"Patience Wins" (continued 4)

“And it was the trade who threw our bands away, and tried to blow us up, and half-poisoned me and Piter.”

“Hah!” he said with a sigh. “That’s it, lad.”

“Ah, well, I didn’t expect you’d tell me, Pannell,” I said, smiling.

“You see I can’t, my lad. Now can I?”

“No; it wouldn’t be honourable. But I say, Pannell, I mean to do all I can to find out who plays us these dirty tricks.”

The big smith looked about him before speaking again.

“Don’t, my lad,” he whispered. “Yow might get hurt, and I shouldn’t like that i’deed.”

“Oh, I won’t get hurt!” I said. “Look here, Pannell, do you see this?”

“Ay, lad. Trap for the rats. I’ve sin scores on em.”

“We set them to catch the rats,” I said, hesitating a moment or two before making my venture. “I say, Pannell,” I said, “we’re very good friends you and I.”

“Course we are, lad; for a Londoner you’re quite a decent chap.”

“Thank you,” I said, smiling. “Well, on the quiet, I want you to do me a favour.”

“Long as it aren’t to tell on my mates, lad, I’ll do owt for you. There!”

That there was as emphatic as a blow from his hammer on the anvil.

“I thought you would, Pannell,” I said. “Well, look here. My uncles are as good and kind-hearted men as ever lived.”

“And as nyste to work for as ever was,” said Pannell, giving an emphatic bang on his work as he hammered away.

“Well, I’m very fond of them,” I said.

“Nat’rally, lad, nat’rally.”

“And as I know they’re trying to do their best for everybody who works for them, as well as for themselves, so as to find bread for all—”

I stopped just then, for the big smith’s face was very red, and he was making a tremendous clangour with his hammer.

“Well,” I said, “it worries me very much to see that every now and then a big rat gets to their sack of wheat and gnaws a hole in it and lets the grain run out.”

“Where do they keep their wheat?” said Pannell, leaving off for awhile.

“Here,” I said.

“Ah! There’s part rats about these here rezzywors,” he said, thoughtfully. “Why don’t you set that trap?”

“Because it isn’t half big enough—not a quarter big enough,” I said; “but I wish to catch that rat, and I want you to make me a big trap-like this, only four times as large, and with a very strong spring.”

“Eh?”

“I want to set that trap, and I want to catch that, great cowardly rat, and I want you to make me a trap that will hold him.”

“Eh?”

“Don’t you understand?” I said, looking at him meaningly as he stood wiping the perspiration from his brow with the back of his hand.

“Yow want to set a trap to catch the big rat as comes and makes a hole in the mester’s sack.”

“Yes,” I said. “I want to catch him.”

“What! Here about the works?”

“Yes,” I said. “Now do you see?”

Poof!

Pannell gave vent to a most curious sound that was like nothing so much as one that might have been emitted if his forge bellows had suddenly burst. To give vent to that sound he opened his mouth wide, clapped his hands on his leather apron, and bent nearly double.

“Why, Pannell!” I exclaimed.

Poof! He stamped first one leg on the black iron dust and ashes, and then the other, going round his anvil and grumbling and rumbling internally in the most extraordinary manner.

Then he looked me in the face and exploded once more, till his mirth and the absurdity of his antics grew infectious, and I laughed too.

“And you’re going to set a big trap to catch that there”—poof—“that theer very big rat, eh?”

“Yes,” I said, “if I can.”

“And you want me,” he whispered, with his eyes starting with suppressed mirth, “to make you that theer big trap.”

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll do it,” he whispered, becoming preternaturally solemn. “Stop! ’Tween man an’ man you know.”

He held out his great black hard hand, which I grasped.

“On my honour, Pannell, I’ll never tell a soul that you made the trap, not for ten years, or twenty, if you like.”

“That’s enough,” he said, giving his leg a slap. “Haw, haw, haw, haw, haw! Here, give us the model. When dyer want it, lad?”

“As soon as ever you can get it made, Pannell.”

He looked at me with his face working, and scraping a hole in the ashes he buried the trap, seized hammer and pincers, and worked away again, but stopped every now and then to laugh.

“I say,” he said suddenly, “it’ll sarve ’em right; but if they knowed as I did it they’d wait for me coming home and give me the knobsticks. Ay, that they would.”

“But they will not know, Pannell,” I said. “It’s our secret, mind.”

“Hey, but I’d like to see the rat i’ the trap!” he whispered, after exploding with another fit of mirth.

“Let’s have the trap first,” I said. “I don’t know that I shall catch him then.”

“What are you going to bait with?” he said between two fierce attacks upon a piece of steel.

“Oh, I have not settled that yet!”

“I’ll tell ’ee,” he whispered with his face working. “Bait it with a wheel-band.”

He roared with laughter again, and if I had had any doubts before of his understanding that I wanted a very strong man-trap, I had none now.

Chapter Sixteen.

Something for me.

Rash—cruel—unwise. Well, I’m afraid it was all those, but I was only a boy, and I was stung by the injustice and cowardly cruelty of the outrages perpetrated on us by the men who earned their bread in our works; and hence it was, that, instead of feeling any compunction in doing what I proposed, I was delighted with the idea, and longed for an opportunity to put it in force.

I was, then, very eager to begin, for the present calm, I felt sure, was only going before the storm, and after what I had found out I was anxious to be ready.

Pannell did not keep me waiting long.

Two days after I had made my plans with him I went into his smithy, and in answer to my inquiring look he said, in a heavy, unmoved way:

“Theer’s summut for you hung up i’ the forge chimney. She goes hard, but theer’s a steel bar ’long wi’ her as you can prise down the spring till she’s set. On’y mind thysen, lad—mind thysen.”

“And will it hold a man, Pannell?” I cried.

“Ay; this here’s noo pattern. I haven’t got into it yet I’ve got a rare lot of ’em to do.”

“But tell me,” I whispered, “will it?”

“Think this here noo steel’s better than owd fashion stoof?” he said.

“Bother the steel!” I said, speaking lower still. “I want you to tell me whether—”

“Bull-poop’s gettin’ too fat, Mester Jacob,” said Pannell. “Don’t give ’im so much meat. Spoils a dorg. Give un bones as he can break oop and yeat. That’s the stoof for dorgs. Gives un such a coat as never was.”

“Will you tell me?” I began, angrily.

“Nay, I wean’t tell thee nowt,” he growled. “I’ve telled thee enew as it is. Tek it when I’m not here, and good luck to thee!”

I could get no more from him, for he would not say another word about the trap, so I waited impatiently for the night so that I might smuggle it from the forge chimney into my desk.

When the time came it was quite absurd how many hindrances there were to my little task. I did not want to set it that night. I only wanted to get it in safety to my desk; but first there were men hanging about the smithies as if they were watching me; then there were my uncles; and lastly, there was Gentles, who made signs that he wished to speak to me, and I didn’t care to say anything to the sleek, oily fellow, who only wanted to what he called make it up.

At last, though, everyone had gone but Uncle Jack, who was busy writing a letter or two, and I was to wait for him, and we were going back together.

I slipped off to the smithy, and just as I was half-way there I turned quickly round, feeling quite cold, and as if I was found out, for I heard a curious yawning noise behind me.

It was only Piter, who looked up in my face and gave his tail a wag, and then butted his great head against my leg, holding it tightly there as if it was so heavy that he was glad to give it a rest.

I went on at once impatiently, and Piter’s head sank down, the dog uttering a low, discontented whine on being left. I glanced up at the wall, half expecting to see some one looking over and watching me; then up at the windows, fearing that one of the men might still be left.

But all was perfectly quiet, and though I half anticipated such an accident there was no one seated on the top of either of the great chimney-shafts in the neighbourhood watching me with a telescope.

I had a few more absurdly impossible ideas of this kind as I went along the yard, feeling horribly guilty and ready to give up my undertaking. The very silence and solitariness of the place startled me, but I went on and turned in at the open door of the smithy where Pannell worked, and breathed more freely as I looked round and saw that I was alone.

But to make sure I stepped up on to the work-bench and looked out of the window, but there was nothing but the dam to be seen there, and I leaped down and climbed on to the forge, with the coal-dust crushing under my feet, gave a last glance round, and was about to peer up the funnel-like, sheet-iron chimney, when there was a loud clang, and I bounded down, with my heart beating furiously.

I stamped my foot directly after and bit my lips angrily because I had been such a coward, for I had moved a pair of smiths’ tongs when I stepped up, and they had slid off on to the ground.

“I’m doing what I ought not to do,” I said to myself as I jumped on to the forge again, “but now I’ve gone so far I must go on.”

I peered up in the dark funnel and could see nothing, but I had come prepared, and striking a match I saw just before me, resting on a sooty ledge, the object of my quest.

I lifted it down, astounded at its size and weight, and found that it was an exact imitation of the rat-trap, but with blunt teeth, and a short steel lever with a point like a crowbar was attached to it by means of a bit of wire.

