"Patience Wins" (continued 6)

Yes, I could feel plainly enough the young ruffians dragging at me, and in their eagerness and number fighting one against the other.

“In wi’ him!”

“Dook him, lads!”

“Now, then, all together!”

I heard all these cries mingled together, and mixed up with the busy hands and faces, I seemed to see the row of houses, the clear sky, the waters of the dam, and Gentles the grinder leaning against a door and looking on.

I was being lifted amidst shouts and laughter, and I knew that the next moment I should be in the dam, when there was a tremendous splash, and some drops of water sprinkled my face.

Then there was the rattle of the handle of a bucket, and another splash heard above all the yelling and shouting of the boys. There was the hollow sound of a pail banged against something hard, and mingled with cries, shouts, laughter, and ejaculations of pain I felt myself fall upon the path, to be kicked and trampled on by someone contending, for there were slaps, and thuds, and blows, the panting and hissing of breath; and then the clanging of bells near and bells far, buzzing in ears, the rush and scuffling of feet, with shouts of derision, defiance, and laughter, and then, last of all, a curious cloud of mist seemed to close me in like the fog on the Dome Tor, and out of this a shrill angry voice cried:

“Ah, ye may shout, but some on ye got it. Go and dry yourselves at the furnace, you cowardly young shacks. Hey, bud I wish I’d hed holt o’ yon stick!”

“Yon stick!” I felt must be mine; but my head was aching, and I seemed to go to sleep.

“I wish you’d be quiet,” I remember saying. “Let me be.”

“Fetch some more watter, mester,” said a pleasant voice, and a rough hand was laid upon my forehead, but only to be taken away again, and that which had vexed and irritated we went on again, and in a dreamy way I knew it was a sponge that was being passed over my face.

“I fetched Mester Tom one wi’ bottom o’ the boocket, and I got one kick at Tom, and when the two boys come home to-night they’ll get such a leathering as they never hed before.”

“Nay, let ’em be,” said a familiar voice.

“Let ’em be! D’ye think I’m going to hev my bairns grow up such shacks? Nay, that I wean’t, so yo’ may like it or no. I’d be shamed o’ my sen to stand by and let that pack o’ boys half kill the young gentleman like that.”

“I warn’t going to stop ’em.”

“Not you, mester. Yow’d sooner set ’em on, like you do your mates, and nice things come on it wi’ your strikes and powder, and your wife and bairns wi’ empty cupboard. Yow on’y let me know o’ next meeting, and if I don’t come and give the men a bit o’ my mind, my name arn’t Jane Gentles.”

“Yow’d best keep thy tongue still.”

“Mebbe you think so, my man, but I don’t.”

My senses had come back, and I was staring about at the clean kitchen I was in, with carefully blackleaded grate and red-brick floor. Against the open door, looking out upon the dam, and smoking his pipe, stood—there was no mistaking him—our late man, Gentles; while over me with a sponge in her hand, and a basin of water by her on a chair, was a big broad-shouldered woman with great bare arms and a pleasant homely face, whose dark hair was neatly kept and streaked with grey.

She saw that I was coming to, and smiled down at me, showing a set of very white teeth, and her plump face looked motherly and pleasant as she bent down and laid her hand upon my forehead.

“That’s bonny,” she said, nodding her head at me. “You lie still a bit and I’ll mak you a cup o’ tea, and yo’ll be aw reight again. I’m glad I caught ’em at it. Some on ’em’s going to hev sore bones for that job, and so I tell ’em.”

I took her hand and held it in mine, feeling very weak and dreamy still, and I saw Gentles shift round and give me a hasty glance, and then twist himself more round with his back to me.

“Howd up a minute,” she said, passing one strong arm under me and lifting me as if I had been a baby; and almost before I had realised it she slipped off my jacket and placed a cushion beneath my head.

“There, now, lie still,” she said, dabbing my wet hair with a towel. “Go to sleep if you can.”

By this time she was at the other end of the common print-covered couch on which I lay and unlacing my boots, which she drew off.

