy which had been shown them. Rough old Mat shed tears of joy when he took little Mary in his arms.

"To think that this little tiny creature should have gone on so many days without eating or drinking, when I have known strong men, who have lost their way, die in less time," he exclaimed as he kissed her again and again.

"But God watches over the young and innocent. He watches over us all, mate, and we old ones should know more of His love and care if we could but become like the young and pure," remarked Joseph. "We are told that we must become like little children, that is, in our trust in God's love and our obedience and faith."

"Ah yes, but that is a hard matter for the old and hardened," sighed Mat.

"Yes, but it is a blessed thought that God's grace is sufficient for even such, if they will but seek it," observed Rudge.

Nothing very particular happened at the station for some time. The children, as may be supposed, did not wander out by themselves any more. Joseph and the rest of the men, however, had a great deal more to do in consequence of the flight of Peach and his mate. They also had to help in getting back the cattle he had carried off. Mr Ramsay was very much pleased with the way Joseph had acted, and increased his wages by ten pounds a year, while to Sam and Bob he gave five pounds more each.

After this there was a marked change in Mr Ramsay. He was always looked on as a worthy, upright man, but he had been inclined to stand somewhat aloof from his neighbours, Mr Harlow and his sisters, because they were known to be religious. Not a week passed, however, that he did not pay a visit to Upland, Mr Harlow's station, and sometimes he went twice a week, and was often seen riding out with the Misses Harlow. It then became known that he had united with Mr Harlow to send for a missionary minister, who would go about among the out-stations and preach and hold school as best he could. Mr Bolton was his name. He lost no time in coming. His plan was to preach, and then to set lessons to all the learners, many of them grown-up people, and to help those who required it, and then to hear them when next he came that way. When Mr Bolton came to the head station, Mr Ramsay always attended, and after a time formed a class, and taught himself. It was said that he was going to marry one of the Miss Harlows. A word spoken in season may do good; and there can be little doubt that the good example set by Joseph Rudge had a great effect in bringing about an important change in the character of his master.

While many of those who went to the gold diggings came back as poor as they started, and with loss of health, Joseph and his family, by remaining at their posts and doing their duty to their employer, prospered, and were well and happy.

One afternoon Sarah and Sally and Nancy were at work in the hut. Nancy was able now to do almost as much as Sally. Joseph and his boys were out with the cattle or sheep. Bill was also able to go shepherding. Little Mary was playing in front of the door; she had not learned to do much yet. Her sisters heard her cry, "Man coming, man coming!" They looked out. A man on horseback, with tattered clothes, patched with skins, rode up. His eyes were sunken, his cheeks thin.

"I want food. Here, girls, bring me some damper, and tea, and mutton, if you have it, a glass of milk and rum. Quick! I am starving," he said in a hollow voice.

His looks showed that he spoke the truth.

"Won't you come in and rest?"

"No, no; I'm not to be caught so," answered the man, looking about suspiciously. "But quick, girl, with the food."

Sally went in and took him out some damper and a slice of mutton, while Nancy was getting some tea. He ate the food like a starving man and then tossed off a large basin of tea. When Sarah saw him first from the window she thought she knew him. His way of speaking made her sure.

"Now girls, just bring me out your father's powder-flask and shot belt, and any canister of powder there is in the hut. My flask is empty, and I must have it filled."

On hearing these words, Sarah emptied the flask into a jar, which she hid away, and with it the canister of powder, and then sent out Nancy with the empty flask. The man swore fiercely when he found that there was no powder in the flask.

"At all events, get me some more food. I don't know when I may be able to find another meal, and if there had been time you should have given me a hot one."

"That is Tony Peach," said Sarah, as her daughter came in to get more food. "He has taken to the bush, and that is what his life has brought him to."

The girls took out as much food as Peach could eat, but he wanted more, and told them that he must have enough to fill both his saddle-bags. They brought him out all the food they had cooked in the hut. As he was stowing away the food in his bags, he happened to look up, and saw two or three horsemen coming towards the hut. Letting the remainder of the damper and cheese and meat drop, he gathered up his reins and galloped off as hard as he could go. The horsemen were Joseph and Tom and Sam. They rode direct to the hut. When they heard who the stranger was, Tom and Sam were for giving chase.