It was enormous, and I quite trembled at the idea of carrying it to the office; but after a sharp glance out of the doorway I took hold of the trap by the iron chain bound round it, and walked quickly to my own place, hoping that even if I had been seen, the watcher would not have been able to make out what I was carrying.

There was not much room to spare when I had laid the great trap in my desk, the lid of which would only just shut down over it; but once safely there, and with the key in the lock ready for me to turn if I heard steps, I had a good look at my treasure.

I was nervous now, and half repentant, for the instrument looked so formidable that I felt that I should not dare to use it.

I had a good look though, and found that it was very complete with chain and ring, and that the lever had a head to it like a pin, evidently so that after it had been used, it could be placed through the ring at the end of the chain, and driven down to act as a peg in the ground.

I had hardly arrived at all this when I heard Uncle Jack’s cough, and hastily closing the desk and locking it, I went to meet him.

“Sorry to keep you waiting so long, my boy,” he said; “but I wanted to send word to your father how we are going on.”

It was on the second night that I put my plan into practice.

I had thought it all well out, and inspected my ground, which was just below the wall, pretty close to the edge of the dam, where I had seen some marks which had made me suspicious.

So as soon as Uncle Bob had gone to lie down, and I had begun my half of the watch, I fastened up Piter, took out my heavy trap, carried it down to the edge of the dam, and carefully felt the wall for the place I had marked by driving in a little nail.

I soon found it, placed my trap exactly beneath it, and wrenching down the spring by means of the lever, I tried to set it.

I had practised doing this in my own place, and could manage it pretty well, but in the darkness and excitement that troubled me now, it proved to be an exceedingly difficult job. Twice I managed to get it set, and was moving away when it went off with a startling clang that made me jump, and expect to see Uncle Bob come running out, especially as the dog set up a furious bark.

I quieted Piter though each time, and went and tried again till I managed my task, having to take great care that I did not hoist myself with my own petard, for it was a terribly dangerous engine that I was setting, though I did not think so then.

It was now set to my satisfaction, and being quite prepared with a big hammer, my next task was to drive in the lever like a peg right through the ring and up to the head, so that if I did catch my bird, there would be no chance of his getting away.

I felt about in the dark for a suitable place, and the most likely seemed to be just at the extent of the five feet of chain, which reached to the edge of the dam, where, between two of the big stones of the embankment, I fancied I could drive in the lever so that it could not be drawn out.

So taking the steel bar with the sharp edge I ran it through the ring, directed the point between two blocks of stone, and then began to drive.

As I said I was well prepared, having carefully thought out the whole affair, and I had bound several thicknesses of cloth over the head of the hammer like a pad so as to muffle the blows, and thus it was that I was able to drive it home without much noise.

At first it went in so easily that I was about to select a fresh place, but it soon became harder and firmer, and when I had done and felt the head it was quite immovable, and held the ring close down to the stones.

My idea had been to cover the trap with a handful or two of hay, but it was so dark that I thought I would leave it, as it was impossible to see it even from where I looked. I left it, meaning to come the next morning and set it free with a file, for I did not want to take up the peg, and I could get another for lever and join the chain with a strong padlock the next time.

It was about eleven o’clock when I had finished my task, and I did not know whether to be pleased or alarmed. I felt something like a boy might who had set a bait at the end of a line to catch a crocodile, and was then very much alarmed for fear he should have any luck.

I crept away and waited, thinking a great deal about Piter, and what would be the consequences if he walked over the trap, but I argued that the chances were a hundred thousand to one against his going to that particular spot. Besides, if I left him chained up Uncle Bob was not likely to unloose him, so I determined to run the risk, and leave the trap set when I went off guard.

The time went slowly by without any alarm, and though I went now and then cautiously in the direction of my trap it had not been disturbed, and I came away more and more confident that it was in so out of the way a part of the yard that it might be there for weeks unseen.

I felt better after this, and at the appointed time called Uncle Bob, who took his watch, and when he called me in the morning the wheel was turning, and the men were coming up to their work.

“I thought you were tired, Cob, so I let you lie till the last moment.”

I was so stupid and confused with sleep that I got up yawning; and we were half-way back home before, like a flash, there came to me the recollection of my trap.

I could not make an excuse and go back, though I tried hard to invent one; but went on by my uncle’s side so quiet and thoughtful that he made a remark.

“Bit done up, Cob! You ought to have another nap after dinner.”

“Oh, I’m all right, uncle,” I said, and I went on home with him to have steel-traps for breakfast and think of nothing else save what they had caught.

For I felt perfectly sure that someone had come over the wall in the night—Stevens I expected it would prove to be—and had put his foot right in the trap, which had sprung, caught him by the leg, and cut it right off, and I felt sure that when I got back I should find him lying there where he had bled to death.

The next thing that struck me was that I was a murderer, and that I should be tried and condemned to death, but respited and sentenced to transportation for life on account of my youth.

With such thoughts as these rushing through my brain it was not likely that I should enjoy the breakfast with the brown and pink ham so nicely fried, and the eggs that were so creamy white, and with such yolks of gold.

I did not enjoy that breakfast, and I was feverishly anxious to get back to the works, and though first one and then another advised me to go and lie down, I insisted upon going.

I was all in a tremble as I reached the gate, and saw old Dunning’s serious face. I read in it reproach, and he seemed to be saying to me, “Oh, how could you do it?” Seemed, for what he did say was, “Nice pleasant morning, Mester Jacob!”

I told a story, for I said, “Yes, it is,” when it was to me the most painful and miserable morning I had ever experienced; but I dared not say a word, and for some time I could not find an opportunity for going down the yard.

Nobody ever did go down there, unless it was to wheel a worn-out grindstone to a resting-place or to carry some broken wood-work of the machinery to throw in a heap. There was the heap of coal and the heap of slack or coal-dust, both in the yard; but those who fetched the coal and slack fetched them from this side, and they never went on the other.

The last time I could recall the men going down there to the dam, was when we threw in Piter to give him a bath.

Piter! Had he been let loose? The thought that had come of him was startling, but easily set right, for there was the bull-dog fast asleep in his kennel.

Then there was Stevens!

The thought was horrible. He ought to be in the grinding-shop, and if he were not—I knew!

It would have been easy to go and look, but I felt that I could not, and I walked back to the gate and spoke to old Dunning.

“All the men come yet?” I said.

“No, Mester Jacob, they hevn’t all come yet,” he said.

I dare not ask any more. All had not come, and one of those who had not come was, of course, Stevens, and he was lying there dead.

I walked back with Dunning’s last words ringing in my ears.

“Ain’t you well, Mester Jacob?”

No, I was not well. I felt sick and miserable, and I would have given anything to have gone straight down the yard and seen the extent of the misery I had caused.

Oh! If I could have recalled the past, and undone everything; but that was impossible, and in a state of feverish anxiety I went upstairs to where the men were busy at lathe and dry grindstones, to try and get—a glimpse of my trap, as I hoped I could from one of the windows.

To my horror there were two men looking out, and I stopped dumb-foundered as I listened for their words, which I knew must be about the trapped man lying there.

“Nay, lad,” said one, “yow could buy better than they at pit’s mouth for eight shillings a chaldron.”

Oh, what a relief! It was like life to me, and going to one window I found that they could only see the heap of coals.

From the other windows there was no better view. Even from the room over the water-wheel there was no chance of a glimpse of the trap.

I could not stop up there, for I was all of a fret, and at last, screwing up my nerves to the sticking point, I went down determined to go boldly into the grinder’s shop, and see if Stevens was there.

What an effort it was! I have often wondered since whether other boys would have suffered what I did under the circumstances, or whether I was a very great coward.

Well, coward or no, I at last went straight into the grinder’s shop, and there was the plashing rumble of the great water-wheel beyond the door, the rattle of the bands and the whirr and whirl and screech of the grindstones as they spun round, and steel in some form or other was held to their edge.

There were half a dozen faces I knew, and there was Gentles ready to smile at me with his great mouth and closed eyes.

But I could only just glance at him and nod, for to my horror Stevens’ wheel was not going, and there was no one there.

I felt the cold sweat gather all over my face, and a horrible sensation of dread assailed me; and then I turned and hurried out of the building, so that my ghastly face and its changes should not be seen.

For just then I saw Stevens rise up from behind his grindstone with an oil-can in his hand—he had been busy oiling some part or other of the bearings.

Chapter Seventeen.

My Travelling Companion.

Somehow or another I could not get to that trap all that day, and night came, and still I could not get to it.

I tried, but unless I had wanted to draw people’s attention to the fact that I had something there of great interest, I could not go.

Even at leaving time it was as bad, and I found myself in the position that I must either tell one of my uncles what I had done, or leave the trap to take its chance.

I chose the latter plan, and calling myself weak coward, went home, arguing to myself that no one would go in the spot where I had placed the trap, but some miscreant, and that it would serve him right.