“There, now thou’lt be easy, my lad. What would thy poor moother say if she saw thee this how?”

I wanted to thank her, but I was too dreamy and exhausted to speak; but I had a strange feeling of dread, and that was, that if I were left alone with Gentles he would, out of revenge, lay hold of me and throw me into the dam, and to strengthen my fancy I saw him keep turning his head in a furtive way to glance at me.

“Here,” exclaimed the woman sharply, “take these here boots out to the back, mester, and clean ’em while I brush his coat.”

“Eh?” said Gentles.

“Tak them boots out and brush ’em. Are yo’ deaf?”

“Nay, I’m not going to clean his boots,” growled Gentles.

“Not going to clean the bairn’s boots!” said the woman sharply; “but I think thou art.”

She left me, went to the door, took Gentles’ pipe from his mouth, and then thrust the boots under his arm, laying a great hand upon his shoulder directly after, and seeming to lead him to a door behind me, through which she pushed him, with an order to make haste.

“Yes,” she said, tightening her lips, and smiling, as she nodded to me, “I’m mester here, and they hev to mind. Was it thou as set the big trap ketched my mester by the leg?”

I never felt more taken aback in my life; but I spoke out boldly, and said that it was I.

“And sarve him right. Be a lesson to him. Mixing himself up wi’ such business. I towd him if he crep into people’s places o’ neets, when he owt to hev been fast asleep i’ bed wi’ his wife and bairns, he must reckon on being ketched like a rat. I’d like to knock some o’ their heads together, I would. They’re allus feitin’ agen the mesters, and generally for nowt, and it’s ooz as has to suffer.”

Mrs Gentles had told me to try and sleep, and she meant well; but there were two things which, had I been so disposed, would thoroughly have prevented it, and they were the dread of Gentles doing something to be revenged upon me, and his wife’s tongue.

For she went on chattering away to me in the most confidential manner, busying herself all the time in brushing my dusty jacket on a very white three-legged table, after giving the cloth a preliminary beating outside.

“There,” she said, hanging it on a chair; “by and by you shall get up and brush your hair, and I’ll give you a brush down, and then with clean boots you will not be so very much the worse.”

She then sat down to some needlework, stitching away busily, and giving me all sorts of information about her family—how she had two boys out at work at Bandy’s, taking it for granted that I knew who Bandy’s were; that she had her eldest girl in service, and the next helping her aunt Betsey, and the other four were at school.

All of which was, no doubt, very interesting to her; but the only part that took my attention was about her two boys, who had, I knew, from what I overheard, been in the pack that had so cruelly hunted me down.

And all this while I could hear the slow brush, brush at my boots, evidently outside the back-door, and I half expected to have them brought back ripped, or with something sharp inside to injure me when I put them on.

At last, after Mrs Gentles had made several allusions to how long “the mester” was “wi’ they boots,” he came in, limping slightly, and after closing the door dropped them on the brick floor.

“Why, Sam!” exclaimed Mrs Gentles, “I’d be ashamed o’ mysen—that I would!”

But Gentles did not seem to be in the slightest degree ashamed of himself, but took his pipe from the shelf, where his wife had laid it, struck a match, relit it, and went off with his hands in his pockets.

Mrs Gentles rose and followed him to the door, and then returned, with her lips tightened and an angry look in her face.

“Now he’s gone off to booblic,” she said angrily, “to hatch up and mess about and contrive all sorts o’ mischief wi’ them as leads him on. Oh the times I’ve telled him as they might make up all the differ by spending the time in work that they do in striking again’ a sixpence took off or to get one putt on! Ay, but we missuses have but a sorry time!”

The absence of Gentles’ furtive look sent back at me from the door seemed to change the effect of his wife’s voice, which by degrees grew soothing and soft, and soon after I dropped off asleep, and dreamed of a curious clinking going on, from which dream I awoke, with my head cooler, and Mrs Gentles bending over me and fanning my face with what looked like an old copy-book.

