R.M. Ballantyne (continued 5)

For a few minutes they whispered together as to the plan of attack, and then, having agreed on that point, they separated. Cuttance and the man whom he had called Bill, went to the window of the room in which Hitchin and his guests were seated, and stationed themselves on either side of it. The sill was not more than breast high. The other three men quickly returned, bearing a heavy boat’s-mast, which they meant to use as a battering-ram. It had been arranged that Cuttance should throw up the window, and, at the same moment, his comrades should rush at the shutter with the mast. The leader could not see their faces, but there was light sufficient to enable him to distinguish their dark forms standing in the attitude of readiness. He therefore stepped forward and made a powerful effort to force up the window, but it resisted him, although it shook violently.

Those inside sprang up at the sound, and the smugglers sank down, as if by mutual consent, among the bushes which grew thickly near the window.

“I told you it was only the wind,” said Oliver Trembath, who had opened the shutter and gazed through the window for some time into the darkness, where, of course, he saw nothing.

Well was it for him that Cuttance refused to follow Bill’s advice, which was to charge him through the window with the mast. The former knew that, with the window fastened, it would be impossible to force an entrance in the face of such a youth as Tregarthen, even although they succeeded in rendering the other hors de combat, so he restrained Bill, and awaited his opportunity.

Oliver’s remark appeared to be corroborated by a gust of wind which came while he was speaking, and shook the window-frame violently.

“There it is again,” he said, turning to his host with a smile. “Depend upon it, they won’t trouble you on such a night as this.”

He closed and refastened the shutter as he spoke, and they all returned to their places at the table.

Unfortunately Oliver had not thought of examining the fastening of the window itself. Had he done so, he would have seen that it was almost wrenched away. Cuttance saw this, however, and resolved to make sure work of it next time.

When the men with the battering-ram were again in position, he and Bill applied their united strength to the window, and it instantly flew up to the top. At same moment, bolts and bars gave way, and the shutter went in with a crash. Making use of the mast as a rest, Cuttance sprang on the window-sill and leaped into the room.

The whole thing was done with such speed, and, if we may so express it, with such simultaneity of action, that the bold smuggler stood before the astonished inmates almost as soon as they could leap from their chairs. Cuttance ducked to evade a terrific blow which Oliver aimed at him with his fist, and in another instant grappled with him. Tregarthen rushed to the window in time to meet Bill, on whose forehead he planted a blow so effectual that that worthy fell back into the arms of his friends, who considerately let him drop to the ground, and made a united assault on Charlie.

Had Oliver Trembath possessed his wonted vigour, he would speedily have overcome his adversary despite his great strength, but his recent illness had weakened him a little, so that the two were pretty equally matched. The consequence was that, neither daring to loosen his hold in order to strike an effective blow, each had to devote all his energies to throw the other, in which effort they wrenched, thrust, and swung each other so violently round the room that chairs and tables were overturned and smashed, and poor old Hitchin had enough to do to avoid being floored in the mêlée, and to preserve from destruction the candle which lighted the scene of the combat.

At first Oliver had tried to free his right hand in order to strike, but, finding this impossible, he attempted to throw the smuggler, and, with this end in view, lifted him bodily in the air and dashed him down, but Cuttance managed to throw out a leg and meet the ground with his foot, which saved him. He was a noted wrestler. He could give the famous Cornish hug with the fervour of a black bear, and knew all the mysteries of the science. Often had he displayed his great muscular power and skill in the ring, where “wrestlers” were wont to engage in those combats of which the poet writes:—

“They rush, impetuous, with a shock Their arms implicit, rigid, lock; They twist; they trip; their limbs are mixed; As one they move, as one stand fixed. Now plant their feet in wider space, And stand like statues on their base.”

But never before had Jim Cuttance had to deal with such a man as Oliver Trembath, who swung him about among the chairs, and crashed him through the tables, until, seizing a sudden opportunity, he succeeded in flinging him flat on the floor, where he held him down, and planted his knee on his chest with such force that he nearly squeezed all the breath out of him.

No word did Jim Cuttance utter, for he was incapable of speech, but the colour of his face and his protruding tongue induced Oliver to remove his knee.

Meanwhile Charlie Tregarthen had enough to do at the window. After he had tumbled Bill out, as we have described, two of the other men sprang at him, and, seizing him by the collar of his coat, attempted to drag him out. One of these he succeeded in overthrowing by a kick on the chest, but his place was instantly taken by the third of the bearers of the battering-ram, and for a few minutes the struggle was fierce but undecided. Suddenly there arose a great shout, and all three tumbled head over heels into the shrubbery.

It was at this moment that Oliver rose from his prostrate foe. He at once sprang to the rescue; leaped out of the window, and was in the act of launching a blow at the head of the first man he encountered, when a voice shouted,—“Hold on, sur.”

It is certain that Oliver would have declined to hold on, had not the voice sounded familiar. He held his hand, and next moment Charlie appeared in the light of the window dragging a struggling man after him by the nape of the neck. At the same time Joe Tonkin came forward trailing another man by the hair of the head.

“Has Cuttance got off?” inquired Tonkin.

“No,” replied Oliver, leaping back into the room, just in time to prevent Jim, who had recovered, from making his escape.

“Now, my man, keep quiet,” said Oliver, thrusting him down into a chair. “You and I have met before, and you know that it is useless to attempt resistance.”

Cuttance vouchsafed no reply, but sat still with a dogged expression on his weather-beaten visage.

Hitchin, whose nerves were much shaken by the scene of which he had been a trembling spectator, soon produced ropes, with which the prisoners were bound, and then they were conducted to a place of safe keeping—each of the victors leading the man he had secured, and old Hitchin going before—an excited advance-guard. The two men whom Tregarthen knocked down had recovered, and made their escape just before the fight closed.

Oliver Trembath walked first in the procession, leading Jim Cuttance.

“I gave you credit for a more manly spirit than this,” said Oliver, as he walked along. “How could you make so cowardly an attack on an old man?”

Cuttance made no reply, and Oliver felt sorry that he had spoken, for the remembrance of the incident at the Land’s End was strong upon him, and he would have given all he possessed to have had no hand in delivering the smuggler up to justice. At the same time he felt that the attempt of Cuttance was a dastardly one, and that duty required him to act as he did.

It seemed to Oliver as if Joe Tonkin had divined his thoughts, for at that moment he pushed close to him and whispered in his ear, “Jim Cuttance didn’t mean to rob th’ owld man, sur. He only wanted to give he a fright, an’ make un pay what he did owe un.”

This was a new light on the subject to Oliver, who at once formed his resolution and acted on it.

“Cuttance,” he said, “it is not unlikely that, if brought to justice, you will swing for this night’s adventure.”

He paused and glanced at the face of his prisoner, who still maintained rigid silence.

“Well,” continued our hero, “I believe that your intentions against Mr Hitchin were not so bad as they would appear to be—”

“Who told ’ee that?” asked the smuggler sternly.

“No matter,” replied Oliver, drawing a knife from his pocket, with which he deliberately cut the cords that bound his prisoner. “There—you are free. I hope that you will make better use of your freedom in time to come than you have in time past, although I doubt it much; but remember that I have repaid the debt I owe you.”

“Nay,” replied Cuttance, still continuing to walk close to his companion’s side. “I did give you life. You have but given me liberty.”

“I’d advise you to take advantage of that liberty without delay,” said Oliver, somewhat nettled by the man’s remark, as well as by his cool composure, “else your liberty may be again taken from you, in which case I would not give much for your life.”

“If you do not assist, there is no one here who can take me now,” replied Cuttance, with a smile. “However, I’m not ungrateful—good-night.”

As he said this, the smuggler turned sharp to the right into one of the numerous narrow passages which divide the dwellings of Newlyn, and disappeared.

Charles Tregarthen, who was as sharp as a needle, observed this, and, leaving his man in charge of Tonkin, darted after the fugitive. He soon returned, however, wiping the perspiration from his brow, and declaring that he had well-nigh lost himself in his vain endeavours to find the smuggler.

“How in all the world did you manage to let him go?” he demanded somewhat sharply of Oliver.

“Why, Charlie,” replied his friend, with a laugh, “you know I have not been trained to the duties of a policeman, and it has always been said that Jim Cuttance was a slippery eel. However, he’s gone now, so we had better have the others placed in safe custody as soon as possible.”

Saying this he passed his arm through that of old Mr Hitchin, and soon after the smugglers were duly incarcerated in the lock-up of Penzance.

Chapter Twenty Four.

Exhibits the Managing Director and the Secretary of Wheal Dooem in Confidential Circumstances, and Introduces the Subject of “Locals.”

About this time that energetic promoter of mining operations, Mr George Augustus Clearemout, found it necessary to revisit Cornwall.

He was seated in an easy-chair in a snug little back-office, or board-room, in one of the airiest little streets of the City of London, when this necessity became apparent to him. Mr Clearemout did not appear to have much to do at that particular time, for he contented himself with tapping the arm of his easy-chair with the knuckles of his right hand, while he twirled his gold watch-key with his left, and smiled occasionally.

To judge from appearances it seemed that things in general were prospering with George Augustus. Everything about him was new, and, we might almost say, gorgeous. His coat and vest and pantaloons had a look and a cut about them that told of an extremely fashionable tailor, and a correspondingly fashionable price. His rings, of which he wore several, were massive, one of them being a diamond ring of considerable value. His boots were faultlessly made, quite new, and polished so highly that it dazzled one to look at them, while his linen, of which he displayed a large quantity on the breast, was as white as snow—not London snow, of course! Altogether Mr G.A. Clearemout was a most imposing personage.