To my utter astonishment, directly after tea Uncle Dick turned to me.

“Cob,” he said; “we have a special letter to send to Canonbury to your father, and a more particular one to bring back in answer, so we have decided that you shall take it up. You can have three or four days’ holiday, and it will be a pleasant change. Your mother and father will be delighted to see you, and, of course, you will be glad to see them.”

“But when should I have to go?” I said.

“To-night by the last train. Quarter to eleven—You’ll get to London about three in the morning. They expect one of us, so you will find them up.”

“But—”

“Don’t you want to go?” said Uncle Jack severely.

“Yes,” I said; “but—”

“But me no buts, as the man said in the old play. There, get ready, boy, and come back to us as soon as you can. Don’t make the worst of our troubles here, Cob.”

“No, no,” said Uncle Dick, “because we are getting on famously as soon as we can manage the men.”

“And that we are going to do,” said Uncle Bob. “I say I wish I were coming with you.”

“Do, then,” I cried.

“Get out, you young tempter! No,” said Uncle Bob. “Go and take your pleasure, and have pity upon the three poor fellows who are toiling here.”

I was obliged to go, of course, but I must tell them about the trap first.

Tell them! No, I could not tell Uncle Dick or Uncle Jack. I was afraid that they would be angry with me, so I resolved to speak to Uncle Bob before I went—to take him fully into my confidence, and ask him to move the trap and put it safely away.

It is so easy to make plans—so hard to carry them out.

All through that evening I could not once get a chance to speak to Uncle Bob alone; and time went so fast that we were on our way to the station, and still I had not spoken. There was only the chance left—on the platform.

“Don’t look so solid about it, Cob,” said Uncle Jack. “They’ll be delighted to see you, boy, and it will be a pleasant trip. But we want you back.”

“I should think we do,” said Uncle Dick, laying his great hand on my shoulder and giving me an affectionate grip.

“Yes, we couldn’t get on without our first lieutenant, Philosopher Cob,” said Uncle Bob.

I tried to look bright and cheerful; but that trap had not got me by the leg—it seemed to be round my neck and to choke me from speaking.

What was I to do? I could not get a chance. I dare not go away and leave that trap there without speaking, and already there was the distant rumble of the coming train. In a few minutes I should be on my way to London; and at last in despair I got close to Uncle Bob to speak, but in vain—I was put off.

In came the train, drawing up to the side of the platform, and Uncle Bob ran off to find a comfortable compartment for me, looking after me as kindly as if I had been a woman.

“Oh,” I thought, “if he would but have stayed!”

“Good-bye, my lad!” said Uncle Dick. “Take care of yourself, Cob, and of the packet,” whispered Uncle Jack.

I was about to slap my breast and say, “All right here!” but he caught my hand and held it down.

“Don’t,” he said in a low half-angry voice. “Discretion, boy. If you have something valuable about you, don’t show people where it is.”

I saw the wisdom of the rebuke and shook hands. “I’ll try and be wiser,” I whispered; “trust me.” He nodded, and this made me forget the trap for the moment. But Uncle Bob grasped my hand and brought it back.

“Stand away, please,” shouted the guard; but Uncle Bob held on by my hand as the train moved.

“Take care of yourself, lad. Call a cab the moment you reach the platform if your father is not there.”

“Yes,” I said, reaching over a fellow-passenger to speak. “Uncle Bob,” I added quickly, “big trap in the corner of the yard; take it up at once—to-night.”

“Yes, yes,” he said as he ran along the platform. “I’ll see to it. Good-bye!”

We were off and he was waving his hand to me, and I saw him for a few moments, and then all was indistinct beneath the station lamps, and we were gliding on, with the glare and smoke and glow of the busy town lighting up the sky.

It had all come to me so suddenly that I could hardly believe I was speeding away back to London; but once more comfortable in my mind with the promise that Uncle Bob had made to take up the trap, I sat back in the comfortable corner seat thinking of seeing my father and mother again, and of what a series of adventures I should have to relate.

Then I had a look round at my fellow-passengers, of whom there were three—a stout old gentleman and a young lady who seemed to be his daughter, and a dark-eyed keen-looking man who was seated opposite to me, and who held a newspaper in his hand and had a couple of books with him.

“I’d offer to lend you one,” he said, touching his books and smiling; “but you couldn’t read—I can’t. Horrible lights.”

Just then a heavy snore from the old gentleman made the young lady lean over to him and touch him, waking him up with a start.

The keen-looking man opposite to me raised his eyebrows and smiled slightly, shading his face from the other occupants with his newspaper.

Three or four times over the old gentleman dropped asleep and had to be roused up, and my fellow-passenger smiled good-humouredly and said:

“Might as well have let him sleep.”

This was in a whisper, and he made two or three remarks to me.

He seemed very much disposed to be friendly and pointed out the lights of a distant town or two.

“Got in at Arrowfield, didn’t you?” he said at last.

I replied that I did; and it was on the tip of my tongue to say, “So did you,” but I did not.

“I’m going on to London,” he said. “Nasty time to get in—three in the morning. I hate it. No one about. Night cabs and milk carts, police and market wagons. People at the hotel always sleepy. Ah! Here we are at Westernbow.”

For the train was stopping, and when it did draw up at the platform the old gentleman was roused up by the young lady, and they got out and left us alone.

“Ha! Ha!” said my companion, “that’s better. Give us room to stretch our legs. Do you bet?”

“No,” I said, “never.”

“Good, lad! Don’t; very bad habit. I do; I’ve lots of bad habits. But I was going to say, I’ll bet you an even half-crown that we don’t have another passenger from here to London.”

“I hope we shall not,” I said as I thought of a nap on the seat.

“So do I, sir—so do I,” he said, nodding his head quickly. “I vote we lie down and make the best of it—by and by. Have a cigar first?”

“Thank you; I don’t smoke,” I said.

“I do. Will you excuse me if I have a cigar? Not a smoking carriage—more comfortable.”

I assured him that I should not mind; and he took out a cigar, lit it, and began to smoke.

“Better have one,” he said. “Mild as mild. They won’t hurt you.”

I thanked him again and declined, sitting back and watching him as he smoked on seeming to enjoy his cigar, and made a remark or two about the beautiful night and the stars as the train dashed on.

After a time he took out a flask, slipped off the plated cup at the bottom, and unscrewed the top, pouring out afterward some clear-looking liquid.

“Have a drink?” he said, offering me the flask-cup; but I shook my head.

“No, thank you,” I said; and somehow I began thinking of the water I had drunk at the works, and which had made me so terribly sleepy.

I don’t know how it was, but I did think about that, and it was in my mind as he said laughingly:

“What! Not drink a little drop of mild stuff like that? Well, you are a fellow! Why it’s like milk.”

He seemed to toss it off.

“Better have a drop,” he said.

I declined.

“Nonsense! Do,” he cried. “Do you good. Come, have a drink.”

He grew more persistent, but the more persistent he was the more I shrank from the cup he held in his hand; and at last I felt sorry, for he seemed so kind that it was ungracious of me to refuse him so simple a request.

“Oh, very well!” he said, “just as you like. There will be the more for me.”

He laughed, nodded, and drank the contents of the cup before putting the screw-top on the flask, thrusting it in his breast-pocket, and then making a cushion of his railway wrapper he lay at full length upon the cushion, and seemed to compose himself to sleep.

It was such a good example that, after a few minutes’ silence, I did the same, and lay with my eyes half-closed, listening to the dull rattle of the train, and thinking of the works at Arrowfield, and what a good job it was that I spoke to Uncle Bob about the trap.

Then I hoped he would not be incautious and hurt himself in letting off the spring.

I looked across at my fellow-traveller, who seemed to be sleeping soundly, and the sight of his closed eyes made mine heavy, and no wonder, for every other night I had been on guard at the works, and that seemed to shorten my allowance of sleep to a terrible degree.

I knew there could be no mistake, for I was going as far as the train went, and the guard would be sure to wake me up if I was fast asleep.

And how satisfactory it seemed to be lying there on the soft cushions instead of walking about the works and the yard the previous night. I was growing more and more sleepy, the motion of the train serving to lull me; and then, all at once, I was wide-awake staring at the bubble of glass that formed the lamp in the ceiling, and wondering where I was.

I recollected directly and glanced at my fellow-traveller, to see that he was a little uneasy, one of his legs being off the seat; but he was breathing heavily, and evidently fast asleep.

I lay watching him for a few minutes, and then the sweet restful feeling mastered me again, and I went off fast asleep. One moment there was the compartment with its cushions and lamp with the rush and sway of the carriage that made me think it must be something like this on board ship; the next I was back at the works keeping watch and wondering whether either of the men would come and make any attempt upon the place.

I don’t know how long I had been asleep, but all at once, without moving, I was wide-awake with my eyes closed, fully realising that I had a valuable packet of some kind in my breast-pocket, and that my fellow-traveller was softly unbuttoning my overcoat so as to get it out.