"No," said Joseph, "we have no authority to take him up. Leave him in God's hands. He is welcome to the food the girls gave him."

It might have been better if Peach had been seized at that time, for, soon after this, several robberies were committed in different parts of the colony, and always by two men supposed to be Peach and his mate. Travellers from the gold diggings were attacked; huts were entered, and even farm-houses, and arms and ammunition and food and any valuables the thieves could lay hands on were carried off.

Another trying time for sheep and cattle owners as well as farmers, now arrived. There had been less rain than usual, and as the summer advanced the heat increased, and the creeks and water-holes dried up. In many spots where there had been for years a pool of pure water, there was nothing now but a bed of hard, cracked mud. Some stations were altogether deserted, and shepherds had often to drive their flocks long distances to water. Joseph Rudge had lately been made overseer, and it was his duty to ride round the country in all directions to search for water-holes. It was sad to watch the water get less and less in a hole, and to know that in a few days it would dry up and that another must be found or that the sheep or cattle would die. Before that time Joseph generally managed by an active search, to secure a fresh water-hole. While other owners were losing their sheep and cattle by thousands, Mr Ramsay found that only a few hundreds of his had died owing to being driven of necessity very fast to fresh water-holes.

One day as Joseph was on his way from a distant station, he saw smoke rising out of a wood.

While he was looking towards the spot, the smoke grew thicker and thicker, and presently flames burst out. Now they ran up the trees, now along the tall lank grass dried by the heat. They darted from tree to tree--the bush (as the forest is called) was on fire. The flames spread with fearful quickness.

He galloped on into the open country where there was thinner grass. The bush reached all the way to his house. As he watched the rapid manner in which the fire extended, he saw that no time was to be lost. Fast as his horse galloped, the flames went faster, leaping as it were from tree to tree with a loud roar and crackle, the thick smoke forming a black cloud overhead, while kangaroos and other animals rushed out of the bush to find safety in the open country. Had Joseph been able to venture through the forest he would soon have reached his hut, but he had to make a long round to avoid it.

He galloped on still hoping to get there before the flames reached it. Their property would certainly be destroyed, but he prayed that his family might make their escape to a place of safety. He seemed to be getting ahead of the fire, but as he looked every now and then over his shoulder, he saw it extending as far as the eye could reach, a wall of leaping flames with a roof of dark smoke. In some places it ran along the ground out from the forest where the grass was long enough to feed it, while in others it soon went out for want of fuel. Numbers of the animals and birds must have perished, and many animals rushed past with their hair singed, and several birds fell down dead before him. The ground was uneven and stony, but nothing stopped him, and at last his hut came in sight. The fire was still nearly a mile from it, but it was coming on quickly. He found Sarah and the children standing at the door, much frightened, with the few things of value they had in their hands.

"Why, Sarah, I should have thought you knew that flour and pork would be more use to us than those things," he exclaimed with a laugh, which somewhat took away her fear, "but we may save the hut yet. Bring out those three reaping-hooks, and all the axes and knives, and all hands must cut away the grass round the hut. Here come Tom Wells and Sam and Ben and Bill." A large circle was cut, and the grass was cleared round all the palings. It was then set on fire, and the flames went hissing along the ground towards the already burning forest. In this way a large space was cleared, and Joseph and his sons were able to keep watch on his own and Mat's hut, and the out-buildings, and to knock out any sparks as soon as they appeared. In this way, all the pens and other property on the station was preserved.

This done, they again mounted their horses and galloped off to look after the cattle which they had reason to fear might have been frightened by the fire. Their search was long, but they found the whole herd collected in a stony valley, where there was little grass, and where the fire had not touched them.

Soon after this, Mr Ramsay arrived, fully expecting to hear of the loss of sheep and cattle, if not of the huts and pens.

"A diligent servant takes heed of his master's property, and deserves to be rewarded," he observed.

"I looked after my wife and children first, sir, though," said Joseph.

"I should not have praised you if you had not, and it is time that you should have some cattle of your own, and sheep too, and in a few days I will tell you what proportion of the increase of my flocks and herds I can allow you."