I looked at her wonderingly.

“That’s better,” she said. “Now set up and I’ll help thee dress; and here’s a nice cup of tea ready.”

“Oh, thank you!” I said. “What time is it?”

“Close upon five, and I thowt you’d be better now after some tea.”

She helped me on with my jacket, and I winced with pain, I was so stiff and sore. After this she insisted upon putting on my boots.

“Just as if I heven’t done such things hundreds of times,” she said cheerfully. “Why, I used to put on the mester’s and tak ’em off all the time his leg was bad.”

“I’m sorry I set that trap,” I said, looking up at her rough, pleasant face, and wondering how such a sneaking, malignant fellow could have won so good a wife.

“I’m not,” she said laughing. “It sarved him right, so say no more about it.”

That tea was like nectar, and seemed to clear my head, so that I felt nearly recovered save when I tried to rise, and then I was in a good deal of pain. But I deemed myself equal to going, and was about to start when I missed my cap.

“Hey, but that’ll be gone,” she said. “Oh, they boys! Well, yow must hev Dick’s.”

Before I could protest she went upstairs, and returned with a decent-looking cap, which I promised to return, and then, bidding my Samaritan-like hostess good-bye, I walked firmly out of her sight, and then literally began to hobble, and was glad as soon as I could get into the main road to hail one of the town cabs and be driven home, not feeling strong enough to go to the works and tell of my mishap.

Mr Tomplin came in that evening after Uncle Dick had heard all my narrative and Uncle Bob had walked up and down the room, driving his fist into his hand every now and then with a loud pat.

We had had a long conversation, in which I had taken part with a terribly aching head, and I should have gone to bed only I would not show the white feather.

For they all three made this a reason why I should give up to them, and after all go back.

“You see the men are dead against us, Cob, and the boys follow suit, and are against you.” So said Uncle Dick.

“All the men are not against you,” I said. “Look at Pannell! He has come round, and,” I added, with a laugh that hurt me horribly, “I shall have some of the boys come round and help me.”

“The young scoundrels!” cried Uncle Bob. Pat—that was his fist coming down into his hand. “The young scoundrels!”

“Well, you’ve said that twenty times at least, Bob,” said Uncle Jack.

“Enough to make me!” said Uncle Bob sharply. “The young scoundrels!” Pat.

“I only wish I’d been there with a good handy riding-whip,” said Uncle Jack. “There would have been some wailing among them.”

“Yes; and summonses for assault, and all that bother,” said Uncle Dick. “We don’t want to come to blows, Jack, if we can help it.”

“They are beyond bearing,” cried Uncle Bob, keeping up his walk; “the young scoundrels!” Pat.

“My dear Bob,” cried Uncle Dick, who was very much out of temper; “if you would be kind enough to leave off that trot up and down.”

“Like a hungry lion,” said Uncle Jack.

“In the Zoo,” cried Uncle Dick, “you would very much oblige me.”

“I can’t sit down,” said Uncle Bob, thumping his hand. “I feel too much excited.”

“Then bottle it up for future use,” said Uncle Dick. “You really must.”

“To attack and hurt the boy in that way! It’s scandalous. The young ruffians—the young savages!”

Just then Mr Tomplin came in, looked sharply round, and saw there was something wrong.

“I beg your pardon,” he said quickly; “I’ll look in another time.”

“No, no,” said Uncle Bob. “Pray sit down. We want your advice. A cruel assault upon our nephew here”—and he related the whole affair.

“Humph!” ejaculated Mr Tomplin, looking hard at me.

“What should you advise—warrants against the ringleaders?”

“Summonses, Mr Robert, I presume,” said Mr Tomplin. “But you don’t know who they were?”

“Yes; oh, yes!” cried Uncle Bob eagerly. “Two young Gentles.”

“But you said the mother saved our young friend here from the lads, dowsed them and trounced them with a pail, and made her husband clean his boots, while she nursed him and made him tea.”

“Ye–es,” said Uncle Bob.