I lay perfectly still for a moment or two, and then leaped up and bounded to the other side of the carriage.

“There, it is of no use,” said my fellow-traveller; “pull that letter out of your pocket and give it to me quietly or—”

He said no more, but took a pistol out of his breast, while I shrank up against the farther door, the window of which was open, and stared at him aghast.

“Do you hear?” he said fiercely. “Come; no nonsense! I want that letter. There, I don’t want to frighten you, boy. Come and sit down; I sha’n’t hurt you.”

The train was flying along at forty miles an hour at least, and this man knew that the packet I had was valuable. How he knew it I could not tell, but he must have found out at Arrowfield. He was going to take it from me, and if he got it what was he going to do?

I thought it all over as if in a flash.

He was going to steal the packet, and he would know that I should complain at the first station we reached; and he would prevent this, I felt sure. But how?

There was only one way. He had threatened me with a pistol, but I did not think he would use that. No; there was only one way, and it was this—he would rob me and throw me out of the train.

My legs shook under me as I thought this, and the light in the carriage seemed to be dancing up and down, as I put my right arm out of the window and hung to the side to keep myself up.

All this was a matter of moments, and it seemed to be directly after my fellow-passenger had spoken first that he roared out, “Do you hear, sir? Come here!”

I did not move, and he made a dash at me, but, as he did, my right hand rested on the fastening of the door outside, turned the handle, and clinging to it, I swung out into the rushing wind, turning half round as the door banged heavily back, when, by an instinctive motion, my left hand caught at anything to save me from falling, grasped the bar that ran along between door and door, and the next moment, how I know not, I was clinging to this bar with my feet on the foot-board, and my eyes strained back at the open door, out of which my fellow-passenger leaned.

“You young idiot, come back!” he roared; but the effect of his words was to make me shrink farther away, catching at the handle of the next door, and then reaching on to the next bar, so that I was now several feet away.

The wind seemed as if it would tear me from the foot-board, and I was obliged to keep my face away to breathe; but I clung to the bar tightly, and watched the fierce face that was thrust out of the door I had left.

“Am I to come after you?” he roared. “Come back!”

My answer was to creep past another door, to find to my horror that this was the last, and that there was a great gap between me and the next carriage.

What was I to do? Jump, with the train dashing along at such a rate that it seemed as if I must be shaken down or torn off by the wind.

I stared back horror-stricken and then uttered a cry of fear, as the window I had just passed was thrown open and a man leaned out.

“I’ll swear I heard someone shout,” he said to a travelling companion, and he looked back along the train. “Yes,” he continued, “there’s someone three compartments back looking out. Oh, he’s gone in now. Wonder what it was!”

Just then he turned his head in my direction, and saw my white face.

I saw him start as I clung there just a little way below him to his right, and within easy reach, and, for I should think a minute, we stared hard at each other.

Then he spoke in a quiet matter-of-fact way.

“Don’t be scared, my lad,” he said; “it’s alright. I can take hold of you tightly. Hold fast till I get you by the arms. That’s it; now loose your right hand and take hold of the door; here pass it in. That’s the way; edge along. I’ve got you tight. Come along; now the other hand in. That’s the way.”

I obeyed him, for he seemed to force me to by his firm way, but the thought came over me, “Suppose he is that man’s companion.” But even if he had been, I was too much unnerved to do anything but what he bade me, so I passed one hand on to the window-frame of the door, then edged along and stood holding on with the other hand, for he had me as if his grasp was a vice, and then his hands glided down to my waist. He gripped me by my clothes and flesh, and before I could realise it he had dragged me right in through the window and placed me on the seat.

Then dragging up the window he sank back opposite to me and cried to a gentleman standing in the compartment:

“Give me a drop of brandy, Jem, or I shall faint!”

I crouched back there, quivering and unable to speak. I was so unnerved; but I saw the other gentleman hand a flask to the bluff-looking man who had saved me, and I saw him take a hearty draught and draw long breath, after which he turned to me.

“You young scoundrel!” he cried; “how dare you give me such a fright!”

I tried to speak, but the words would not come. I was choking, and I believe for a minute I literally sobbed.

“There, there, my lad,” said the other kindly, “You’re all right. Don’t speak to him like that now, Jordan. The boy’s had a horrible scare.”

“Scare!” said the big bluff man; “and so have I. Why, my heart was in my mouth. I wouldn’t go through it again for a hundred pounds. How did you come there, sir?”

“Let him be for a few minutes,” said the other gently. “He’ll come round directly, and tell us.”

I gave him a grateful look and held out my wet hand, which he took and held in his.

“The boy has had a terrible shock,” he said. “He’ll tell us soon. Don’t hurry, my lad. There, be calm.”

I clung to his hand, for he seemed to steady me, my hand jerking and twitching, and a curious sensation of horror that I had never felt before seeming to be upon me; but by degrees this passed off, the more quickly that the two gentlemen went on talking as if I were not there.

“I’m so much obliged,” I said at last, and the big bluff man laughed.

“Don’t name it,” he said, nodding good-humouredly. “Five guineas is my fee.”

I shivered.

“And my friend here, Doctor Brown, will have a bigger one for his advice.”

“He’s joking you, my lad,” said the other gentleman smiling. “I see you are not hurt.”

“No, sir,” I said; “I—”

The trembling came over me again, and I could not speak for a minute or two, but sat gazing helplessly from one to the other.

“Give him a drop of brandy,” said the big bluff man.

“No, let him be for a few minutes; he’s mastering it,” was the reply.

This did me good, and making an effort I said quickly:

“A man in the carriage tried to rob me, and I got on to the foot-board and came along here.”

“Then you did what I dare not have done,” said the one who dragged me in. “But a pretty state of affairs this. On the railway, and no means of communicating.”

“But there are means.”

“Tchah! How was the poor lad to make use of them? Well, we shall have the scoundrel, unless he gets out of the train and jumps for it. We must look out when we stop for taking the tickets. We shall not halt before.”

By degrees I grew quite composed, and told them all.

“Yes,” said my big friend, “it was very brave of you; but I think I should have parted with all I had sooner than have run such a risk.”

“If it had been your own,” said the other gentleman. “In this case it seems to me the boy would have been robbed, and probably thrown out afterwards upon the line. I think you did quite right, my lad, but I should not recommend the practice to anyone else.”

They chatted to me pleasantly enough till the train began at last to slacken speed preparatory to stopping for the tickets to be taken, and at the first symptom of this my two new friends jumped up and let down the windows, each leaning out so as to command a view of the back of the train.

I should have liked to look back as well, but that was impossible, so I had to be content to sit and listen; but I was not kept long in suspense, for all at once the quieter and more gentlemanly of my companions exclaimed:

“I thought as much. He has just jumped off, and run down the embankment. There he goes!”

I ran to the side, and caught a glimpse of a figure melting away into the darkness. Then it was gone.

“There goes all chance of punishing the scoundrel,” said the big bluff man, turning to me and smiling good-temperedly. “I should have liked to catch him, but I couldn’t afford to risk my neck in your service, young man.”

I thanked him as well as I could, and made up my mind that if my father was waiting on the platform he should make a more satisfactory recognition of the services that had been performed.

This did not, however, prove so easy as I had hoped, for in the confusion of trying to bring them together when I found my father waiting, I reached the spot where I had left my travelling-companions just in time to see them drive off in a cab.

Chapter Eighteen.

Against the Law.

The next day, after recounting plenty of my adventures to my mother, but, I am afraid, dressing some of them up so that they should not alarm her, a letter reached me from Uncle Bob.

It was very short. He hoped I had reached town safely, and found all well. The night had passed quite quietly at the works, and he ended by saying:

“I took up the trap. All right!”

That was a great relief to me, and made my stay in town quite pleasant.

I went down to the old works with my father, and it made me smile to see how quiet and orderly everything was, and how different to the new line of business we had taken up. The men here never thought of committing outrages or interfering with those who employed them, and I could not help thinking what a contrast there was between them and the Arrowfield rough independence of mien.

My father questioned me a great deal about matters upon which my uncles had dwelt lightly, but I found that he thoroughly appreciated our position there and its risks.

“Not for another six months, Cob,” he said in answer to an inquiry as to when he was coming down.

“You four must pacify the country first,” he added laughing, “and have the business in good going order.”

My visit was very pleasant, and I could not help feeling proud of the treatment I received at home; but all the same I was glad to start again for Arrowfield and join my uncles in their battle for success.

For there was something very exciting in these struggles with the men, and now I was away all this seemed to be plainer, and the attraction grew so that there was a disposition on my part to make those at home quite at their ease as to the life I was leading down at Arrowfield.

At last the day came for me to start on my return journey, when once more I had a packet to bear.

“I need not tell you that it is of great value, Cob,” said my father. “Button it up in your pocket, and then forget all about it. That is the safest way. It takes off all the consciousness.”