“Come in,” he said, in a voice that sounded like the deep soft whisper of a trombone.

The individual who had occasioned the command by tapping at the door, opened it just enough to admit his head, which he thrust into the room. It was a shaggy red head belonging to a lad of apparently eighteen; its chief characteristics being a prolonged nose and a retracted chin, with a gash for a mouth, and two blue holes for eyes.

“Please, sir, Mr Muddle,” said the youth.

“Admit Mr Muddle.”

The head disappeared, and immediately after a gentleman sauntered into the room, and flung himself lazily into the empty armchair which stood at the fireplace vis-à-vis to the one in which Mr Clearemout sat, explaining that he would not have been so ceremonious had he not fancied that his friend was engaged with some one on business.

“How are you, Jack?” said George Augustus.

“Pretty bobbish,” replied Jack. (He was the same Jack whom we have already introduced as being Mr Clearemout’s friend and kindred spirit.)

“Any news?” inquired Mr Clearemout.

“No, nothing moving,” said Jack languidly.

“H’m, I see it is time to stir now, Jack, for the wheel of fortune is apt to get stiff and creaky if we don’t grease her now and then and give her a jog. Here is a little pot of grease which I have been concocting and intend to lay on immediately.”

He took a slip of paper from a large pocket-book which lay at his elbow on the new green cloth-covered table, and handed it to his friend, who slowly opened and read it in a slovenly way, mumbling the most of it as he went on:—

“‘Wheal Dooem, in St. Just, Cornwall—mumble—m—m—in 10,000 shares. An old mine, m—m—every reason to believe—m—m—splendid lodes visible from—m—m. Depth of Adit fifty fathoms—m—depth below Adit ninety fathoms. Pumps, whims, engines, etcetera, in good working order—m—little expense—Landowners, Messrs—m—Manager at the Mine, Captain Trembleforem—m—thirteen men, four females, and two boys—m—water—wheels—stamps—m—Managing Director, George Augustus Clearemout, Esquire, 99 New Gull Street, London—m—Secretary, John Muddle, Esquire—ahem—’”

“But, I say, it won’t do to publish anything of this sort just yet, you know,” said Secretary Jack in a remonstrative tone, “for there’s nothing doing at all, I believe.”

“I beg your pardon,” replied the managing director, “there is a good deal doing. I have written to St. Just appointing the local manager, and it is probable that things are really under way by this time; besides, I shall set out for Cornwall to-morrow to superintend matters, leaving my able secretary in charge here in the meantime, and when he hears from me this paper may be completed and advertised.”

“I say, it looks awful real-like, don’t it?” said Jack, with a grin. “Only fancy if it should turn out to be a good mine after all—what a lark that would be! and it might, you know, for it was a real one once, wasn’t it? And if you set a few fellows to sink the what-d’ye-call-’ems and drive the thingumbobs, it is possible they may come upon tin and copper, or something of that sort—wouldn’t it be jolly?”

“Of course it would, and that is the very thing that gives zest to it. It’s a speculation, not a swindle by any means, and admirably suits our easy consciences. But, I say, Jack, you must break yourself off talking slang. It will never do to have the secretary of the Great Wheal Dooem Mining Company talk like a street boy. Besides, I hate slang even in a blackguard—not to mention a black-leg—so you must give it up, Jack, you really must, else you’ll ruin the concern at the very beginning.”

Secretary Jack started into animation at this.

“Why, George,” he said, drawing himself up, “I can throw it off when I please. Look here—suppose yourself an inquiring speculator—ahem! I assure you, sir, that the prospects of this mine are most brilliant, and the discoveries that have been made in it since we commenced operations are incredible—absolutely incredible, sir. Some of the lodes (that’s the word, isn’t it?) are immensely rich, and upwards of a hundred feet thick, while the part that runs under the sea, or is to run under the sea, at a depth of three thousand fathoms, is probably as rich in copper ore as the celebrated Botallack, whose majestic headland, bristling with machinery, overhangs the raging billows of the wide Atlantic, etcetera, etcetera. O George, it’s a great lark entirely!”

“You’ll have to learn your lesson a little better, else you’ll make a great mess of it,” said Clearemout.

“A muddle of it—according to my name and destiny, George,” said the secretary; “a muddle of it, and a fortune by it.”

Here the secretary threw himself back in the easy-chair, and grinned at the opposite wall, where his eye fell on a large picture, which changed the grin into a stare of surprise.

“What have we here, George,” he said, rising, and fitting a gold glass in his eye—“not a portrait of Wheal Dooem, is it?”

“You have guessed right,” replied the other. “I made a few sketches on the spot, and got a celebrated artist to put them together, which he has done, you see, with considerable effect. Here, in the foreground, you observe,” continued the managing director, taking up a new white pointer, “stands Wheal Dooem, on a prominent crag overlooking the Atlantic, with Gurnard’s Head just beyond. Farther over, we have the celebrated Levant Mine, and the famous Botallack, and the great Wheal Owles, and a crowd of other more or less noted mines, with Cape Cornwall, and the Land’s End, and Tolpedenpenwith in the middle-distance, and the celebrated Logan Rock behind them, while we have Mounts Bay, with the beautiful town of Penzance, and St. Michael’s Mount, and the Lizard in the background, with France in the remote distance.”

“Dear, dear me! quite a geographical study, I declare,” exclaimed Secretary Jack, examining the painting with some care. “Can you really see all these places at once from Wheal Dooem?”

“Not exactly from Wheal Dooem, Jack, but if you were to go up in a balloon a few hundred yards above the spot where it stands, you might see ’em all on a very clear day, if your eyes were good. The fact is, that I regard this picture as a triumph of art, exhibiting powerfully what is by artists termed ‘bringing together’ and great ‘breadth,’ united with exceedingly minute detail. The colouring too, is high—very high indeed, and the chiaroscuro is perfect—”

“Ha!” interposed Jack, “all the chiar being on the surface, and the oscuro down in the mine, eh?”

“Exactly so,” replied Clearemout. “It is a splendid picture. The artist regards it as his chef d’oeuvre, and you must explain it to all who come to the office, as well as those magnificent geological sections rolled-up in the corner, which it would be well, by the way, to have hung up without delay. They arrived only this morning. And now, Jack, having explained these matters, I will leave you, to study them at your leisure, while I prepare for my journey to Cornwall, where, by the way, I have my eye upon a sweet little girl, whose uncle, I believe, has lots of tin, both in the real and figurative sense of the word. Something may come of it—who knows?”

Next morning saw the managing director on the road, and in due time he found his way by coach, kittereen, and gig to St. Just, where, as before, he was hospitably received by old Mr Donnithorne.

That gentleman’s buoyancy of spirit, however, was not quite so great as it had been a few months before, but that did not much affect the spirits of Clearemout, who found good Mrs Donnithorne as motherly, and Rose Ellis as sweet, as ever.

It happened at this time that Oliver Trembath had occasion to go to London about some matter relating to his deceased mother’s affairs, so the managing director had the field all to himself. He therefore spent his time agreeably in looking after the affairs of Wheal Dooem during the day, and making love to Rose Ellis in the evening.

Poor Rose was by no means a flirt, but she was an innocent, straightforward girl, ignorant of many of the world’s ways, and of a trusting disposition. She found the conversation of Mr Clearemout agreeable, and did not attempt to conceal the fact. Mr Clearemout’s vanity induced him to set this down to a tender feeling, although Rose never consciously gave him, by word or look, the slightest reason to come to such a conclusion.

One forenoon Mr Clearemout was sitting in Mr Donnithorne’s dining-room conversing with Rose and Mrs Donnithorne, when the old gentleman entered and sat down beside them.

“I had almost forgotten the original object of my visit this morning,” said the managing director, with a smile, and a glance at Rose; “the fact is that I am in want of a man to work at Wheal Dooem, a steady, trustworthy man, who would be fit to take charge—become a sort of overseer; can you recommend one?”

Mr Donnithorne paused for a moment to reflect, but Mrs Donnithorne deeming reflection quite unnecessary, at once replied,—“Why, there are many such men in St. Just. There’s John Cock, as good a man as you could find in all the parish, and David Trevarrow, and James Penrose—he’s a first-rate man; You remember him, my dear?” (turning to her worse half)—“one of our locals, you know.”

“Yes, my dear, I remember him perfectly.—You could not, Mr Clearemout, get a better man, I should say.”

“I think you observed, madam,” said Mr Clearemout, “that this man is a ‘local.’ Pray, what is a local?”

Rose gave one of her little laughs at this point, and her worthy aunt exclaimed,—“La! Mr Clearemout, don’t you know what a local preacher is?”

“Oh! a preacher? Connected with the Methodist body, I presume?”

“Yes, and a first-rate man, I assure you.”

“But,” said Mr Clearemout, with a smile, “I want a miner, not a preacher.”

“Well, he is a miner, and a good one too—”

“Allow me to explain, my dear,” said Mr Donnithorne, interrupting his spouse. “You may not be aware, sir, that many of our miners are men of considerable mental ability, and some of them possess such power of speech, and so earnest a spirit, that the Wesleyan body have appointed them to the office of local preaching. They do not become ministers, however, nor are they liable to be sent out of the district like them. They don’t give up their ordinary calling, but are appointed to preach in the various chapels of the district in which they reside, and thus we accomplish an amount of work which could not possibly be overtaken by the ordinary ministry.”