Troloo was now more than ever at the station. He came in, while Mr Ramsay was there, with the news that a large number of kangaroos were assembled not far off, driven by the fire from their usual feeding grounds. Hearing this, Mr Ramsay sent over to Mr Harlow, and a party was made up to hunt them. It was well worth doing so, for though their flesh is not as good as mutton, for each kangaroo killed, two sheep would be saved. Both gentlemen had large dogs trained to hunt them. A kangaroo is a curious animal, with short forelegs, and very long hind ones, which it doubles up under itself. With these, and the help of a long, heavy tail, it leaps over the ground almost as fast as a horse can gallop. A female kangaroo has a sort of pouch in front, in which she carries her young. On the approach of danger the young one jumps into it, and off she goes. When very hard pressed, however, to save her own life, she will take it out and drop it, and thus go faster over the ground. Two or three other gentlemen and several stockmen from the neighbouring stations joined the party. After they had ridden several miles, Troloo gave notice that they were near the spot. The rifles were got ready, and the party spread out so as to stop the mob from breaking through. The feeding ground was in a large, open space, on the borders of a part of the bush which had escaped the fire. As the horsemen drew near, the creatures looked up, and seeing their enemies, started off. The dogs were set on and the horsemen followed, firing as they had a chance. Several of the animals were shot, and Sam and Bob boasted that each of them had killed one. They also came upon two emus, to which they gave chase. These are birds with long, thick legs and short wings, which help them along when running before the wind. Their bodies are about half the size of a small Australian sheep. They run at a great rate, so that a horse has hard work to come up with them. Sam's horse was already tired, and they were obliged to give up the chase. As they rode back to join the rest of the party, they saw under the trees what looked like a native hut. On getting nearer they found that a man was inside leaning against the trunk of a tree. They called out, thinking that he was asleep, but he did not answer.

Another look showed them that he was dead. The beard and hair were long, and the face like that of a mummy. They turned away from the horrid sight.

"Bob, do you know, I believe that the dead man is no other than Tony Peach," said Sam. "We must tell Mr Ramsay, and he'll come and see. The poor wretch has escaped being hung, which they say he would have been if he had been caught."

They soon reached their friends, and Mr Ramsay and others came to look at the dead man. They had no doubt who he was. A shallow grave was dug by some of the party, while two others cut out a slab of wood, on which they cut, with their knives, "Here lies Tony Peach, the bushranger." What became of his misguided mate no one knew. Tony Peach had started in life with far more advantages than Joseph Rudge, yet how different was the fate of the two men. Joseph and all his family prospered, and he is now, though connected with Mr Ramsay, the owner of a large flock of sheep and a fine herd of cattle. Tom Wells, who married Sally, has a farm of his own near him. He has bought land for Sam and Bob, on which they both hope to settle before long; and they are looking out for the arrival of a family of old friends from England, with several daughters, from among whom they hope to find good wives for themselves. No more need be said than this--that the honest, hard-working man who goes to Australia with a family, though he may meet with many ups and downs, may be pretty sure of doing well himself, and of settling his children comfortably around him.

STORY SIX, CHAPTER 1.

LIFE UNDERGROUND; OR, DICK THE COLLIERY BOY.

Young Dick Kempson sat all by himself in the dark, with a rope in his hand, at the end of a narrow passage, close to a thick, heavy door. There was a tramway along the passage, for small wagons or cars to run on. It was very low and narrow, and led to a long distance. Young Dick did not like to think how far. It was not built with brick or stone, like a passage in a house, but was cut out; not through rock, but what think you? through coal.

Young Dick was down a coal mine, more than one thousand feet below the green fields and trees and roads and houses--not that there were many green fields, by the bye, about there. The way down to the mine was by a shaft, like a round well sunk straight down into the earth to where the coal was known to be. Coal is found by boring, with an iron rod, one piece screwed on above another, with a place in the end to bring up the different sorts of earth it passes through. This shaft was more than a thousand feet deep; some are still deeper. Most people have heard of Saint Paul's, the highest church in England; just place three such buildings one on the top of the other, and we have the depth down which young Dick had to go every day to his work. In the bottom of this shaft, main passages and cross passages ran off for miles and miles to the chambers or places where men were digging out the coal.