“I don’t suppose I shall meet my friend this time,” I said.

My father shuddered slightly.

“It is not likely,” he said; “but I should strongly advise you to change carriages if you find yourself being left alone with a stranger.”

Word had been sent down as to the train I should travel by, and in due time I found myself on the Arrowfield platform and back at our new home, where Mrs Stephenson and Tattsey were ready with the most friendly of smiles.

“Everything has been going on splendidly,” was the report given to me. Piter had been carefully attended to, and the works watched as well as if I had been at Arrowfield.

I felt annoyed, and, I suppose, showed it, for it seemed as if my uncles were bantering me, but the annoyance passed off directly under the influence of the warmth displayed by all three.

“I’m beginning to be hopeful now that work will go on steadily, that this watching can be given up, and that we can take to a few country excursions, some fishing, and the like.”

That was Uncle Dick’s expressed opinion; and I was glad enough to hear it, for though I did not mind the work I liked some play.

Uncle Jack was just as hopeful; but Uncle Bob evidently was not, for he said very little.

This time I had travelled by a day train, and I was quite ready to take my turn at the watching that night. Uncle Jack, whose turn it was, opposed my going, as I had been travelling so far; but I insisted, saying that I had had my regular night’s rest ever since I had left them, and was consequently quite fresh.

I wanted to ask Uncle Bob where he had hidden the trap, but I had no opportunity, and as neither Uncle Dick nor Uncle Jack made any allusion to it I did not start the subject.

Perhaps Uncle Bob had not told them, meaning to have a few words with me first.

It almost seemed like coming home to enter the works again, where Piter was most demonstrative in his affection, and carried it to such an extent that I could hardly get away.

I had a look round the gloomy old place at once, and felt quite a thrill of pride in the faintly glowing furnaces and machinery as I thought of the endless things the place was destined to produce.

“Look here, Cob,” said Uncle Jack, “I shall lie down for three hours, mind; and at the end of that time you are to wake me. It is only nine o’clock now, and you can get over that time with a book. There will be no need to walk round the place.”

“Would Piter warn us, do you think?” I said.

“Oh, yes! It is getting quite a form our being here. The men are toning down.”

He threw himself on the bed, and I took up a book and read for an hour, after which I had a walk through the gloomy workshops, and in and out of the furnace-houses and smithies, where all was quiet as could be.

After this I felt disposed to go and open the big door and look down into the wheel-pit. I don’t know why, only that the place attracted me. I did not, however, but walked back to the doorway to look at the glow which overhung the town, with the heavy canopy of ruddy smoke, while away behind me the stars were shining brightly, and all was clear.

I patted Piter, who came to the full length of his chain, and then I had a look about with the lantern to see if I could find where Uncle Bob had put the trap.

I felt that it must be under lock and key somewhere, but the cupboards had nothing to show, and, try how I would, I could think of no likely place for it to be hidden in. So I gave up the task of trying to find it, and walked back to the door, where I found Piter lying down hard at work trying to push his collar over his head.

The patient, persevering way in which he tried, getting both his fore-paws against it, was most amusing, the more so that there was not the slightest possibility of success attending his efforts, for his neck, which the collar fitted pretty closely, was small, and his bullet head enormous by comparison.

“Come,” I said, as I bent over him; “shall I undo it for you?”

He looked up at me as I put the dark lantern down, and whined softly. Then he began working at the collar again.

“Look here,” I said, as I sat on the bottom step. “Shall I undo it?”

Dogs must have a good deal of reason, for Piter leaped up and laid his head in my lap directly, holding it perfectly still while I unbuckled the strap collar, when he gave a sniff or two at my hands, licked them, and bounded off to have a regular good run all over the place before he came back and settled down close to me in the little office where I was trying to read.

Twelve o’clock at last, and I awoke Uncle Jack, who rose at once, fresh and clear as if he were amply rested, and soon after I was fast asleep, dreaming away and fancying I could hear the rattle and the throb of the train. Then I was talking to that man again, and then swinging out on the carriage-door with the wind rushing by, and the bluff man leaning out over me, and Piter on the carriage with him, barking at my aggressor, who was shrieking for mercy.

Then I was awake, to see that it was Uncle Jack who was leaning over me, and the window was open, admitting a stream of cold air and a curious yelling noise, mingled with the barking of a dog.

“What is the matter?” I cried.

“That’s what I want to know,” said Uncle Jack. “I went with a candle, but the wind puffed it out. Where did you put the lantern?”

“Lantern—lantern!” I said in a confused way, “did I have it?”

“Yes; you must have had it. Can’t you think? Gracious, what a noise! Piter must have got someone by the throat.”

“Oh, I know!” I cried as I grew more fully awake. “On the shelf in the entry.”

We ran down together, and a faint glow showed its whereabouts, still alight, but with the dark shade turned over the bull’s-eye.

“Where does the noise come from?” I said, feeling startled at the alarming nature of the cries, freshly awakened as I was from sleep.

“I can hardly tell,” he said, seizing the lantern and taking a sharp hold, of his stick. “Bring a stick with you, my boy, for there may be enemies in the way.”

“Why, uncle,” I cried, “some poor creature has fallen from the side path into the dam.”

“Some wretched drunken workman then,” he said, as we hurried in the direction, and there seemed to be no doubt about it now, for there was the splashing of water, and the cry of “Help!” while Piter barked more furiously than ever.

We ran down to the edge of the dam, the light of the bull’s-eye flashing and dancing over the ground, so that we were able to avoid the different objects lying about; and directly after the light played on the water, and then threw into full view the figure of the bull-dog as he stood on the stone edge of the dam barking furiously at a man’s head that was just above the surface of the water.

“Help! Help!” he cried as we drew near, and then I uttered a prolonged “Oh!” and stood still.

“Quiet, Piter! Down, dog! Can’t you see it is a friend!”

But the dog seemed to deny it, and barked more furiously than ever.

“Quiet, sir! Here, Cob, lay hold of the lantern. Will you be quiet, dog! Lay hold of him, Cob, and hold him.”

I obeyed in a half stupid way, holding the lantern with one hand, as I went on my knees, putting my arm round Piter’s neck to hold him back; and in that way I struggled back from the edge, watching my uncle as I made the light fall upon the head staring wildly at us, a horrible white object just above the black water of the dam.

“Help! Help!” it cried. “Save me! Oh!”

“Catch hold of the stick. That’s right; now your hand. Well done! What’s holding you down? Have you got your foot entangled? That’s better: how did you fall in?”

As my uncle rapidly asked these questions he got hold of the man, and dragged him on to the stone edge of the dam, when there was a horrible clanking noise, the rattle of a chain, the man uttered a hideous yell, and as Piter set up a tremendous barking again I turned off the light.

“Here, don’t do that,” cried my uncle.

I hardly know what induced me to turn off the light, unless it was a shamefaced feeling on being, as I thought, found out. And yet it did not seem that I was the guilty party. Uncle Bob had said he had taken up the trap, and it was all right. He must have altered his mind and set it again.

“That’s better,” said my uncle as I turned on the light once more; and then Piter made such a struggle that I could not hold him. There was a bit of a scuffle, and he was free to rush at the man, upon whom he fixed himself as he lay there howling and dripping with water.

The man yelled again horribly, sprang up with Piter holding on to him; there was the same horrible clanking noise on the stones, and down he fell once more groaning.

“Help! Murder! Take away the dorg. Oh, help!” he cried.

“Good gracious! What is the matter?” cried Uncle Jack, telling me what I knew. “The man’s leg’s in a trap.”

He sprang up again, for by main force Uncle Jack had dragged Piter away with his mouth full of trouser leg; but there were only two clanks and a sprawl, for the poor wretch fell headlong again on the stones, praying for mercy.

“Why, his leg’s in a great trap, and it’s held by a chain,” cried Uncle Jack. “Here, how came you in this condition?”

“Eh mester, aw doan know. Deed aw doan know,” the fellow groaned. “Hey, but it’s biting my leg off, and I’ll be a lame man to the end o’ my days.”

“Why, it’s Gentles!” cried Uncle Jack, taking the lantern from me, for I had enough to do to hold the dog.

“Tek off the thing; tek off the thing,” groaned the man. “It’s a-cootin’ my leg i’ two, I tell’ee.”

“Hold your noise, and don’t howl like that,” cried Uncle Jack angrily, for he seemed to understand now that the man must have climbed over into the yard and been caught, though he was all the more surprised, for quiet smooth-faced Gentles was the last man anyone would have suspected.

“But I tell’ee its tekkin off my leg,” groaned the man, and he made another trial to escape, but was checked by the peg driven tightly into the ground between the stones, and he fell again, hurting himself horribly.

“I shall be a dead man—murdered in a minute,” he groaned. “Help! Oh, my poor missus and the bairns! Tek off that thing, and keep away yon dorg.”