“Indeed! but are they not untrained men, liable to teach erroneous doctrine?” asked Mr Clearemout.

“They are not altogether untrained men,” replied Mr Donnithorne. “They are subjected to a searching examination, and must give full proof of their Christianity, knowledge, and ability before being appointed.”

“And good, excellent Christian men many of them are,” observed Mrs Donnithorne, with much fervour.

“Quite true,” said her husband. “This James Penrose is one of our best local preachers, and sometimes officiates in our principal chapel. I confess, however, that those who have the management of this matter are not always very judicious in their appointments. Some of our young men are sorely tempted to show off their acquirements, and preach themselves instead of the gospel, and there are one or two whom I could mention whose hearts are all right, but whose brains are so muddled and empty that they are utterly unfit to teach their fellows. We must not, however, look for perfection in this world, Mr Clearemout. A little chaff will always remain among the wheat. There is no system without some imperfection, and I am convinced that upon the whole our system of appointing local preachers is a first-rate one. At all events it works well, which is one of the best proofs of its excellence.”

“Perhaps so,” said Mr Clearemout, with the air of a man who did not choose to express an opinion on the subject; “nevertheless I had rather have a man who was not a local preacher.”

“You can see and hear him, and judge for yourself,” said Mr Donnithorne; “for he is, I believe, to preach in our chapel to-morrow, and if you will accept of a seat in our pew it will afford my wife and myself much—”

“Thank you,” interrupted Mr Clearemout; “I shall be very glad to take advantage of your kind offer. Service, you say, begins at—”

“Ten precisely,” said Mr Donnithorne.

Chapter Twenty Five.

Shows the Miner in his Sunday Garb, and Astonishes Clearemout, besides Relating some Incidents of an Accident.

The sun rose bright and hot on Sunday morning, but the little birds were up before the great luminary, singing their morning hymn with noisy delight. It was a peaceful day. The wind was at rest and the sea was calm. In the ancient town of St. Just it was peculiarly peaceful, for the numerous and untiring “stamps”—which all the week had continued their clang and clatter, morning, noon, and night, without intermission—found rest on that hallowed day, and the great engines ceased to bow their massive heads, with the exception of those that worked the pumps. Even these, however, were required to do as little work as was compatible with the due drainage of the mines, and as their huge pulsations were intermittent—few and far between—they did not succeed in disturbing the universal serenity of the morning.

If there are in this country men who, more than any other, need repose, we should say they are the miners of Cornwall, for their week’s work is exhausting far beyond that of most other labourers in the kingdom. Perhaps the herculean men employed in malleable-iron works toil as severely, but, besides the cheering consciousness of being well paid for their labour, these men exert their powers in the midst of sunlight and fresh air, while the miners toil in bad air, and get little pay in hard times. Sunday is indeed to them the Sabbath-day—it is literally what that word signifies, a day of much-required rest for body, soul, and spirit.

Pity that the good old word which God gave us is not more universally used among Christians! Would it not have been better that the translation Rest-day had been adopted, so that even ignorant men might have understood its true signification, than that we should have saddled it with a heathen name, to be an apple of discord in all generations? However, Sunday it is, so Sunday it will stand, we suppose, as long as the world lasts. After all, despite its faulty origin, that word is invested with old and hallowed associations in the minds of many, so we enter our protest against the folly of our forefathers very humbly, beseeching those who are prone to become nettled on this subject to excuse our audacity!

Well, as we have said, the Sunday morning to which we refer was peaceful; so would have been Maggot’s household had Maggot’s youngest baby never been born; but, having been born, that robust cherub asserted his right to freedom of action more violently than ever did the most rabid Radical or tyrannical Tory. He “swarmed” about the house, and kicked and yelled his uttermost, to the great distress of poor little Grace, whose anxiety to get him ready for chapel was gradually becoming feverish. But baby Maggot had as much objection to go to chapel as his wicked father, who was at that time enjoying a pipe on the cliffs, and intended to leave his family to the escort of David Trevarrow. Fortunately, baby gave in about half-past nine, so that little Grace had him washed and dressed, and on his way to chapel in pretty good time, all things considered.

No one who entered the Wesleyan Chapel of St. Just that morning for the first time could have imagined that a large proportion of the well-dressed people who filled the pews were miners and balmaidens. Some of the latter were elegantly, we might almost say gorgeously, attired, insomuch that, but for their hands and speech, they might almost have passed for ladies of fashion. The very latest thing in bonnets, and the newest mantles, were to be seen on their pretty heads and shapely shoulders.

As we have said before, and now repeat, this circumstance arose from the frequency of the visits of the individual styled “Johnny Fortnight,” whose great aim and end in life is to supply miners, chiefly the females among them, with the necessaries, and unnecessaries, of wearing apparel.

When the managing director entered Mr Donnithorne’s pew and sat down beside his buxom hostess, he felt, but of course was much too well bred to express astonishment; for his host had told him that a large number of the people who attended the chapel were miners, and for a time he failed to see any of the class whom he had hitherto been accustomed to associate with rusty-red and torn garbs, and dirty hands and faces. But he soon observed that many of the stalwart, serious-looking men with black coats and white linen, had strong, muscular hands, with hard-looking knuckles, which, in some instances, exhibited old or recent cuts and bruises.

It was a new sight for the managing director to behold the large and apparently well-off families filing into the pews, for, to say truth, Mr Clearemout was not much in the habit of attending church, and he had never before entered a Methodist chapel. He watched with much curiosity the gradual filling of the seats, and the grave, quiet demeanour of the people. Especially interesting was it when Maggot’s family came in and sat down, with the baby Maggot in charge of little Grace. Mr Clearemout had met Maggot, and had seen his family; but interest gave place to astonishment when Mrs Penrose walked into the church, backed by her sixteen children, the eldest males among whom were miners, and the eldest females tin-dressers, while the little males and females aspired to be miners and tin-dressers in the course of time.

“That’s Penrose’s family,” whispered Mr Donnithorne to his guest.

“What! the local’s family?”

Mr Donnithorne nodded.

Soon after, a tall, gentlemanly man ascended the pulpit.

The managing director was disappointed. He had come there to hear a miner preach, and behold, a clergyman!

“Who is he?” inquired Clearemout.

But Mr Donnithorne did not answer. He was looking up the hymn for Mrs D, who, being short-sighted, claimed exemption from the duty of “looking up” anything. Besides, he was a kind, good man at heart—though rather fond of smuggling and given to the bottle, according to Oliver Trembath’s account of him—and liked to pay his wife little attentions.

But there were still greater novelties in store for the London man that morning. It was new to him to hear John Wesley’s beautiful hymns sung to equally beautiful tunes, which were not, however, unfamiliar to his ear, and sung with a degree of fervour that quite drowned his own voice, powerful and deep though it was. It was a new and impressive thing to hear the thrilling, earnest tones of the preacher as he offered up an eloquent extempore prayer—to the petitions in which many of the people in the congregation gave utterance at times to startlingly fervent and loud responses—not in set phraseology, but in words that were called forth by the nature of each petition, such as “Glory to God,” “Amen,” “Thanks be to Him”—showing that the worshippers followed and sympathised with their spokesman, thus making his prayer their own. But the newest thing of all was to hear the preacher deliver an eloquent, earnest, able, and well-digested sermon, without book or note, in the same natural tone of voice with which a man might address his fellow in the street—a style of address which riveted the attention of the hearers, induced them to expect that he had really something important to say to them, and that he thoroughly believed in the truth of what he said.

“A powerful man,” observed the managing director as they went out; “your clergyman, I suppose?”

“No, sir,” replied Mr Donnithorne with a chuckle, “our minister is preaching elsewhere to-day. That was James Penrose.”

“What! the miner?” exclaimed Clearemout in astonishment.

“Ay, the local preacher too.”

“Why, the man spoke like Demosthenes, and quoted Bacon, Locke, Milton, and I know not whom all—you amaze me,” said Mr Clearemout. “Surely all your local preachers are not equal to this one.”

“Alas, no! some of the young ones are indeed able enough to spout poetry and quote old authors, and too fond they are of doing so; nevertheless, as I have said to you before, most of the local preachers are sober-minded, sterling Christian men, and a few of them have eminent capabilities. Had Penrose been a younger man, he would probably have entered the ministry, but being above forty, with an uncommonly large family, he thinks it his duty to remain as he is, and do as much good as he can.”

“But surely he might find employment better suited to his talents?” said Clearemout.

“There is not much scope in St. Just,” replied Mr Donnithorne, with a smile, “and it is a serious thing for a man in his circumstances to change his abode and vocation. No, no, I think he is right to remain a miner.”

“Well, I confess that I admire his talents,” returned Clearemout, “but I still think that an ordinary miner would suit me better.”

“Well, I know of one who will suit you admirably. He is common enough to look at, and if you will accompany me into the mine to-morrow I’ll introduce you to him. I’m not fond of descending the ladders nowadays, though I could do it very well when a youth, but as the man I speak of works in one of the levels near the surface, I’ll be glad to go down with you, and Captain Dan shall lead us.”