The door near which Dick sat was called a trap, and Dick was called a "trapper." His business was to open the trap when the little wagons loaded with coal came by; pushed, or put, by boys who are therefore called "putters." They bring the coal from the place where the hewers are at work to the main line, where it is hoisted up on the rolleys, or wagons, to be carried to the foot of the shaft. Dick was eleven years old, but he was small of his age, and he did not know much. How should he? He had passed twelve hours of every six days in the week, for three years of his short life, under ground, in total darkness. He had two candles, but one lasted him only while he passed from the shaft to his trap, and the other to go back again. He had begun to trap at seven years old, and went on for two years, and then the good Lord Shaftesbury got a law made that no little boys under ten years of age should work in mines; and so he got a year above ground. During that time he went to a school, but he did not learn much, as it was a very poor one.

When he was ten years old, he had to go into the mine again; he had now been there every day for a year. He had heard talk of ghosts and spirits; and some of the bigger boys had told him that there was a great black creature, big enough to fill up all the passage, and that he had carried off a good many of the little chaps, once upon a time, no one knew where, only they had never come back again. Poor little Dick thought that he too might be carried away some day.

Often while he sat there, all alone in the dark, he trembled from head to foot, as he heard strange sounds, cries and groans it seemed. Was it the spirits of the boys carried off, or was it the monster coming to take him away? He dared not run away, he dared not even move. He had been there nine hours, with a short time for meals, when his father had come for him, and he would have to be three more, to earn his tenpence a day. It was Saturday, no wonder that he was sleepy, and, in spite of his fears of ghosts and hobgoblins, that he dropped asleep. He had been dreaming of the black creature he had been told of. He thought he saw him creeping, creeping towards him. He felt a heavy blow on his head. He shrieked out, he thought that it was the long expected monster come to carry him off. It was only Bill Hagger, the putter, with his corve, or basket of coals. An oath came with the blow, and further abuse. Poor little Dick dared not complain. He would only cry and pull open his door, and shut it again directly Bill was through.

Bill Hagger was black enough, all covered with coal-dust; but still it was better to have a cuff from him than to be carried off by the big creature, he did not know where, still deeper down into the earth. So he dried the tears which were dropping from his eyes and forming black mud on his cheeks, and tried to keep awake till the next putter and his loaded corve should come by, or Bill Hagger should return with his empty one.

Bill had not far to go to reach the crane, where the corve would be hoisted on the rolley, or wagon, to be dragged by a pony along the rolley-way to the foot of the shaft. Dick wished that Bill had farther to go, because he was pretty certain to give him a cuff or kick in passing, just to remind him to look out sharp the next time. There was another thing he wished, that it was time for "kenner," when his father would come and take him home to his mother. What "kenner" means, we shall know by-and-by.

I said that there were miles and miles of these rolley or main-tramways. This one was two miles straight, right away from the shaft. As the air in mines gets foul and close, and does not move, it is necessary to send currents of wind into all the passages to blow it away. The first thing is to get the wind to come down the shaft, and then to make it move along certain passages and so up by another shaft. Only a small quantity of wind can come down, and if that was let wander about at pleasure, it would do no good. So these traps or doors are used to stop it from going along some passages, and to make it go along others, till the bad air is blown out of them. To help this, a large furnace is placed at the bottom of the second shaft, called the up-cast shaft, because the foul air is cast up it.

There are several ways of working mines. This one was worked in squares, or on the panel system. The main roads are like the frame of a window; the passages like the wood dividing the panes of glass; and the masses of coal which remain at first like the panes themselves. These masses are again cut into, till pillars only remain about twelve feet by twenty-four. These pillars are at last removed, and props of wood placed instead, so that the whole mine is worked-out.

The men who do the chief work in the mine, that is, cut out the coal from the bed or seam, are the "hewers." Dick's father was a hewer. They have only two tools--a short pick, and a round-bladed spade; with a big basket, or "corve," into which they put the coal, and a gauze-wire lantern. Suppose a passage first cut; then they hew out chambers on either side, each about twelve feet wide. The roof of them is propped up as the hewer works on, till all the coal likely to fall is hewn away. The hewer's work is very hard; sometimes he kneels, sometimes sits, and sometimes has to lie on his back or side, knocking away with his heavy pick. Often he is bathed in wet from the heat, for it is very hot down in that black chamber, as the wind cannot pass through it.