“Look here,” said Uncle Jack, making the light play on the poor wretch’s miserable face. “How came you here?”

“Your dorg flew at me, mester, and drove me in t’watter.”

“Yes, exactly; but how came you in the yard?”

“I d’know, mester, I d’know.”

“I suppose not,” said Uncle Jack.

“Tek off that thing, mester; tek off that thing. It’s most cootin off my leg.”

I was ready to add my supplications, for I knew the poor wretch must be in terrible agony; but I felt as if I could not speak.

“I’ll take it off by and by, when I know how you came here.”

“I tell’ee it’s ’gen the law to set they montraps,” cried the fellow in a sudden burst of anger, “and I’ll have the law o’ thee.”

“I would,” said Uncle Jack, still making the light play over the dripping figure, and then examining the trap, and tracing the chain to the peg. “Hullo!” he cried, “what’s this?”

He was holding the lantern close to a dark object upon the ground quite close, and Gentles uttered a fresh yell, bounded up, made a clanking noise, and fell again groaning.

“Doan’t! Doan’t! Thou’lt blow us all to bits.”

“Oh, it’s powder, then, is it?” cried Uncle Jack.

“Hey, I d’know, mester, I d’know.”

“Didn’t bring it with you, I suppose?” said Uncle Jack.

“Nay, mester, I didn’t bring it wi’ me.”

“Then how do you know it’s powder?”

“Hey, I d’know it’s powder,” groaned the miserable wretch. “It only looks like it. Tek off this trap thing. Tek away the light. Hey, bud I’m being killed.”

“Let me see,” said Uncle Jack with cool deliberation. “You climbed over the wall with that can of powder and the fuse.”

“Nay, nay, mester, not me.”

“And fell into a trap.”

“Yes, mester. Tek it off.”

“Where did you mean to put that can of powder?”

“Nay, mester, I—”

“Tell me directly,” cried Uncle Jack, giving the chain a drag and making Gentles yell out; “tell me directly, or I’ll pitch you into the dam.”

Uncle Jack’s manner was so fierce that the man moaned out feebly:

“If I tell’ee wilt tek off the trap?”

“Perhaps I will. Speak out. Where did you mean to put the powder can?”

“Under big watter-wheel, mester.”

“And fire the fuse?”

“Yes, mester.”

“How long would it have burned?”

“Twenty minutes, mester.”

“Same length as the one that was run in the furnace-house?”

“Yes, mester.”

“You cowardly scoundrel! You were in that too, then,” cried Uncle Jack, going down on one knee and seizing the man by the throat and shaking him till he realised how horribly he was punishing him, when he loosed his hold.

“Don’t kill me, mester. Oh, my wife and bairns!”

“A man with a wife and children, and ready to do such a dastardly act as that! Here, you shall tell me this, who set you on?”

The man set his teeth fast.

“Who set you on, I say?”

“Nay, mester, I canna tell,” groaned Gentles.

“But you shall tell,” roared Uncle Jack. “You shall stay here till you do.”

“I can’t tell; I weant tell,” groaned the man.

“We’ll see about that,” cried Uncle Jack. “Pah! What a brute I am! Hold the light, Cob. Piter! You touch him if you dare. Let’s see if we can’t get this trap open.”

He took hold of it gently, and tried to place it flat upon the stones, but the poor trapped wretch groaned dismally till he was placed in a sitting posture with his knee bent, when Piter, having been coerced into a neutral state, Uncle Jack pressed with all his might upon the spring while I worked the ring upon it half an inch at a time till the jaws yawned right open and Gentles’ leg was at liberty.

He groaned and was evidently in great pain; but as soon as it was off, his face was convulsed with passion, and he shook his fists at Uncle Jack.

“I’ll hev the law of ye for this here. I’ll hev the law of ye.”

“Do,” said Uncle Jack, picking up the can of powder; “and I shall bring this in against you. Let me see. You confessed in the presence of this witness that you came over the wall with this can of powder to blow up our water-wheel so as to stop our works. Mr Gentles, I think we shall get the better of you this time.”

The man raised himself to his feet, and stood with great difficulty, moaning with pain.

“Now,” said Uncle Jack, “will you go back over the wall or out by the gate.”

“I’ll pay thee for this. I’ll pay thee for this,” hissed the man.

Uncle Jack took him again by the throat.

“Look here,” he said fiercely. “Have a care what you are doing, my fine fellow. You have had a narrow escape to-night. If we had not been carefully watching you would by now have been hanging by that chain—drowned. Mind you and your cowardly sneaking scoundrels of companions do not meet with some such fate next time they come to molest us. Now go. You can’t walk? There’s a stick for you. I ought to break your thick skull with it, but I’m going to be weak enough to give it to you to walk home. Go home and tell your wife and children that you are one of the most treacherous, canting, hypocritical scoundrels in Arrowfield, and that you have only got your deserts if you are lamed for life.”

He gave Gentles his stick and walked with him to the gate, which he unlocked and held open for him to pass out groaning and suffering horribly.

“Good-night, honest faithful workman!” he said; “friendly man who only wanted to be left alone. Do you want your can of powder? No: I’ll keep it as a memento of your visit, and for fear you might have an accident at home.”

The man groaned again as he passed out and staggered.

“Poor wretch!” said Uncle Jack, so that I alone heard him. “Ignorance and brutality. Here,” he said aloud, “take my arm. I’ll help you on to your house. One good turn deserves another.”

Uncle Jack went to him and took his stick in his hand, when, fancying I heard something, I turned on the light just in time to show Uncle Jack his danger, for half a dozen men armed with sticks came out of the shadow of the wall and rushed at him.

It was fortunate for him that he had taken back the stout oak walking-stick that he made his companion on watching nights, or he would have been beaten down.

As it was he received several heavy blows, but he parried others, and laid about him so earnestly that two men went down, and another fell over Gentles.

By that time my uncle had retreated to the gate, darted through, and banged and locked it in his enemies’ face.

“Rather cowardly to retreat, Cob,” he panted; “but six to one are long odds. Where’s the powder can?”

“I have it, uncle,” I said.

“Ah, well, suppose you give it to me, or else the light! The two don’t go well together. They always quarrel, and it ends in what Mr O’Gallagher in Perceval Keene called a blow up.”

I gave him the can, and then listened to the muttering of voices outside, half expecting that an attempt might be made to scale the wall.

“No,” said Uncle Jack; “they will not do that. They don’t make open attacks.”

“Did you see who the others were?”

“No, it was too dark. There, let’s get inside. But about that trap. I won’t leave it there.”

I walked with him in silence, and lighted him while he dragged the iron peg out of the ground, and carried all back to the office, where he examined the trap, turning it over and over, and then throwing it heavily on the floor.

He looked hard at me then, and I suppose my face told tales.

“I thought so,” he said; “that was your game, Master Cob.”

“Yes,” I said; “but I thought it was taken up. I told Uncle Bob to take it up when I went to London.”

“He thought you meant the trap of the drain,” cried Uncle Jack, roaring with laughter. “He had the bricklayer to it, and said there was a bad smell, and it was well cleaned out.”

“Oh!” I exclaimed; “and I made sure that it was all right again.”

“How came you to set the trap there?”

“I had seen marks on the wall,” I said, “where someone came over, but I never thought it could be Gentles.”

“No, my lad, one don’t know whom to trust here; but how came you to think of that?”

“It was the rat-trap set me thinking of it, and when I made up my mind to do it I never thought it would be so serious as it was. Are you very angry with me?”

Uncle Jack looked at me with his forehead all in wrinkles, and sat down on a high stool and tapped the desk.

I felt a curious flinching as he looked so hard at me, for Uncle Jack was always the most stern and uncompromising of my uncles. Faults that Uncle Dick would shake his head at, and Uncle Bob say, “I say, come, this won’t do, you know,” Uncle Jack would think over, and talk about perhaps for two or three days.

“I ought to be very angry with you, Cob,” he said. “This was a very rash thing to do. These men are leading us a horrible life, and they deserve any punishment; but there is the law of the land to punish evildoers, and we are not allowed to take that law in our own hands. You might have broken that fellow’s leg with the trap.”

“Yes, I see now,” I said.

“As it is I expect you have done his leg serious injury, and made him a worse enemy than he was before. But that is not the worst part of it. What we want here is co-operation—that’s a long word, Cob, but you know what it means.”

“Working together,” I said.

“Of course. You are only a boy, but you are joined with us three to mutually protect each other, and our strength lies in mutual dependence, each knowing exactly what the other has done.”

“Yes, I see that, Uncle,” I said humbly.

“How are we to get on then if one of the legs on which we stand—you, sir, gives way? It lets the whole machine down; it’s ruin to us, Cob.”

“I’m very sorry, uncle.”

“We are four. Well, suppose one of us gets springing a mine unknown to the others, what a position the other three are in!”

“Yes,” I said again. “I see it all now.”