True to his word, the old gentleman met Mr Clearemout the following morning at nine o’clock, and accompanied him down into the mine.

Their descent was unmarked by anything particular at first. They wore the usual suit of underground clothing, and each carried a lighted candle attached to his hat. After descending about thirty fathoms they left the main shaft and traversed the windings of a level until they came to a place where the sound of voices and hammers indicated that the miners were working. In a few seconds they reached the end of the level.

Here two men were “driving” the level, and another—a very tall, powerful man—was standing in a hole driven up slanting-ways into the roof, and cutting the rock above his head. His attitude and aspect were extremely picturesque, standing as he did on a raised platform with his legs firmly planted, his muscular arms raised above him to cut the rock overhead, and the candle so placed as to cause his figure to appear almost black and unnaturally gigantic.

“Stay a minute, Captain Dan,” said Mr Donnithorne. “That, Mr Clearemout, is the man I spoke of—what think you of his personal appearance?”

Clearemout did not reply for a few minutes, but stood silently watching the man as he continued to wield his heavy hammer with powerful strokes—delivering each with a species of gasp which indicated not exhaustion, but the stern vigour with which it was given.

“He’ll do,” said Clearemout in a decided tone.

“Hallo! James,” shouted Mr Donnithorne.

“Hallo! sir,” answered the man looking back over his shoulder.

“There’s a gentleman here who wants to speak to you.”

The miner flung down his tools, which clattered loudly on the hard rock, as he leaped from his perch with the agility of one whose muscles are all in full and constant exercise.

“What! not the local—”

Before the managing director could finish his sentence Mr Donnithorne introduced him to James Penrose, and left the two for a time to talk together.

It need scarcely be added that Clearemout was quite willing to avail himself of the services of the “local,” but the local did not meet his proposals so readily as he would have wished. Penrose was a cautious man, and said he would call on Mr Clearemout in the evening after he had had time to consider the matter.

With this reply the other was fain to rest satisfied, and shortly after he returned to the bottom of the shaft with his friends, leaving the hardy miner to pursue his work.

At the bottom of the shaft they were accosted by a sturdy little man, who told them that a large piece of timber was being sent down the shaft, and it would be advisable to wait until it reached the bottom.

“Is it on the way, Spankey?” asked Captain Dan.

“Iss, sur, if it haven’t walked into the thirty-fathom level in passin’.”

Spankey was a humorous individual addicted to joking.

“Are you married, Spankey?” asked Clearemout, looking down with a grin at the dirty little fellow beside him.

“Iss, sur. Had, two wives, an’ the third wan is waitin’ for me, ’spose.”

“Any children, Spankey?”

“Iss, six, countin’ the wan that died before it could spaik.”

At this point the beam was heard coming down. In a few seconds it made its appearance, and was hauled a little to one side by Spankey, who proceeded to unwind the chain that had supported it.

“I’ll give ’em the signal, Captain Dan, to haul up the chain before thee do go on the ladders.”

The signal was given accordingly, and the engine immediately began to draw up the chain by which the beam had been lowered.

This chain had a hook at one end of it, and, as ill-luck would have it, the hook caught Spankey by the right leg of his trousers, and whisked him off his feet. Almost before those beside him could conceive what had happened, the unfortunate man went up the shaft feet foremost, with a succession of dreadful yells, in the midst of which could be heard a fearful rending of strong linen.

Fortunately for Spankey, his nether garments were not only strong, but new, so that when the rend came to the seam at the foot, it held on, else had that facetious miner come down the shaft much faster than he went up, and left his brains at the bottom as a memorial of the shocking event!

With palpitating hearts, Captain Dan, Clearemout, and old Donnithorne ran up the ladders as fast as they could. In a few minutes they reached the thirty-fathom level, and here, to their great relief, they found Spankey supported in the arms of stout Joe Tonkin.

That worthy, true to his promise to Oliver Trembath, had gone to work in Botallack Mine, and had that very day commenced operations in the thirty-fathom level referred to. Hearing the terrible screams of Spankey, he rushed to the end of the level just as the unfortunate man was passing it. The risk was great, but Tonkin was accustomed to risks, and prompt to act. He flung his arms round Spankey, drew him forcibly into the level, and held on for life. There was a terrible rend; the leg of the trousers gave way at the hip, and went flapping up to grass, leaving the horrified miner behind.

“Not gone dead yet, sur, but goin’ fast,” was Spankey’s pathetic reply to Captain Dan’s anxious inquiries.

It was found, however, that, beyond the fright, the man had received no damage whatever.

The only other noteworthy fact in reference to this incident is, that when Captain Dan and his companions reached the surface, they were met by the lander, who, with a face as pale as a ghost, held up the torn garment. Great was this man’s relief, and loud the fit of laughter with which he expressed it, when Spankey, issuing from the mouth of the shaft, presented his naked limb, and claimed the leg of his trousers!

Chapter Twenty Six.

Tells of a Discovery and a Disaster.

That afternoon another accident occurred in the mine, which was of a much more serious nature than the one just recorded, and which interfered somewhat with the plans of the managing director of the Great Wheal Dooem Mining Company.

Not long after his interview with Clearemout, James Penrose finished a blast-hole, and called to Zackey Maggot to fetch the fuse.

Zackey had been working for a week past in connection with Penrose, and, at the time he was called, was engaged in his wonted occupation of pounding “tamping” wherewith to fill the hole.

Wherever Zackey chanced to be at work, he always made himself as comfortable as circumstances would admit of. At the present time he had discovered a little hollow or recess in the wall of the level, which he had converted into a private chamber for the nonce.

There was a piece of flat rock on the floor of this recess, which Zackey used as his anvil, and in front of which he kneeled. At his side was a candle, stuck against the wall, where it poured a flood of light on objects in its immediate neighbourhood, and threw the boy’s magnified shadow over the floor and against the opposite wall of the level. Above his head was a small shelf, which he had ingeniously fixed in a narrow part of the cell, and on this lay a few candles, a stone bottle of water, a blasting fuse, and part of his lunch, which he had been unable to consume, wrapped in a piece of paper. A small wooden box on the floor, and a couple of pick-hilts, leaning against the wall, completed the furniture of this subterranean grotto.

Zackey, besides being a searcher after metals, possessed an unusual amount of metal in himself. He was one of those earnest, hard-working, strong-hearted boys who pass into a state of full manhood, do the work of men, and are looked upon as being men, before they have passed out of their “teens.” The boy’s manhood, which was even at that early period of his life beginning to show itself, consisted not in his looks or his gait, although both were creditable, but in his firmness of purpose and force of character. What Zackey undertook to do he always did. He never left any work in a half-finished state, and he always employed time diligently.

In the mine he commenced to labour the moment he entered, and he never ceased, except during a short period for “kroust,” until it was time to shoulder his tools, and mount to the regions of light. Above ground, he was as ready to skylark as the most volatile of his companions, but underground he was a pattern of perseverance—a true Cornish miner in miniature. His energy of character was doubtless due to his reckless father, but his steadiness was the result of “Uncle Davy’s” counsel and example.

“Are you coming, Zackey?” shouted Penrose, from the end of the level.

“Iss, I’m comin’,” replied the boy, taking the fuse from the shelf, and hastening towards his companion.

Penrose had a peculiar and pleased expression on his countenance, which Zackey observed at once.

“What do ’ee grizzle like that for?” inquired the boy.

“I’ve come on a splendid bunch of copper, Zackey,” replied the man; “you and I shall make money soon. Run away to your work, lad, and come back when you hear the shot go off.”

Zackey expressed a hope that the prophecy might come true, and returned to his cell, where he continued pounding diligently—thinking the while of rich ore and a rapid fortune.

There was more reason in these thoughts than one might suppose, for Cornish miners experience variety of fortune. Sometimes a man will labour for weeks and months in unproductive ground, following up a small vein in the hope of its leading into a good lode, and making so little by his hard toil that on pay day of each month he is compelled to ask his employer for “subsist”—or a small advance of money—to enable him to live and go on with his work. Often he is obliged to give up in despair, and change to a more promising part of the mine, or to go to another mine altogether; but, not unfrequently, he is rewarded for his perseverance by coming at last to a rich “lode,” or mass, or “bunch” of copper or tin ore, out of which he will rend, in a single month, as much as will entitle him to thirty or forty, or even a hundred pounds, next pay day.

Such pieces of good fortune are not of rare occurrence. Many of the substantial new cottages to be seen in St. Just at the present day have been built by miners who became suddenly fortunate in this way, so that, although the miner of Cornwall always works hard, and often suffers severe privation, he works on with a well-grounded expectation of a sudden burst of temporal sunshine in his otherwise hard lot.

Zackey Maggot was dreaming of some such gleam of good fortune, and patiently pounding away at the tamping, when he heard the explosion of the blast. At the same moment a loud cry rang through the underground caverns. It was one of those terrible, unmistakable cries which chill the blood and thrill the hearts of those who hear them, telling of some awful catastrophe.

The boy leaped up and ran swiftly towards the end of the level, where he called to his companion, but received no answer. The smoke which filled the place was so dense that he could not see, and could scarcely breathe. He ran forward, however, and stumbled over the prostrate form of Penrose. Zackey guessed correctly what had occurred, for the accident was, and alas! still is, too common in the mines. The shot had apparently missed fire. Penrose had gone forward to examine it, and it exploded in his face.