“Well, my dear sir, when you get summonses out against boys—a practice to which I have a very great objection—it is the parents who suffer more than their offspring.”

“And serve them right, sir, for bringing their boys up so badly.”

“Yes, I suppose so; but boys will be boys,” said Mr Tomplin.

“I don’t mind their being boys,” said Uncle Bob angrily; “what I do object to is their being young savages. Why, sir, they half-killed my nephew.”

“But he has escaped, my dear sir, and, as I understand it, the mother has threatened to—er—er—leather the boys well, that was, I think, her term—”

“Yes,” I said, rather gleefully, “leather them.”

“And judging from the description I have heard of this Amazon-like lady, who makes her husband obey her like a sheep, the young gentlemen’s skins will undergo rather a severe tanning process. Now, don’t you think you had better let the matter stand as it is? And, speaking on the lex talionis principle, our young friend Jacob here ought to be able to handle his fists, and on the first occasion when he met one of his enemies he might perhaps give him a thrashing. I don’t advise it, for it is illegal, but he might perhaps by accident. It would have a good effect.”

“But you are always for letting things drop, Mr Tomplin,” said Uncle Bob peevishly.

“Yes; I don’t like my friends to go to law—or appeal to the law, as one may say. I am a lawyer, and I lose by giving such advice, I know.”

“Mr Tomplin’s right, Bob,” said Uncle Jack. “You think of that boy as if he were sugar. I’m sure he does not want to take any steps; do you, Cob?”

“No,” I said; “if I may—”

I stopped short.

“May what?”

“Have a few lessons in boxing. I hate fighting; but I should like to thrash that big boy who kept hitting me most.”

Chapter Twenty Four.

Uncle Jack and I have a Run.

I did not have any lessons in boxing, in spite of my earnest desire.

“We do not want to be aggressors, Cob,” said my Uncle Dick.

“But we want to defend ourselves, uncle.”

“To be sure we do, my lad,” he said; “and we’ll be ready as we can when we are attacked; but I don’t see the necessity for training ourselves to fight.”

So I did not meet and thrash my enemy, but went steadily on with my duties at the works.

In fact I was very little the worse for my adventure, thanks to Mrs Gentles, to whom I returned the cap she had lent me and thanked her warmly for her goodness.

She seemed very pleased to see me, and told me that her “mester” was quite well, only his leg was a little stiff, and that he was at work now with her boys.

The matters seemed now to have taken a sudden turn, as Mr Tomplin said they would: the men were evidently getting over their dislike to us and the new steel, making it up and grinding it in an ill-used, half contemptuous sort of way, and at last the necessity for watching by night seemed so slight that we gave it up.

But it was felt that it would not be wise to give up the air of keeping the place looked after by night, so old Dunning the gate-keeper was consulted, and he knew of the very man—one who had been a night watchman all his life and was now out of work through the failure of the firm by whom he had been employed.

In due time the man came—a tall, very stout fellow, of about sixty, with a fierce look and a presence that was enough to keep away mischief by the fact of its being known that he was there.

He came twice, and was engaged to be on duty every night at nine; and in the conversation that ensued in the office he took rather a gruff, independent tone, which was mingled with contempt as he was told of the attempts that had been made.

“Yes,” he said coolly; “it’s a way the hands have wherever new folk come and don’t hev a reg’lar watchman. There wouldn’t hev been none of that sort o’ thing if I had been here.”

“Then you don’t expect any more troubles of this kind?”

“More! Not likely, mester. We’ve ways of our own down here; and as soon as the lads know that Tom Searby’s on as watchman there’ll be no more trouble.”

“I hope there will not,” said Uncle Dick as soon as the man had gone. “It will be worth all his wages to be able to sleep in peace.”

About this time there had been some talk of my father and mother coming down to Arrowfield, but once more difficulties arose in town which necessitated my father’s stay, and as my mother was rather delicate, it was decided that she should not be brought up into the cold north till the springtime came again.