“You didn’t spring a mine upon us, Cob, but you sprang a trap.”

I nodded.

“It was a mistake, lad, though it has turned out all right as it happened, and we have been saved from a terrible danger; but look here, don’t do anything of the kind again.”

“Shall you go to the police about this?” I said.

“No, and I’m sure the others will agree with me. We must be our own police, Cob, and take care of ourselves; but I’m afraid we have rough times coming.”

Chapter Nineteen.

Pannell says Nothing.

“Better and better!” cried Uncle Dick, waving a letter over his head one morning after the post had come in. “All we have to do is to work away. Our steel is winning its way more and more in London, and there is already a greater demand than we can supply.”

“It seems funny too,” I said. “I went through Norton’s works yesterday with Mr Tomplin, and saw them making steel, and it seemed almost exactly your way.”

“Yes, Cob,” said Uncle Dick, “almost. It’s that trifling little difference that does it. It is so small that it is almost imperceptible; but still it is enough to make our steel worth half as much again as theirs.”

“You didn’t show them the difference, did you, Cob?” said Uncle Jack, laughing.

“Why, how could I?”

“Ah! I forgot; you don’t know. But never mind, you’ll arrive at years of discretion some day, Cob, and then you will be trusted with the secret.”

“I consider that he could be trusted now,” cried Uncle Dick. “I am quite willing to show him whenever he likes. We make a fresh batch to-morrow.”

“No,” I said; “I don’t want to be shown yet. I can wait.”

“Is that meant sulkily, or is it manly frankness?” said Uncle Jack sharply.

“Oh, I’ll answer that,” replied Uncle Dick—“certainly not sulkily.”

“I endorse that,” said Uncle Bob; and I gave them both a grateful look.

“He shall learn everything we know,” said Dick. “It is his right as his father’s son. If we have not shown him sooner it is on account of his father’s interests, and because we felt that a secret that means property or nothing is rather a weighty one for a lad of his years to bear. Well, once more, Cob, you will not mind being left?”

“No,” I said, “you will not be away many hours. The men will hardly know that you have gone, and if they were to turn disagreeable I’m sure Pannell would help me.”

“Oh, there’s no fear of any open annoyance,” said Uncle Jack; “the men have been remarkably quiet since we caught Master Gentles. By the way, anyone know how he is?”

“I know,” I said. “I’ve seen Mrs Gentles every day, and he leaves the infirmary to-morrow.”

“Cured?”

“Yes; only he will walk a little lame, that’s all, and only for a month or two.”

“Well, take care of the place, Cob,” said Uncle Jack. “I don’t suppose the men will interfere with you, but if they do you can retreat.”

“If you thought they would interfere with me,” I said, “you would not go.”

They all laughed, and, as we had arranged, they left the works one by one, and I went on just as usual, looking in at one place, and then another, to see how the men were going on, before returning to the office and copying some letters left for me to do.

It was a month since the adventure with the trap, and to see the men no one could have imagined that there was the slightest discontent among them.

Pannell had said very little, though I had expected he would; in fact he seemed to have turned rather surly and distant to me. As for the other men, they did their work in their regular independent style, and I had come to the conclusion that my best way was to treat all alike, and not make special friends, especially after the melancholy mistake I had made in putting most faith in one who was the greatest scoundrel in the place.

My uncles had gone to the next town to meet a firm of manufacturers who had been making overtures that seemed likely to be profitable, and this day had been appointed for the meeting.

After a time I went into Pannell’s smithy, to find him hammering away as earnestly as ever, with his forehead covered with dew, his throat open, and his shirt-sleeves rolled up, so as to give his great muscles full play.

“Well,” he said all at once, “want another trap?”

“No,” I said, smiling. “I say, Pannell, what did the men think about it?”

He opened his lips to speak, but closed them directly.

“No,” he said shortly; “won’t do. I’m on t’other side, you see.”

“But you might tell me that,” I cried. “I say, I should as soon have thought of catching you as old Gentles.”

“Hush! Say rat,” he whispered. “Don’t name names. And say, lad, don’t talk about it. You don’t want to get me knocked on the head?”

“No, Pannell,” I said; “indeed I don’t. You’re too good a fellow.”

“Nay, I’m not,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m a downright bad un.”

“Not you.”

“Ay, but I am—reg’lar down bad un.”

“What have you been doing?”

“Nowt,” he said; and he brought down his hammer with a tremendous bang as if he meant to make a full stop at the end of his sentence.

“Then why are you a bad one?”

He looked at me, then out of the window, then front the door, and then back at me.

“I’m going to Lunnon to get work,” he said.

“No, don’t; we like you—you’re such a good steady workman. Why are you going?”

“Don’t like it,” he said. “Man can’t do as he pleases.”

“Uncle John says he can’t anywhere, and the masters are the men’s servants here.”

“Nay, lad,” he whispered as he hammered away. “Men’s worse off than the masters. Wuckman here hev to do what the trade tells him, or he’d soon find out what was what. Man daren’t speak.”

“For fear of getting into trouble with his mates?”

“Nay, his mates wouldn’t speak. It’s the trade; hish!”

He hammered away for some time, and his skill with his hammer fascinated me so that I stopped on watching him. A hammer to me had always seemed to be a tool to strike straightforward blows; but Pannell’s hammer moulded and shaped, and always seemed to fall exactly right, so that a piece of steel grew into form. And I believe he could have turned out of the glowing metal anything of which a model had been put before his eyes.

“Well,” I said, “I must go to my writing.”

“Nay, stop a bit. We two ain’t said much lately. They all gone to Kedham?”

“Yes; how did you know?”

“Oh, we knows a deal. There aren’t much goes on as we don’t know. Look ye here; I want to say summat, lad, and I can’t—yes, I can.”

“Well, say it, then,” I said, smiling at his eagerness.

“Going to—look here, there was a rat once as got his leg caught in a trap.”

“Yes, I know there was,” I replied with a laugh.

“Nay, it’s nowt to laugh at, lad. Rats has sharp teeth; and that there rat—a fat smooth rat he were—he said he’d bite him as set that trap.”

“Pannell!” I cried, as a curious feeling of dread came over me for a moment and then passed away.

“Ay, lad.”

“You don’t mean to say that?”

“Me!—I mean to say! Nay, lad, not me. I never said nothing. ’Tain’t likely!”

I looked at him searchingly, but his face seemed to turn as hard as the steel he hammered; and finding that he would not say any more, I left him, to go thoughtfully back to my desk and try to write.

But who could write situated as I was—left alone with about thirty workmen in the place, any one of whom might be set to do the biting in revenge for the trap-setting? For there was no misunderstanding Pannell’s words; they were meant as a sort of warning for me. And now what was I to do?

I wished my uncles had not gone or that they had taken me, and I nearly made up my mind to go for a walk or run back home.

But it seemed so cowardly. It was not likely that anyone would touch me there, though the knowledge the men evidently had of their masters’ movements was rather startling; and I grew minute by minute more nervous.

“What a coward I am!” I said to myself as I began writing, but stopped to listen directly, for I heard an unusual humming down in the grinders’ shop; but it ceased directly, and I heard the wheel-pit door close.

“Something loose in the gear of the great wheel, perhaps,” I thought; and I went on writing.

All at once the idea came upon me. Suppose they were to try and blow me up!

I slipped off my stool and examined all the papers beneath my desk and in the waste-paper basket, and then I felt so utterly ashamed that I forced myself back into my seat and tried to go on writing.

But it was impossible. The day was bright and sunny and the water in the dam was dancing and glittering, for the wind was off the hills and blew the smoke in the other direction—over the town. There was a great patch of dancing light on the ceiling reflected from the dam, and some flowers in the window looked bright and sent out a sweet perfume; but I could see nothing but men crawling in the dark with powder-cans and fuses; and to make myself worse, I must go to Uncle Jack’s cupboard and look at the can that we had found by Gentles that night, just as it had been picked up, with a long fuse hanging out of the neck and twisted round and round.

I went back after locking it up and taking out the key, and after opening the window I stood looking out to calm myself, wishing the while that I was right away among the hills far from the noise of whirring stones and shrieking metal. I knew the sun was shining there, and the grass was green, and the view was spread out for miles; while from where I stood there were the great black buildings, the tall shafts, and close beneath me the dam which, in spite of the sunshine, suggested nothing but men coming down from the head on rafts of wood to work some mischief.

The situation became intolerable; I could not write; I could not get calm by walking up and down; and every time there was a louder noise than usual from the upper or lower workshop I started, and the perspiration came out upon my face.

What a coward! You will say.

Perhaps so; but a boy cannot go through such adventures as fell to my lot and not have some trace left behind.

I stood at last in the middle of the little office, and thought of what would be the best thing to do.

Should I run away?

No; that would be too cowardly.

I came to the right conclusion, I am sure, for I decided to go and face the danger, if there was any; for I said to myself, “Better to see it coming than to be taken unawares.”