To lift his companion was beyond Zackey’s power, to leave him lying in such dense smoke for any length of time would, he knew, ensure his suffocation, so he attempted to drag him away, but the man was too heavy for him. In his extremity the poor boy uttered a wild cry for help, but he shouted in vain, for there was no one else at work in the level. But Zackey was not the boy to give way to despair, or to act thoughtlessly, or in wild haste in this emergency. He suddenly recollected that there was a rope somewhere about the level. He sought for and found it. Fastening an end of it round the body of the man, under the armpits, he so arranged that the knot of the loop should reach a few inches beyond his head, and on this part of the loop he spread a coat, which thus formed a support to the head, and prevented it being dragged along the ground. While engaged in this operation the poor boy was well-nigh suffocated with smoke, and had to run back once to where the air was purer in order to catch a breath or two. Then, returning, he seized the rope, passed it over his shoulder, and bending forward with all his might and main dragged the man slowly but steadily along the floor of the level to a place where the air was comparatively pure.

Leaving him there he quickly fixed a candle in his hat, and carrying another in his hand, to avoid the risk of being left in darkness by an accidental stumble or gust of air, Zackey darted swiftly along the level and ran up the ladders at his utmost speed. Panting for breath, and with eyes almost starting from their sockets, he rushed into the engine-house, and told the man in charge what had occurred; then he dashed away to the counting-house and gave the alarm there, so that, in a very few minutes, a number of men descended the shaft and gathered round the prostrate miner. The doctor who had taken Oliver Trembath’s place during his absence was soon in attendance, and found that although no bones had been broken, Penrose’s face was badly injured, how deep the injury extended could not at that time be ascertained, but he feared that his eyes had been altogether destroyed.

After the application of some cordial the unfortunate man began to revive, and the first words he uttered were, “Praise the Lord”—evidently in reference to his life having been spared.

“Is that you, Zackey?” he inquired after a few moments.

“No, it is the doctor, my man. Do you feel much pain in your head?” he asked as he knelt beside him.

“Not much; there is a stunned feeling about it, but little pain. You’d better light a candle.”

“There are candles burning round you,” said the doctor. “Do you not see them? There is one close to your face at this moment.”

Penrose made no answer on hearing this, but an expression of deep gravity seemed to settle on the blackened features.

“We must get him up as soon as possible,” said the doctor, turning to Captain Dan, who stood at his elbow.

“We’re all ready, sir,” replied the captain, who had quietly procured ropes and a blanket, while the doctor was examining the wounds.

With great labour and difficulty the injured man was half hauled, half carried, and pushed up the shaft, and laid on the grass.

“Is the sun shining?” he asked in a low voice.

“Iss, it do shine right in thee face, Jim,” said one of the miners, brushing away a tear with the back of his hand.

Again the gravity of Penrose’s countenance appeared to deepen, but he uttered no other word; so they brought an old door and laid him on it. Six strong men raised it gently on their shoulders, and, with slow steps and downcast faces, they carried the wounded miner home.

Chapter Twenty Seven.

Indicates that “We little know what Great Things from Little Things may rise.”

Soon after this accident to James Penrose, the current of events at the mines was diverted from its course by several incidents, which, like the obstructing rocks in a rapid, created some eddies and whirlpools in the lives of those personages with whom this chronicle has to do.

As the beginning of a mighty inundation is oft-times an insignificant-looking leak, and as the cause of a series of great events is not unfrequently a trifling incident, so the noteworthy circumstances which we have still to lay before our readers were brought about by a very small matter—by a baby—the baby Maggot!

One morning that cherubical creature opened its eyes at a much earlier hour than usual, and stared at the ceiling of its father’s cottage. The sun was rising, and sent its unobstructed rays through the window of Maggot’s cottage, where it danced on the ceiling as if its sole purpose in rising had been to amuse the Maggot baby. If so, it was pre-eminently successful in its attempts, for the baby lay and smiled for a long time in silent ecstasy.

Of course, we do not mean to say that the sun itself, or its direct rays, actually danced. No, it was too dignified a luminary for that, but its rays went straight at a small looking-glass which was suspended on the wall opposite to the window, and this being hung so as to slope forward, projected the rays obliquely into a tub of water which was destined for family washing purposes; and from its gently moving surface they were transmitted to the ceiling, where, as aforesaid, they danced, to the immense delight of Maggot junior.

The door of the cottage had been carelessly closed the previous night when the family retired to rest, and a chink of it was open, through which a light draught of summer air came in. This will account for the ripple on the water, which (as every observant reader will note) ought, according to the laws of gravitation, to have lain perfectly still.

The inconstancy of baby Maggot’s nature was presently exhibited in his becoming tired of the sun, and the restlessness of his disposition displayed itself in his frantic efforts to get out of bed. Being boxed in with a board, this was not an easy matter, but the urchin’s limbs were powerful, and he finally got over the obstruction, sufficiently far to lose his balance, and fall with a sounding flop on the floor.

It is interesting to notice how soon deceit creeps into the hearts of some children! Of course the urchin fell sitting-wise—babies always do so, as surely as cats fall on their feet. In ordinary circumstances he would have intimated the painful mishap with a dreadful yell; but on this particular occasion young Maggot was bent on mischief. Of what sort, he probably had no idea, but there must have been a latent feeling of an intention to be “bad” in some way or other, because, on reaching the ground, he pursed his mouth, opened his eyes very wide, and looked cautiously round to make sure that the noise had awakened no one.

His father, he observed, with a feeling of relief, was absent from home—not a matter of uncommon occurrence, for that worthy man’s avocations often called him out at untimeous hours. Mrs Maggot was in bed snoring, and wrinkling up her nose in consequence of a fly having perched itself obstinately on the point thereof. Zackey, with the red earth of the mine still streaking his manly countenance, was rolled-up like a ball in his own bed in a dark recess of the room, and little Grace Maggot could be seen in the dim perspective of a closet, also sound asleep, in her own neat little bed, with her hair streaming over the pillow, and the “chet” reposing happily on her neck.

But that easily satisfied chet had long ago had more than enough of rest. Its repose was light, and the sound of baby Maggot falling out of bed caused it to rise, yawn, arch its back and tail, and prepare itself for the mingled joys and torments of the opening day. Observing that the urchin rose and staggered with a gleeful expression towards the door, the volatile chet made a dash at him sidewise, and gave him such a fright that he fell over the door step into the road.

Again was that tender babe’s deceitfulness of character displayed, for, instead of howling, as he would have done on other occasions, he exercised severe self-restraint, made light of a bruised shin, and, gathering himself up, made off as fast as his fat legs could carry him.

There was something deeply interesting—worthy of the study of a philosopher—in the subsequent actions of that precocious urchin. His powers in the way of walking were not much greater than those of a very tipsy man, and he swayed his arms about a good deal to maintain his balance, especially at the outset of the journey, when he imagined that he heard the maternal voice in anger and the maternal footsteps in pursuit in every puff of wind, grunt of pig, or bark of early-rising cur. His entire soul was engrossed in the one grand, vital, absorbing idea of escape! By degrees, as distance from the paternal roof increased, his fluttering spirit grew calmer and his gait more steady, and the flush of victory gathered on his brow and sparkled in his eye, as the conviction was pressed home upon him that, for the first time in his life, he was free! free as the wind of heaven to go where he pleased—to do what he liked—to be as bad as possible, without let or hindrance!

Not that baby Maggot had any stronger desire to be absolutely wicked than most other children of his years; but, having learnt from experience that the attempt to gratify any of his desires was usually checked and termed “bad,” he naturally felt that a state of delight so intense as that to which he had at last attained, must necessarily be the very quintessence of iniquity. Being resolved to go through with it at all hazards, he felt proportionately wild and reckless. Such a state of commotion was there in his heaving bosom, owing to contradictory and conflicting elements, that he felt at one moment inclined to lie down and shout for joy, and the next, to sink into the earth with terror.

Time, which proverbially works wonderful changes, at length subdued the urchin to a condition of calm goodness and felicity, that would have rejoiced his mother’s heart, had it only been brought on in ordinary circumstances at home.

There is a piece of waste ground lying between St. Just and the sea—a sort of common, covered with heath and furze—on which the ancient Britons have left their indelible mark, in the shape of pits and hollows and trenches, with their relative mounds and hillocks. Here, in the days of old, our worthy but illiterate forefathers had grubbed and dug and turned up every square foot of the soil, like a colony of gigantic rabbits, in order to supply the precious metal of the country to the Phoenicians, Jews, and Greeks.

The ground on this common is so riddled with holes of all sizes and shapes, utterly unguarded by any kind of fence, that it requires care on the part of the pedestrian who traverses the place even in daylight. Hence the mothers of St. Just are naturally anxious that the younger members of their families should not go near the common, and the younger members are as naturally anxious that they should visit it.

Thither, in the course of time—for it was not far distant—the baby Maggot naturally trended; proceeding on the principle of “short stages and long rests.” Never in his life—so he thought—had he seen such bright and beautiful flowers, such green grass, and such lovely yellow sand, as that which appeared here and there at the mouths of the holes and old shafts, or such a delicious balmy and sweet-scented breeze as that which came off the Atlantic and swept across the common. No wonder that his eyes drank in the beautiful sights, for they had seen little of earth hitherto, save the four walls of his father’s cottage and the dead garden wall in front of it; no wonder that his nostrils dilated to receive the sweet odours, for they had up to that date lived upon air which had to cross a noisome and stagnant pool of filth before it entered his father’s dwelling; and no wonder that his ears thrilled to hear the carol of the birds, for they had previously been accustomed chiefly to the voices of poultry and pigs, and to the caterwauling of the “chet.”