“All work and no play makes—you know the rest,” said Uncle Jack one morning at breakfast. “I won’t say it, because it sounds egotistic. Cob, what do you say? Let’s ask for a holiday.”

“Why not all four go?” I said eagerly; for though the works were very interesting and I enjoyed seeing the work go oil, I was ready enough to get away, and so sure as the sun shone brightly I felt a great longing to be off from the soot and noise to where the great hills were a-bloom with heather and gorse, and tramp where I pleased.

Uncle Dick shook his head.

“No,” he said; “two of us stay—two go. You fellows have a run to-day, and we’ll take our turn another time.”

We were too busy to waste time, and in high glee away we went, with no special aim in view, only to get out of the town as soon as possible, and off to the hills.

Uncle Jack was a stern, hard man in the works, but as soon as he went out for a holiday he used to take off twenty years, as he said, and leave them at home, so that I seemed to have a big lad of my own age for companion.

It was a glorious morning, and our way lay by the works and then on past a series of “wheels” up the valley, in fact the same route I had taken that day when I was hunted by the boys.

But I had Uncle Jack by my side, and in addition it was past breakfast time, and the boys were at work.

We had nearly reached the dam into which I had so narrowly escaped a ducking, and I was wondering whether Uncle Jack would mind my just running to speak to the big honest woman in the row of houses we were about to pass, when he stood still.

“What is it?” I said.

“Cob, my lad,” he cried, “I want a new head or a new set of brains, or something. I’ve totally forgotten to ask your Uncle Dick to write to the engineer about the boiler.”

“Let me run back,” I said.

“Won’t do, my boy; must see him myself. There, you keep steadily on along the road as if we were bound for Leadshire, and I’ll overtake you in less than half an hour.”

“But,” I said, “I was going this way to meet Uncle Dick that day when he went to buy the stones, and what a holiday that turned out!”

“I don’t think history will repeat itself this time, Cob,” he replied.

“But will you be able to find me again?”

“I can’t help it if you keep to the road. If you jump over the first hedge you come to, and go rambling over the hills, of course I shall not find you.”

“Then there is no fear,” I said; and he walked sharply back, while I strode on slowly and stopped by the open window of one factory, where a couple of men were spinning teapots.

“Spinning teapots!” I fancy I hear some one say; “how’s that done?”

Well, it has always struck me as being so ingenious and such an example of what can be done by working on metal whirled round at a great speed, that I may interest some one in telling all I saw.

The works opposite which I stopped found their motive power in a great wheel just as ours did, but instead of steel being the metal used, the firm worked in what is called Britannia metal, which is an alloy of tin, antimony, zinc, and copper, which being mixed in certain proportions form a metal having the whiteness of tin, but a solidity and firmness given by the three latter metals, that make it very durable, which tin is not.

“Oh, but,” says somebody, “tin is hard enough! Look at the tin saucepans and kettles in every kitchen.”

I beg pardon; those are all made of plates of iron rolled out very thin and then dipped in a bath of tin, to come out white and silvery and clean and ready to keep off rust from attacking the iron. What people call tin plates are really tinned plates. Tin itself is a soft metal that melts and runs like lead.

As I looked through into these works, one man was busy with sheets of rolled-out Britannia metal, thrusting them beneath a stamping press, and at every clang with which this came down a piece of metal like a perfectly flat spoon was cut out and fell aside, while at a corresponding press another man was holding a sheet, and as close as possible out of this he was stamping out flat forks, which, like the spoons, were borne to other presses with dies, and as the flat spoon or fork was thrust in it received a tremendous blow, which shaped the bowl and curved the handle, while men at vices and benches finished them off with files.

I had seen all this before, and how out of a flat sheet of metal what seemed like beautiful silver spoons were made; but I had never yet seen a man spin a teapot, so being holiday-time, and having to wait for Uncle Jack, I stood looking on.

I presume that most boys know a lathe when they see it, and how, out of a block of wood, ivory, or metal, a beautifully round handle, chess-man, or even a perfect ball can be turned.