Now, please, don’t think me conceited. In place of being conceited, I want to set down modestly and truthfully the adventures that befell me while my lot was cast among a number of misguided men who, bound together in what they considered a war against their masters, were forced by their leaders into the performance of deeds quite opposed to their ordinary nature. It was a mad and foolish combination as then conducted, and injured instead of benefiting their class.

Urged by my nervous dread of coming danger, I, as I have said, determined to see it if I could, and so be prepared; and in this spirit I put as bold a face on the matter as possible, and went down the long workshop where the men were grinding and working over the polishing-wheels, which flew round and put such a wonderful gloss upon a piece of metal.

Then I went down and into the furnace-house, where the fires were glowing, and through the chinks the blinding glare of the blast-fed flame seemed to flash and cut the gloom.

The men there gave me a civil nod, and so did the two smiths who were forging knives, while, when I went next into Pannell’s smithy, feeling all the more confident for having made up my mind to action, the big fellow stared at me.

“Yow here agen?” he said.

“Yes.”

“Well, don’t stay, lad; and if I was you I should keep out of wet grinders’ shop.”

“Why?” I said.

He banged a piece of steel upon his anvil, and the only answers I could get from him were raps of the hammer upon the metal; so I soon left him, feeling highly indignant with his treatment, and walked straight to his window, stepped up on the bench, and looked down, wondering whether it would be any good to fish from there.

The water after some hours’ working was much lower, so that a ledge about nine inches wide was laid bare and offered itself as a convenient resting-place; but I thought I would not fish while my uncles were away, especially since they had left me in charge.

So I walked right to the very place I had been warned to avoid, and found the men as busy as usual, and ready enough to say a few civil words.

And so the afternoon wore away, and telling myself that I had been scared at shadows, I felt a great deal more confident by tea-time when the men were leaving.

I sat in the office then as important as if I were the master, and listened to their leaving and crossing the yard. I could hear them talking to the gate-keeper, and then I fancied I heard a rustling noise outside the building, but it was not repeated, and I began listening to the last men going, and soon after, according to his custom, old Dunning the gate-keeper came to bring his key.

I heard the old fellow’s halting step on the stairs, and trying to look very firm I answered his tap with a loud and important “Come in!”

“All gone, Mester Jacob, sir,” he said. “I s’pose you’ll tek a look round?”

“Yes; I’ll do that, Dunning,” I replied.

“Then, good-night, sir!”

“One moment, Dunning,” I cried, as he turned to go. “I know you don’t mix with the quarrels between masters and men.”

“Not I, Mester Jacob. I just do my bit o’ work here, which just suits me, being a worn-out sort o’ man, and then goes back home to my tea and my garden. You’ve nivver seen my bit o’ garden, Mester Jacob, sir. You must come.”

“To be sure I will, Dunning; but tell me, how do the men seem now?”

“Bit tired, sir. End o’ the day’s wuck.”

“No, no; I mean as to temper. Do you think they are settling down?”

“O ay; yes, sir. They’d be quiet enew if the trade would let ’em alone.”

“No threats or anything of that sort?”

“Well, you see, sir, I’ve no right to say a word,” he replied, sinking his voice. “If they thought I was a talker, mebbe they’d be falling upon me wi’ sticks; but you’ve always been a kind and civil young gentleman to me, so I will tell you as Gentles says he means to pay you when he gets a chance.”

“Then I must keep out of Mr Gentles’s way,” I said, laughing outside, for I felt very serious in.

“Ay, but that arn’t it, Mester Jacob, sir,” said old Dunning, to make me more comfortable. “You see, sir, you nivver know where to hev a man like that. He might hit at you wi’ his own fisty, but it’s more’n likely as he’ll do it wi’ some one else’s, or wi’ a clog or a knobstick. You can nivver tell. Good-night, Mester Jacob, sir. Keep a sharp look-out, sir, and so will I, for I shouldn’t like to see a nice well-spoken young gentleman like you spoiled.”

I followed Dunning down to the gate, and turned the key after him, feeling horribly alarmed.

Spoiled—not like to see a boy like me spoiled. What did spoiling mean? I shuddered at the thought, and though for a moment I thought of rushing out and getting home as quickly as I could, there was a sort of fear upon me that a party of men might be waiting at one of the corners ready to shoot me.

“I must wait a bit, and get cool,” I said; and then looking about me, I shivered, for the great works looked strange and deserted, there was a horrible stillness in the place, and I had never felt so lonely and unpleasantly impressed even when watching in the middle of the night.

Just then there was a whine and a bark, and Piter gave his chain a jerk.

There was society for me at all events, and, going to the kennel, I unhooked the spring swivel and set the dog free, when, as usual, he showed his pleasure by butting his great head at me and trying to force it between my legs.

I was used to it and knew how to act, but with a stranger it would have been awkward and meant sitting down heavily upon the dog unless he leaped out of the way.

Of course I did not sit down on Piter, but lifted a leg over him, and as soon as he had become steady made a sort of inspection of the place to see that nothing was wrong, feeling that it was a sort of duty to do, as I was left alone.

Piter kept close to me, rubbing my leg with one ear as we went all over the place, and as I found no powder-cans and fuses, no bottles full of fulminating silver, or any other deadly implement, my spirits rose and I began to laugh at myself for my folly.

There was only the lower workshop with its grindstones to look through, and lit up as it was by the evening sun there did not seem to be anything very terrible there. The floor was wet, and the stones and their frames and bands cast broad shadows across the place and on the opposite wall, but nothing seemed to be wrong, only I could hear the hollow echoing plash of the water falling from the wheel sluice down into the stone-walled pit.

There was nothing new in this, only that it seemed a little plainer than usual, and as I looked I saw that the door had been left open.

That was nothing particular, but I went on to close it, not being able to see the bottom, the view being cut off by a great solid bench in the middle of the floor. On passing round this, though, I saw that there was something wrong; two or three bands had gone from as many grindstones, and had evidently been hastily thrown into the wheel-pit, whoever had done this having left one on the floor, half in and half out, and keeping the door from shutting close.

“That couldn’t be Gentles,” I said aloud as I threw back the door, and my words echoed in the great black place, where the sunlight was cutting the shadow in a series of nearly horizontal rays as it came in past the wheel.

I could see at a glance the amount of the mischief done: one band was evidently down in the water, and hung hitched in some way on to the band upon the floor. It had been intended to be dragged in as well, but it had caught against the iron of the rail that surrounded the bracket-like platform the width of the door and projecting over the water, which was ten feet below.

I recalled standing upon it to catch eels, when I contrived to catch the lost bands as well, and thinking that perhaps after all there were several of the straps sunken below me, I stooped down, took hold of the band, and pulled.

It would not come, being caught somehow at the edge of the platform; so gathering it closely in my hands rather unwillingly, for it was a wet oily affair, I stepped on to the platform, uttered a shriek, and fell with a tremendous splash into the water below. I felt the platform give way, dropping at once from beneath my feet, and though I snatched at it my hands glided over the boards in an instant and I was down amidst a tangle of bands in the deep black water.

Chapter Twenty.

A Companion in Trouble.

I can’t tell you the horrors of those moments as they appeared to me. No description could paint it all exactly; but one moment I was down in darkness with the current thundering in my ears, the next I was up at the surface beating and splashing, listening to the echoing of the water, which sounded hollow and strange, looking up at the sunshine that streamed in past the wheel, and then I went under.

It is a strange admission to make, but in those first few moments of surprise and horror I forgot that I knew how to swim, and all my movements were instinctive and only wearied and sent me down again after I had risen.

Then reason came to my help, and I began to strike out slowly and swam to the side of the great stone chamber, passing one hand along the slimy wall trying to get some hold, but finding none; and then swimming straight across to the other side and trying there, for I dared not approach the wheel, which looked horrible and dangerous, and I felt that if I touched it the great circle would begin to revolve, and perhaps take me down under the water, carry me up on the other side, and throw me over again.

It looked too horrible, all wet, slimy, and dripping as it was, or possibly I might have climbed up it and reached the edge of the dam, so I swam right beyond it and felt along the other side, but without avail. There was nothing but the slimy stonework, try where I would, and the chill of horror began to have a numbing effect on my arms.

I swam on to and fro beneath the doorway, with the little platform hanging by one end far above my had, and once as I swam my foot seemed to touch something, which might have been a piece of the sunken wood or iron work, but which made me shrink as if some horrible monster had made a snatch at me.

I shouted, but there was only the hollow echoing of the stone chamber and the lapping and whispering of the water; and, knowing that I was alone locked in the works, the terrible idea began to dance before me that I was going to die, for unless I could save myself I need not expect help.

The thought unnerved me more and more and made me swim more rapidly in the useless fashion I was pursuing, and once more I stared in a shrinking way at the great wheel, which, innocent enough in itself, seemed a more terrible engine than ever. I knew it would move if I swam across and clung to it, and I really dared not go near.