But as every joy has its alloy, so our youthful traveller’s feelings began to be modified by a gnawing sensation of hunger, as his usual hour for breakfast approached. Still he wandered on manfully, looking into various dark and deep holes with much interest and a good deal of awe. Some of the old shafts were so deep that no bottom could be seen; others were partially filled up, and varied from five to twenty feet in depth. Some were nearly perpendicular, others were sloped and irregular in form; but all were more or less fringed with gorse bushes in full bloom. In a few cases the old pits were concealed by these bushes.

It is almost unnecessary to say that baby Maggot’s progress, on that eventful morn, was—unknown to himself—a series of narrow escapes from beginning to end—no not exactly to the end, for his last adventure could scarcely be deemed an escape. He was standing on the edge of a hole, which was partially concealed by bushes. Endeavouring to peer into it he lost his balance and fell forward. His ready hands grasped the gorse and received innumerable punctures, which drew forth a loud cry. Head foremost he went in, and head foremost he went down full ten feet, when a small bush caught him, and lowered him gently to the ground, but the spot on which he was landed was steep; it sloped towards the bottom of the hole, which turned inwards and became a sort of cavern. Struggling to regain his footing, he slipped and rolled violently to the bottom, where he lay for a few minutes either stunned or too much astonished to move. Then he recovered a little and began to whimper. After which he felt so much better that he arose and attempted to get out of the hole, but slipped and fell back again, whereupon he set up a hideous roar which continued without intermission for a quarter of an hour, when he fell sound asleep, and remained in happy unconsciousness for several hours.

Meanwhile the Maggot family was, as may well be believed, thrown into a state of tremendous agitation. Mrs Maggot, on making the discovery that baby had succeeded in scaling the barricade, huddled on her garments and roused her progeny to assist in the search. At first she was not alarmed, believing that she should certainly find the self-willed urchin near the house, perhaps in the cottage of the Penroses. But when the cottages in the immediate neighbourhood had been called at, and all the known places of danger round the house examined, without success, the poor woman became frantic with terror, and roused the whole neighbourhood. Every place of possible and impossible concealment was searched, and at last the unhappy mother allowed the terrible thought to enter her mind that baby had actually accomplished the unheard-of feat of reaching the dreaded common, and was perhaps at that moment lying maimed or dead at the bottom of an ancient British shaft!

Immediately a body of volunteers, consisting of men, women, and children, and headed by Mrs Maggot, hastened to the common to institute a thorough search; but they searched in vain, for the holes were innumerable, and the one in which the baby lay was well concealed by bushes. Besides, the search was somewhat wildly and hastily made, so that some spots were over-searched, while others were almost overlooked.

All that day did Mrs Maggot and her friends wander to and fro over the common, and never, since the days when Phoenician galleys were moored by St. Michael’s Mount, did the eyes of human beings pry so earnestly into these pits and holes. Had tin been their object, they could not have been more eager. Evening came, night drew on apace, and at last the forlorn mother sat down in the centre of a furze bush, and began to weep. But her friends comforted her. They urged her to go home and “’ave a dish o’ tay” to strengthen her for the renewal of the search by torch-light. They assured her that the child could easily exist longer than a day without food, and they reminded her that her baby was an exceptional baby, a peculiar baby—like its father, uncommonly strong, and, like its mother, unusually obstinate. The latter sentiment, however, was thought, not expressed.

Under the influence of these assurances and persuasions, Mrs Maggot went home, and, for a short time, the common was deserted.

Now it chanced, curiously enough, that at this identical point of time, Maggot senior was enjoying a pipe and a glass of grog in a celebrated kiddle-e-wink, with his friend Joe Tonkin. This kiddle-e-wink, or low public-house, was known as Un (or Aunt) Jilly’s brandy-shop at Bosarne. It was a favourite resort of smugglers, and many a gallon of spirit, free of duty, had been consumed on the premises.

Maggot and his friend were alone in the house at the time, and their conversation had taken a dolorous turn, for many things had occurred of late to disturb the equanimity of the friends. Several ventures in the smuggling way had proved unsuccessful, and the mines did not offer a tempting prospect just then. There had, no doubt, been one or two hopeful veins opened up, and some good “pitches” had been wrought, but these were only small successes, and the luck had not fallen to either of themselves. The recent discovery of a good bunch by poor Penrose had not been fully appreciated, for the wounded man had as yet said nothing about it, and little Zackey had either forgotten all about it in the excitement of the accident, or was keeping his own counsel.

Maggot talked gloomily about the advisability of emigration to America, as he sent clouds of tobacco smoke up Un Jilly’s chimney, and Tonkin said he would try the mines for a short time, and if things didn’t improve he would go to sea. He did not, however, look at things in quite the same light with his friend. Perhaps he was of a more hopeful disposition, perhaps had met with fewer disappointments. At all events, he so wrought on Maggot’s mind that he half induced him to deny his smuggling propensities for a time, and try legitimate work in the mines. Not that Joe Tonkin wanted to reform him by any means, but he was himself a little out of humour with his old profession, and sought to set his friend against it also.

“Try your luck in Botallack,” said Joe Tonkin, knocking the ashes out of his pipe, preparatory to quitting the place, “that’s my advice to ’ee, booy.”

“I’ve half a mind to,” replied Maggot, rising; “if that theere cargo I run on Saturday do go the way the last did, I’ll ha’ done with it, so I will. Good-hevenin’, Un Jilly.”

“Good-hevenin’, an’ don’t ’ee go tumblin’ down the owld shafts,” said the worthy hostess, observing that her potent brandy had rendered the gait of the men unsteady.

They laughed as they received the caution, and walked together towards St. Just.

“Lev us go see if the toobs are all safe,” said Maggot, on reaching the common.

Tonkin agreed, and they turned aside into a narrow track, which led across the waste land, where the search for the baby had been so diligently carried on all that day.

Night had set in, as we have said, and the searchers had gone up to the town to partake of much-needed refreshment, and obtain torches, so that the place was bleak and silent, as well as dark, when the friends crossed it, but they knew every foot of the ground so thoroughly, that there was no fear of their stumbling into old holes. Maggot led the way, and he walked straight to the old shaft where his hopeful son lay.

There were three noteworthy points of coincidence here to which we would draw attention. It was just because this old shaft was so well concealed that Maggot had chosen it as a place in which to hide his tubs of smuggled brandy; it was owing to the same reason that the town’s-people had failed to discover it while searching for the baby; and it was—at least we think it must have been—just because of the same reason that baby Maggot had found it, for that amiable child had a peculiar talent, a sort of vocation, for ferreting out things and places hidden and secret, especially if forbidden.

Having succeeded in falling into the hole, the urchin naturally discovered his father’s tubs. After crying himself to sleep as before mentioned, and again awakening, his curiosity in respect to these tubs afforded him amusement, and kept him quiet for a time; perhaps the fact that one of the tubs had leaked and filled the lower part of the old shaft with spirituous fumes, may account for the baby continuing to keep quiet, and falling into a sleep which lasted the greater part of the day; at all events, it is certain that he did not howl, as might have been expected of him in the circumstances. Towards evening, however, he began to move about among the tubs, and to sigh and whimper in a subdued way, for his stomach, unused to such prolonged fasting, felt very uncomfortable. When darkness came on baby Maggot became alarmed, but, just about the time of his father’s approach, the moon shone out and cast a cheering ray down the shaft, which relieved his mind a little.

“Joe,” said Maggot in a whisper, and with a serious look, “some one have bin here.”

“D’ee think so?” said Tonkin.

“Iss I do; the bushes are broken a bit. Hush! what’s that?”

The two men paused and looked at each other with awe depicted on their faces, while they listened intently, but, in the words of the touching old song, “the beating of their own hearts was all the sound they heard.”

“It wor the wind,” said Maggot.

“Iss, that’s what it wor,” replied Tonkin; “come, lev us go down. The wind can’t do no harm to we.”

But although he proposed to advance he did not move, and Maggot did not seem inclined to lead the way, for just then something like a sigh came from below, and a dark cloud passed over the moon.

It is no uncommon thing to find that men who are physically brave as lions become nervous as children when anything bordering on what they deem supernatural meets them. Maggot was about the most reckless man in the parish of St. Just, and Tonkin was not far behind him in the quality of courage, yet these two stood there with palpitating hearts undecided what to do.

Ashamed of being thought afraid of anything, Maggot at last cleared his throat, and, in a husky voice, said,—“Come, then, lev us go down.”

So saying he slid down the shaft, closely followed by Tonkin, who was nearly as much afraid to be left alone on the bleak moor as he was to enter the old mine.