Well, it is just such a lathe as this that the teapot spinner stands before at his work, which is to make a handsome tea or coffee-pot service.

But he uses no sharp tools, and he does not turn his teapot out of a solid block of metal. His tool is a hard piece of wood, something like a child’s hoop-stick, and fixed to the spinning-round part of the lathe, the “chuck,” as a workman would call it, is a solid block of smooth wood shaped like a deep slop-basin.

Up against the bottom of this wooden sugar-basin the workman places a flat round disc or plate of Britannia metal—plate is a good term, for it is about the size or a little larger than an ordinary dinner plate. A part of the lathe is screwed up against this so as to hold the plate flat up against the bottom of the wooden sugar-basin; the lathe is set in motion and the glistening white disc of metal spins round at an inconceivable rate, and becomes nearly invisible.

Then the man begins to press his wooden stick up against the centre of the plate as near as he can go, and gradually draws the wooden tool from the centre towards the edge, pressing it over the wooden block of basin shape.

This he does again and again, and in spite of the metal being cold, the heat of the friction, the speed at which it goes, and the ductility of the metal make it behave as if it were so much clay or putty, and in a very short time the wooden tool has moulded it from a flat disc into a metal bowl which covers the wooden block.

Then the lathe is stopped, the mechanism unscrewed, and the metal bowl taken off the moulding block, which is dispensed with now, for if the spinner were to attempt to contract the edges of his bowl, as a potter does when making a jug, the wooden mould could not be taken out.

So without the wooden block the metal bowl is again fixed in the lathe, sent spinning-round, the stick applied, and in a very short time the bowl, instead of being large-mouthed, is made to contract in a beautiful curve, growing smaller and smaller, till it is about one-third of its original diameter, and the metal has seemed to be plastic, and yielded to the moulding tool till a gracefully formed tall vessel is the result, with quite a narrow mouth where the lid is to be.

Here the spinner’s task is at an end. He has turned a flat plate of metal into a large-bodied narrow-mouthed metal pot as easily as if the hard cold metal had been clay, and all with the lathe and a piece of wood. There are no chips, no scrapings. All the metal is in the pot, and that is now passed on to have four legs soldered on, a hole cut for the spout to be fitted; a handle placed where the handle should be, and finally hinges and a lid and polish to make it perfect and ready for someone’s tray.

I stopped and saw the workman spin a couple of pots, and then thinking I should like to have a try at one of our lathes, I went on past this dam and on to the next, where I meant to have a friendly word with Mrs Gentles if her lord and master were not smoking by the door.

I did not expect to see him after hearing that he was away at work; but as it happened he was there.

For as I reached the path along by the side of the dam I found myself in the midst of a crowd of women and crying children, all in a state of great excitement concerning something in the dam.

I hurried on to see what was the matter, and to my astonishment there was Gentles on the edge of the dam, armed with an ordinary long broom, with which he was trying to hook something out of the water—what, I could not see, for there was nothing visible.

“Farther in—farther in,” a shrill voice cried, making itself heard over the gabble of fifty others. “My Jenny says he went in theer.”

I was still some distance off, but I could see Gentles the unmistakable splash the broom in again, and then over and over again, while women were wringing their hands, and giving bits of advice which seemed to have no effect upon Gentles, who kept splashing away with the broom.

Just then a tall figure in bonnet and shawl came hurrying from the other end of the path, and joined the group about the same time as I did.

There was no mistaking Mrs Gentles without her voice, which she soon made heard.

“Whose bairn is it?” she cried loudly, and throwing off her bonnet and shawl as she spoke.

“Thine—it’s thy little Esau—playing on the edge—got shoved in,” was babbled out by a dozen women; while Gentles did not speak, but went on pushing in the broom, giving it a mow round like a scythe, and pulling it out.

“Wheer? Oh, my gracious!” panted Mrs Gentles, “wheer did he go in?”

Poor woman! A dozen hands pointed to different parts of the bank many yards apart, and I saw her turn quite white as she rushed at her husband and tore the broom from his hands.