In some places, where there is no fear of bad gas, and open lights can be used, the coal is blasted by gunpowder, as rock often is. This, however, cannot often be done; as the bad gas, called fire-damp, may come up any moment, and if set light to, go off like gunpowder or the gas from coal, and blow the chambers and everybody near to pieces.

The cut shows the form of these chambers when the mouth is just being finished. These chambers are in a very wide seam; but some seams are only three feet thick, and the men can in no part stand upright. When all the chambers and passages are cut out in a panel, the pillars of coal are removed, and pillars of wood put in their stead to support the roof. Some of the main passages run on straight ahead for two miles from the foot of the shaft, and the coal has to be brought all this distance on the rolleys, dragged by ponies or horses sometimes. It might puzzle some people to say how the animals are got down and up again. They are let down in a strong net of ropes, and once down, they do not after see daylight. There are regular stables for them cut out of the coal at the bottom of the mine, and they seem to like the life, for they grow sleek and fat.

In Wallford mine, in which little Dick worked, there were employed 250 grown men, 75 lads, and 40 young boys. The hewer's dress is generally a flannel shirt and drawers, and a pair of stout trousers, a coarse flannel waistcoat and coat, the last long with pockets, a pair of broggers (worsted stockings without feet), and a leathern cap. These at once get as black as coal-dust can make them.

There are different cranes on the rolley-ways, near the side cuttings, and each is under charge of a lad, called a crane-hoister, whose business is to hoist the baskets brought to him by the putters on to the rolleys, and to chalk down the number he cranes on a board. When the train of rolleys reaches the shaft, the full corves are hoisted up, and empty ones let down, which are placed on the rolleys, and carried back for the hewers to fill.

No spirits are allowed in mines, but as the heat and the work makes the people thirsty, tubs of water are placed at intervals, at which they can drink. In their long journeys, the putters stop to "bait," and are well supplied with bread and cheese, and bacon, and cold coffee or tea.

The miner has not only to fear choke or fire-damp, but sometimes water. A mine has, therefore, to be drained. A well or tank is dug in the lowest level, into which all the springs are made to run. A pump is sunk down to it through a shaft with a steam engine above, by which all the water is pumped out.

It may be seen that the working of a mine requires the very greatest care. If this is not taken, the roof may fall in and crush the labourers; or fire-damp may explode and blow them to pieces, and perhaps set fire to the mine itself and destroy it; or black or choke-damp may suffocate them, as the fumes of charcoal do; or water may rush in and drown them. A lamp, invented by a very learned man, Sir Humphrey Davy, is used when there is a risk of fire-damp. It is closely surrounded with very fine wire-gauze, through which neither the flame of the candle nor the gas can pass, yet the light can get out almost as well as through the horn of a common lantern.

Before any workmen are allowed to go into the pit in the morning, certain officers, called "over-men" and "deputies," go down through every part that is being worked, to see that all is safe. If anything is wrong, or doubtful, the inspecting deputy places a shovel across the place, or chalks a warning on the blade and sticks it in the ground, that it may be seen by the hewer. As soon as they have found the mine safe, the hewers come down and begin their work; and when they have had time to fill a corve or so, they are followed by the putters and other labourers. Sometimes it is necessary to work all the twenty-four hours, and then the people are divided into three gangs, who each work eight hours; but the poor little trappers are divided only into two parties, who have each to be down in the mine twelve hours together, sitting all alone by the side of their traps, like poor little Dick, in the dark.

STORY SIX, CHAPTER 2.

Little Dick's father, Samuel Kempson, was a hewer. He had not been brought up to the mining work, like most of the men; but once, when there had been a strike among the colliers, he and others from a distant county, being out of work, had got employed, and tempted by the high wages, had continued at it. While little Dick was sleeping at his trap, and getting a cuff on the head from Bill Hagger, Samuel Kempson was sitting, pick in hand, and hewing in a chamber at the end of a main passage nearly two miles off. The Davy lamp was hung up before him, and the big corve was by his side. There he sat or kneeled, working with his pick, or filling the corve with his spade. Often he thought of the green fields and hedges and woods of his native county. Though his wages had been poor, and his work hedging or ditching, or driving carts, or tending cattle; and though he had been sometimes wet to the skin, and cold enough in winter, yet in summer he had had the blue sky and the warm sun above him, and he had breathed the pure air of heaven, and smelt the sweet flowers and the fresh mown grass, and he sighed for those things which he was never likely to enjoy again.