Now, while the friends were consulting with palpitating hearts above, baby Maggot, wide-awake and trembling with terror, listened with bated breath below, and when the two men came scrambling down the sides of the shaft his heart seemed to fill up his breast and throat, and his blood began to creep in his veins. Maggot could see nothing in the gloomy interior as he advanced, but baby could see his father’s dark form clearly. Still, no sound escaped from him, for horror had bereft him of power. Just then the dark cloud passed off the moon, and a bright beam shone full on the upper half of the baby’s face as he peeped over the edge of one of the tubs. Maggot saw two glaring eyeballs, and felt frozen alive instantly. Tonkin, looking over his comrade’s shoulder, also saw the eyes, and was petrified on the spot. Suddenly baby Maggot found his voice and uttered a most awful yell. Maggot senior found his limbs, and turned to fly. So did Tonkin, but he slipped and fell at the first step. Maggot fell over him. Both rose and dashed up the shaft, scraping elbows, shins, and knuckles as they went, and, followed by a torrent of hideous cries, that sounded in their ears like the screaming of fiends, they gained the surface, and, without exchanging a word, fled in different directions on the wings of terror!

Maggot did not halt until he burst into his house, and flung himself into his own chair by the chimney corner, whence he gazed on what was calculated to alarm as well as to perplex him. This was the spectacle of his own wife taking tea in floods of tears, and being encouraged in her difficult task by Mrs Penrose and a few sympathising friends.

With some difficulty he got them to explain this mystery.

“What! baby gone lost?” he exclaimed; “where away?”

When it was told him what had occurred, Maggot’s eyes gradually opened, and his lips gradually closed, until the latter produced a low whistle.

“I think that I do knaw where the cheeld is,” he said; “come along, an’ I’ll show un to ’ee.”

So saying, the wily smith, assuming an air of importance and profound wisdom, arose and led his wife and her friends, with a large band of men who had prepared torches, straight to the old shaft. Going down, but sternly forbidding any one to follow he speedily returned with the baby in his arms, to the surprise of all, and to the unutterable joy of the child’s mother.

In one sense, however, the result was disastrous. Curious persons were there who could not rest until they had investigated the matter further, and the tubs were not only discovered, but carried off by those who had no title to them whatever! The misfortune created such a tumult of indignation in the breast of Maggot, that he was heard in his wrath to declare he “would have nothin’ more to do with un, but would go into the bal the next settin’ day.”

This was the commencement of that series of events which, as we have stated at the beginning of this chapter, were brought about by that wonderful baby—the baby Maggot.

Chapter Twenty Eight.

Describes Setting-Day at the Mine, etcetera.

That very evening, while Maggot was smoking his pipe by the fireside, his son Zackey referred to the bunch of copper which Penrose had discovered in the mine. After a short conversation, Maggot senior went to the wounded man to talk about it.

“’Twas a keenly lode, did ’ee say?” asked Maggot, after he had inquired as to the health of his friend.

“Yes, and as I shall not be able to work there again,” said Penrose sadly, “I would advise you to try it. Zackey is entitled to get the benefit of the discovery, for he was with me at the time, and, but for his aid, dear boy, I should have been suffocated.”

Maggot said no more on that occasion about the mine, being a man of few words, but, after conversing a short time with the wounded man, and ascertaining that no hope was held out to him of the recovery of his sight, he went his way to the forge to work and meditate.

Setting-day came—being the first Saturday in the month, and no work was done on that day in Botallack, for the men were all above ground to have their “pitches” for the next month fixed, and to receive their wages—setting-day being also pay day.

Some time before the business of the day commenced, the miners began to assemble in considerable numbers in the neighbourhood of the account-house. Very different was their appearance on that occasion from the rusty-red fellows who were wont to toil in the dark chambers far down in the depths below the spot where they stood. Their underground dresses were laid aside, and they now appeared in the costume of well-off tradesmen. There was a free-and-easy swing about the movements of most of these men that must have been the result of their occupation, which brings every muscle of the body into play, and does not—as is too much the case in some trades—over-tax the powers of a certain set of muscles to the detriment of others.

Some there were, however, even among the young men, whose hollow cheeks and bloodless lips, accompanied with a short cough, told of evil resulting from bad air and frequent chills; while, on the other hand, a few old men were to be seen with bright eyes and ruddy cheeks which indicated constitutions of iron. Not a few were mere lads, whose broad shoulders and deep chests and resolute wills enabled them to claim the title, and do the work, of men.

There were some among them, both young and old, who showed traces of having suffered in their dangerous employment. Several were minus an eye, and one or two were nearly blind, owing to blast-holes exploding in their faces. One man in particular, a tall and very powerful fellow, had a visage which was quite blue, and one of his eyes was closed—the blue colour resulting from unburnt grains of powder having been blown into his flesh. He had been tattooed, in fact, by a summary and effective process. This man’s family history was peculiar. His father, also a miner, had lived in a lonely cottage on a moor near St. Just, and worked in Balaswidden Mine. One night he was carried home and laid at his wife’s feet, dead—almost dashed to pieces by a fall. Not long afterwards the son was carried to the same cottage with his right eye destroyed. Some time later a brother dislocated his foot twice within the year in the mine; and a few months after that another brother fell from a beam, descended about twenty-four feet perpendicularly, where he struck the side of the mine with his head, and had six or seven of his teeth knocked out; glancing off to one side, he fell twenty feet more on the hard rock, where he was picked up insensible. This man recovered, however, under the careful nursing of his oft and sorely tried mother.

Maggot was present on this setting-day, with a new cap and a new blue cloth coat, looking altogether a surprisingly respectable character. A good deal of undertoned chaffing commenced when he appeared.

“Hallo!” exclaimed one, “goin’ to become an honest man, Maggot?”

“Thinkin’ ’bout it,” replied the smith, with a good-humoured smile.

“Why, if I didn’t knaw that the old wuman’s alive,” said another, “I’d say he was agoin’ to get married again!”

“Never fear,” exclaimed a third, “Maggot’s far too ’cute a cunger to be caught twice.”

“I say, my dear man,” asked another, “have ’ee bin takin’ a waalk ’pon the clifts lately?”

“Iss, aw iss,” replied the smith with much gravity.

“Did ’ee find any more daws ’pon clift?” asked the other, with a leer.

There was a general laugh at this, but Maggot replied with good-humour,—“No, Billy, no—took ’em all away last time. But I’m towld there’s some more eggs in the nest, so thee’ll have a chance some day, booy.”

“I hope the daws ain’t the worse of their ducking?” asked Billy, with an expression of anxious interest.

“Aw, my dear,” said Maggot, looking very sad, and shaking his head slowly, “didn’t ’ee hear the noos?”

“No, not I.”

“They did catch the noo complaint the doctor do spaik of—bronkeetis I think it is—and although I did tie ’em up wi’ flannel round their necks, an’ water-gruel, besides ’ot bottles to their feet, they’re all gone dead. I mean to have ’em buried on Monday. Will ’ee come to the berryin, Billy?”

“P’raps I will,” replied Billy, “but see that the gravedigger do berry ’em deep, else he’ll catch a blowin’ up like the gravedigger did in Cambourne last week.”

“What was that, booy? Let us hear about it, Billy,” exclaimed several voices.

“Well, this is the way of it,” said Billy: “the owld gravedigger in Cambourne was standin’ about, after mittin’ was over, a-readin’ of the tombstones, for he’d got a good edjication, had owld Tom. His name was Tom—the same man as put a straw rope to the bell which the cows did eat away, so that he cudn’t ring the people to mittin’. Well, when he was studdyin’ the morials on the stones out comes Captain Rowe. He was wan o’ the churchwardens, or somethin’ o’ that sort, but I don’t knaw nothin’ ’bout the church, so I ain’t sure—an’ he calls owld Tom into the vestry.

“‘Now look here, Tom,’ says the captain, very stern, ‘they tell me thee ’rt gettin’ lazy, Tom, an’ that thee do dig the graves only four fut deep. Now, Tom, I was over to St. Just t’other day to a berryin’, and I see that they do dig their graves six fut or more deeper than you do. That won’t do, Tom, I tell ’ee. What’s the meanin’ of it?’

“This came somewhat suddent on owld Tom, but he wor noways put out.

“‘Well, you do see, Cap’n Rowe,’ says he, ‘I do it apurpose, for I do look at the thing in two lights.’”

“‘How so?’ asked the captain.

“‘Why, the people of St. Just only think of the berryin’, but I do think of the resurrection; the consekince is that they do dig too deep, an’ afore the St. Just folk are well out of their graves, ours will be a braave way up to heaven!’”

The laugh with which this anecdote was received had scarcely subsided when the upper half of one of the account-house windows opened, and the fine-looking head and shoulders of old Mr Cornish appeared.

The manager laid an open book on the window-sill, and from this elevated position, as from a pulpit, he read out the names, positions, etcetera, of the various “pitches” that were to be “sett” for the following month. One of the mine captains stood at his elbow to give any required information—he and his three brother captains being the men who had gone all over the mine during the previous month, examined the work, measured what had been done by each man or “pare” of men, knew the capabilities of all the miners, and fixed the portion that ought to be offered to each for acceptance or refusal.

The men assembled in a cluster round the window, and looked up while Mr Cornish read off as follows:—

“John Thomas’s pitch at back of the hundred and five. By two men. To extend from the end of tram-hole, four fathom west, and from back of level, five fathom above.”

For the enlightenment of the reader, we may paraphrase the above sentence thus:—

“The pitch or portion of rock wrought last month by John Thomas is now offered anew—in the first place, to John Thomas himself if he chooses to continue working it at our rate of pay, or, if he declines, to any other man who pleases to offer for it. The pitch is in the back (or roof) of the level, which lies one hundred and five fathoms deep. It must be wrought by two men, and must be excavated lengthwise to an extent of four fathoms in a westerly direction from a spot called the tram-hole. In an upward direction, it may be excavated from the roof of the level to an extent of five fathoms.”