There he was, a hewer of coal, and a hewer of coal he must remain, or run the chance of starving; for he had a large family, and though he had had good wages, three shillings and sometimes four shillings a day, and no rent to pay, and coals for a trifle, he had saved nothing. He had now got into such a way of spending money that he thought he couldn't save. His wife, Susan, thought so too. She was not a bad wife, and she kept the house clean and tidy enough, but she was not thrifty. Both he and she were as sober and industrious as most people, but they had meat most days, and plenty of white bread, and butter and cheese, and good clothes, and other things, which cost money, so that out of twenty-two shillings a week, there was next to nothing to put by. They had, too, a number of children, and some of them were heavy burdens, and were likely to remain so. The eldest boy, Jack, had had a fancy for the sea, and he had gone away when quite a little chap with a captain who had taken a liking to him, and the vessel had never more been heard of. That was before they left their old home in the country and came to live at the coal-pits. Poor Susan often thought of her lost boy, with his laughing blue eyes, and his light hair curling over his fair brow, just as he was when he went away. Mothers are apt to think of their lost young ones. It is well if a parent can feel sure that her child is with God in heaven, that she can say, "I taught it early to love Jesus; I know that he trusted in His cleansing blood, in His all-sufficient sacrifice on the cross."

Poor Susan had not that thought to comfort her, but still it did not trouble her. She mourned her lost boy like a loving mother, but not so much for his sake as because she wished again to fold him in her arms, and press once more a kiss on his cheeks.

Her next boy, Ben, worked with his father in the pit, as a putter. He was a rough, wildish lad--not worse than his companions, but that was not saying much for him, and it seemed but too likely that he would give his parents trouble.

The third boy, Lawrence, was a helpless cripple. He had been hurt in the mine three years before, and it seemed likely he would never walk again. He went by the name of Limping Lawry among the people in the village of Wallford. I was going to say companions--but he had not many companions, for he could not move about without pain. Only on a summer's day he limped out and sat on a bench against the front wall of the cottage. He was a pale-faced lad, with large blue eyes and a broad forehead, and did not look as if he could be long for this world; yet he lived on while others seemingly stronger were taken away.

Then there was Nelly. Once she was a bright little thing, but she had fallen on her head, and though she did not seem much hurt at first, she became half-witted, and was now an idiot. As she grew older she was sometimes inclined to be mischievous. Lawry might have watched over her, but she was so active and quick that she could easily get away from him. She knew well that it hurt him to move, so she kept her eye on him, and was off like a shot when he got up to go after her. So poor Lawry could not be of much use, even looking after his idiot sister. He used to hope that he might some day get better, and go to work again in the mine, as a trapper, at all events, which did not require much strength. But the doctor told him that he must not think of it; that the coal-dust and bad air would hurt his lungs, and that he would very soon die if he did. If he ever got strong, he must find work above ground.

The Kempsons were decent people, their neighbours could say that of them, but they were not God-fearing and God-loving,--they had no family prayers, no Bible was ever read in their house, and they seldom or never went to a place of worship; to be sure, the nearest was some way off, and that was their excuse--it was hard, if they did, to get back to dinner, at least to a hot dinner, and that is what they always liked to have on Sundays. Such was little Dick's family.

He therefore knew very little about God, or God's love to man through Jesus Christ. How should he? He had nothing pleasant to think of as to what was past nor what was to come. He knew nothing of heaven--of a future life where all sin and sorrow, and pain and suffering is to be done away--of its glories, of its joy, its wonders. All he knew was that he had sat there in that dark corner trapping for many, many weary hours, and that he should have to sit there many more till he was big enough to become a putter. Then he should have to fill corves with coal, and push them along the tramways for some years more till he got to be a hewer like his father. He only hoped that he might have to hew in seams not less than five feet thick--not in three feet or less, as some men had to do, obliged to crawl into their work on hands and knees, and crawl out again, and to work all day lying down or sitting. But they had light though--that was pleasant; they could move about, and worked only eight hours. He had to work in the dark for twelve hours, and dared not move, so he thought that he should change for the better, that is to say, when he thought at all, which was not often. Generally he sat, only wishing that it was "kenner" time, that he might go home to supper and bed. The name is given, because, when the time for work is over, the banksman at the mouth of the pit cries out, "Kenner, kenner."