John Thomas, being present, at once offered “ten shillings,” by which he meant that, knowing the labour to be undergone, and the probable value of the ore that would have to be excavated, he thought it worth while to continue at that piece of work, or that “pitch,” if the manager would give him ten shillings for every twenty shillings’ worth of mineral sent to the surface by him; but the captain also knew the ground and the labour that would be required, and his estimate was that eight shillings would be quite sufficient remuneration, a fact which was announced by Mr Cornish simply uttering the words, “At eight shillings.”

“Put her down, s’pose,” said John Thomas after a moment’s consideration.

Perhaps John knew that eight shillings was really sufficient, although he wanted ten. At all events he knew that it was against the rules to dispute the point at that time, as it delayed business; that if he did not accept the offer, another man might do so; and that he might not get so good a pitch if he were to change.

The pitch was therefore sett to John Thomas, and another read off:— “Jim Hocking’s pitch at back of the hundred and ten. By one man. To extend,” etcetera.

“Won’t have nothin’ to do with her,” said Jim Hocking.

Jim had evidently found the work too hard, and was dissatisfied with the remuneration, so he declined, resolving to try his chance in a more promising part of the mine.

“Will any one offer for this pitch?” inquired Mr Cornish.

Eight and six shillings were sums immediately named by men who thought the pitch looked more promising than Jim did.

“Any one offer more for this pitch?” asked the manager, taking up a pebble from a little pile that lay at his elbow, and casting it into the air.

While that pebble was in its flight, any one might offer for the pitch, but the instant it touched the ground, the bargain was held to be concluded with the last bidder.

A man named Oats, who had been in a hesitating state of mind, here exclaimed “Five shillings” (that is, offered to work the pitch for five shillings on every twenty shillings’ worth sent to grass); next instant the stone fell, and the pitch was sett to Oats.

Poor James Penrose’s pitch was the next sett.

“James Penrose’s late pitch,” read the manager, giving the details of it in terms somewhat similar to those already sett, and stating that the required “pare,” or force to be put on it, was two men and a boy.

“Put me down for it,” said Maggot.

“Have you got your pare?” asked Mr Cornish.

“Iss, sur.”

“Their names?”

“David Trevarrow and my son Zackey.”

The pitch was allocated in due form at the rate of fifteen shillings per twenty shillings’ worth of mineral sent up—this large sum being given because it was not known to be an unusually good pitch—Penrose having been too ill to speak of his discovery since his accident, and the captain having failed to notice it. When a place is poor looking, a higher sum is given to the miner to induce him to work it. When it is rich, a lower sum is given, because he can make more out of it.

Thus the work went on, the sums named varying according to the nature of the ground, and each man saying “Naw,” or “Put me down,” or “That won’t do,” or “I won’t have her,” according to circumstances.

While this was going on at the window, another and perhaps more interesting scene was taking place in the office. This apartment presented a singular appearances. There was a large table in the centre of it, which, with every available inch of surface on a side-table, and on a board at the window, was completely covered with banknotes and piles of gold, silver, and copper. Each pile was placed on a little square piece of paper containing the account-current for the month of the man or men to whom it belonged. Very few men laboured singly. Many worked in couples, and some in bands of three, five, or more. So much hard cash gave the place a wealthy appearance, and in truth there was a goodly sum spread out, amounting to several hundreds of pounds.

The piles varied very much in size, and conveyed a rough outline of the financial history of the men they belonged to. Some large heaps of silver, with a few coppers and a pile of sovereigns more than an inch high, lying on two or more five-pound notes indicated successful labour. Nevertheless, the evidence was not absolutely conclusive, because the large piles had in most cases to be divided between several men who had banded together; but the little square account-papers, with a couple of crowns on them, told of hard work and little pay, while yonder square with two shillings in the centre of it betokened utter failure, only to be excelled by another square, on which lay nothing.

You will probably exclaim in your heart, reader, “What! do miners sometimes work for a month, and receive only two shillings, or nothing as wages?”

Ay, sometimes; but it is their own seeking if they do; it is not forced upon them.

There are three classes of miners—those who work on the surface, dressing ore, etcetera, who are paid a weekly wage; those who work on “tribute,” and those who work at “tut-work.” Of the first we say nothing, except that they consist chiefly of balmaidens and children—the former receiving about 18 shillings a month, and the latter from 8 shillings to 20 shillings, according to age and capacity.

In regard to “tributers” and “tut-workers,” we may remark that the work of both is identical in one respect—namely, that of hewing, picking, boring, and blasting the hard rock. In this matter they share equal toils and dangers, but they are not subjected to the same remunerative vicissitudes.

When a man works on “tribute” he receives so many shillings for every twenty shillings’ worth of ore that he raises during the month, as already explained. If his “pitch” turns out to be rich in ore, his earnings are proportionably high; if it be poor, he remains poor also. Sometimes a part of the mineral lode becomes so poor that it will not pay for working, and has to be abandoned. So little as a shilling may be the result of a “tributer’s” work for a month at one time, while at another time he may get a good pitch, and make 100 pounds or 200 pounds in the same period.

The “tutman” (or piecework man), on the other hand, cuts out the rock at so much per fathom, and obtains wages at the rate of from 2 pounds, 10 shillings to 3 pounds a month. He can never hope to make a fortune, but so long as health and strength last, he may count on steady work and wages. Of course there is a great deal of the work in a mine which is not directly remunerative, such as “sinking” shafts, opening up and “driving” (or lengthening) levels, and sinking “winzes.” On such work tutmen are employed.

The man who works on “tribute” is a speculator; he who chooses “tut-work” is a steady labourer. The tributer experiences all the excitement of uncertainty, and enjoys the pleasures of hope. He knows something, too, about “hope deferred;” also can tell of hope disappointed; has his wits sharpened, and, generally, is a smart fellow. The tut-worker knows nothing of this, his pay being safe and regular, though small. Many quiet-going, plodding men prefer and stick to tut-work.

In and about the counting-room the men who had settled the matter of their next month’s work were assembled. These—the cashier having previously made all ready—were paid in a prompt and businesslike manner.

First, there came forward a middle-aged man. It was scarcely necessary for him to speak, for the cashier knew every man on the mine by name, and also how much was due to him, and the hundreds of little square accounts-current were so arranged that he could lay his hands on any one in an instant. Nevertheless, being a hearty and amiable man, he generally had a word to say to every one.

“How’s your son, Matthew?” he inquired of the middle-aged man, putting the square paper with its contents into his hand.

“He’s braave, sir. The doctor do say he’ll be about again in a week.”

Matthew crumpled up his account-current—notes, gold, silver, copper and all—in his huge brown hand, and, thrusting the whole into his breeches pocket, said “Thank ’ee,” and walked away.

Next, there came forward a young man with one eye, an explosion having shut up the other one for ever. He received his money along with that of the three men who worked in the same “pare” with him. He crumpled it up in the same reckless way as Matthew had done, also thrust it into his pocket, and walked off with an independent swagger. Truly, in the sweat, not only of his brow, but, of every pore in his body, had he earned it, and he was entitled to swagger a little just then. There was little enough room or inducement to do so down in the mine! After this young man a little boy came forward saying that his “faither” had sent him for his money.

It was observable that the boys and lads among those who presented themselves in the counting-room, were, as a rule, hearty and hopeful. With them it was as with the young in all walks of life. Everything looked bright and promising. The young men were stern, yet free-and-easy—as though they had already found life a pretty tough battle, but felt quite equal to it. And so they were, every one of them! With tough sinews, hard muscles, and indomitable energy, they were assuredly equal to any work that man could undertake; and many of them, having the fear of God in their hearts, were fitted to endure manfully the trials of life as well. The elderly men were sedate, and had careworn faces; they knew what it was to suffer. Many of them had carried little ones to the grave; they had often seen strong men like themselves go forth in the morning hale and hearty, and be carried to their homes at evening with blinded eyes or shattered limbs. Life had lost its gloss to them, but it had not lost its charms. There were loving hearts to work for, and a glorious end for which to live, or, if need be, to die—so, although their countenances were sedate they were not sad. The old men—of whom there were but two or three—were jolly old souls. They seemed to have successfully defied the tear and wear of life, to have outlived its sorrows, and renewed their youth. Certainly they had not reached their second childhood, for they stepped forth and held out their hands for their pay as steadily as the best of the young ones.

When about one-half of the number had been paid, a woman in widow’s weeds came forward to take up the pay due to her son—her “wretched Harry,” as she styled him. All that was due was seven-and-sixpence. It was inexpressibly sad to see her retire with this small sum—the last that her unsettled boy was entitled to draw from the mines. He had worked previously in the neighbouring mine, Wheal Owles, and had gone to Botallack the month before. He was now off to sea, leaving his mother, who to some extent depended on him, to look out for herself.

The next who came forward was a blind man. He had worked long in the mine—so long that he could find his way through the labyrinth of levels as easily in his blind state as he did formerly with his eyesight. When his eyes were destroyed (in the usual way, by the explosion of a hole), he was only off work during the period of convalescence. Afterwards he returned to his familiar haunts underground; and although he could no longer labour in the old way, he was quite able to work a windlass, and draw up the bucket at a winze. For this he now pocketed two pounds sterling, and walked off as vigorously as if he had possessed both his eyes!