Dick did not get much play, even in summer. In the winter he never saw daylight, except on Sundays. When he was thinking of what might happen, he could not help remembering how many men and boys he had known, some his own playmates--or workmates rather--who had been killed in that and the neighbouring pits. Some had been blown to pieces by the fire-damp; others had been stifled by the choke-damp; a still greater number had been killed coming up and down the shaft, either by the rope or chain breaking, or by falling out of the skip or basket, or by the skip itself being rotten and coming to pieces. But even yet more had lost their lives by the roof falling in, or by large masses of coal coming down and crushing them. Many had been run over by the corves, or crushed by them against the sides, like his poor brother Lawry; and others had been killed by the machinery above ground. "I wonder," thought Dick, "whether one of those things will be my lot." Poor little Dick, what between fancied dangers and real dangers, he had an unhappy time of it. Still he was warm and dry, and had plenty of food, and nothing to do but sit and open a door. Some might envy him.

Dick had one friend, called David Adams, a quiet, pale-faced, gentle little boy, younger than himself. He had only lately come to the mine, and been made a trapper. His father had been killed by the falling in of the roof, and his widowed mother had hard work to bring up her family; so, much against her will, she had to let little David go and be a trapper. She had never been down a mine, and did not know what sort of a life he would have to lead, or she might not have let him go. Sometimes one man took charge of David and sometimes another, and placed him at his trap,--generally the man who was going to hew in that direction. Miners, though their faces look black on week-days, and their hands are rough, have hearts like other men, and all felt for little David. Often Samuel Kempson took charge of David, and carried him home with him; and Dick and David used to talk to each other and tell their griefs. David could read, and he would tell Dick all about what he had read on Sundays, and Dick at last said that he should like to read too, and David promised to teach him. At last David lent him some books, and used to come in on Sundays, and in the evenings in summer, to help him read them, and that made them all greater friends than before.

Well, there sat Dick at his trap, very hungry and very sleepy and very tired, and longing to hear the shout of "Kenner, kenner!" echoing along the passages. He sat on and on; his thoughts went back to the ghosts and spirits he had been told about, and to the tales he had heard of the blowing up of gas, and the sad scenes he had indeed himself witnessed. How dark and silent was all around! Had he dropped asleep? He heard a deep and awful groan. "I am come to take you off, down, down, down," said a voice. Where it came from, Dick could not tell. He trembled from head to foot, trying to see through the darkness in vain, for no cat could have seen down there. Not a ray of the blessed sunlight ever penetrated into those passages. "I'm coming, I'm coming, I'm coming!" said the voice.

"Oh, don't, don't, don't!" cried poor Dick, in a terrible fright.

He felt a big hand placed on his shoulder. "I've got you, young one, come along with me," said the voice.

Dick shrieked out with fear. He trembled all over, and the next moment, just as a loud, hoarse laugh sounded in his ear, he went off in a faint.

"Kenner, kenner, kenner!" was shouted down the pit's mouth, and echoed along the galleries. Samuel Kempson heard it far away, and, crawling out of the hole in which he had been hewing, threw his pick and spade over his shoulder, and took his way homeward, not over pleasant green fields as labourers in the country have to do, but along the dark, black gallery, lighted by his solitary Davy lamp, which was well-nigh burnt out. He did not forget his boy Dick. He called out to him, but got no reply. Again and again he called. His heart sank within him, for he loved the little fellow, though he made him work in a way which, to others, might appear cruel. Could anything have happened to the child? Once more he called, "Dick, Dick!" Still there was no answer. Perhaps some of the other men had taken him home. He went on some way towards the pit's mouth, then his mind misgave him, and he turned back. To a stranger, all the traps would have looked alike, but he well knew the one at which Dick was stationed. He pushed it open, and there, at a little distance from it, he saw a small heap of clothes. He sprang forward. It was Dick. Was his boy dead? He feared so. The child neither moved nor breathed. He snatched him up, and ran on with him to the foot of the shaft, where several men stood waiting to be drawn up. The rough men turned to him with looks of pity in their faces.

"Anything fallen on the little chap?" asked one.

"Foul air, may be," observed a second.

"Did a rolley strike him, think you?" asked a third.