“What’s the good o’ that, thou Maulkin,” (scarecrow) she cried, giving him a push that sent him staggering away; and without a moment’s hesitation she stooped, tightened her garments round her, and jumped right into the dam, which was deeper than she thought, for she went under in the great splash she made, losing her footing, and a dread fell upon all till they saw the great stalwart woman rise and shake the water from her face, and stand chest deep, and then shoulder deep, as, sobbing hysterically, she reached out in all directions with the broom, trying to find the child.

“Was it anywheers about here—anywheers about here?” she cried, as she waded to and fro in a state of frantic excitement, and a storm of affirmations responded, while her husband, who seemed quite out of place among so many women, stood rubbing his head in a stolid way.

“Quiet, bairns!” shrieked one of the women, stamping her foot fiercely at the group of children who had been playing about after childhood’s fashion in the most dangerous place they could find.

Her voice was magical, for it quelled a perfect babel of sobs and cries. And all the while poor Mrs Gentles was reaching out, so reckless of herself that she was where the water reached her chin, and could hardly keep her footing.

“Call thysen a man!” shouted the woman who had silenced the children. “Go in or thou’llt lose thy wife and bairn too.”

But Gentles paid no heed to the admonition. He stood rubbing his ear softly, though he gave a satisfied grunt as he saw the fierce virago of a woman who had spoken, leap in after Mrs Gentles, and wade out so as to hold her left hand.

Where had the child tumbled in? No one knew, for the frightened little ones who had spread the news, running away home as soon as their playmate had toppled in with a splash, were too scared to remember the exact spot.

I had not been idle all this time, but as the above scene was in progress I had taken off jacket, vest, and cap, handing them to a woman to hold, and had just finished kicking off my boots and socks, carefully watching the surface of the water the while, under the impression that the poor child would rise to the surface.

All at once I caught sight of something far to the right of us, and evidently being taken by the current towards the sluice where the big wheel was in motion.

It might be the child, or it might only be a piece of paper floating there, but I had no time to investigate that, and, running along the path till I was opposite the place, I plunged head-first in, rose, shook the water from my eyes, and swam as rapidly as my clothes would allow towards the spot.

The women set up a cry and the children shrieked, and as I swam steadily on I could hear away to my left the two women come splashing and wading through the water till they were opposite to where I was swimming.

“Oh, quick! Quick, my lad!” cried Mrs Gentles; and her agonised voice sent a thrill through me far more than did the shrieking chorus of the women as they shouted words of encouragement to me to proceed.

I did not need the encouragement, for I was swimming my best, not making rapid strokes, but, as Uncle Jack had often shown me in river and sea, taking a long, slow, vigorous stroke, well to the end, one that is more effective, and which can be long sustained.

But though I tried my best, I was still some feet from the spot where I had seen the floating object, when it seemed to fade away, and there was nothing visible when I reached the place.

“There! There!” shrieked Mrs Gentles; “can’t you see him—there?”

She could not see any more than I could, as I raised myself as high as possible, treading water, and then paddling round like a dog in search of something thrown in which has sunk.

The little fellow had gone, and there was nothing for it but to dive, and as I had often done before, I turned over and went down into the black water to try and find the drowning child.

I stayed down as long as I could, came up, and looked round amidst a tremendous chorus of cries, and then dived again like a duck.

Pray, don’t think I was doing anything brave or heroic, for it seemed to me nothing of the kind. I had been so drilled by my uncles in leaping off banks, and out of a boat, and in diving after eggs thrown down in the clear water, that, save the being dressed, it was a very ordinary task to me; in fact, I believe I could have swum steadily on for an hour if there had been any need, and gone on diving as often as I liked.

So I went under again and again, with the current always taking me on toward the sluice, and giving way to it; for, of course, the child would, I felt, be carried that way too.

Every time I rose there was the shrieking and crying of the women and the prayerful words of the mother bidding me try; and had not her woman friend clung to her arm, I believe she would have struggled into deep water and been drowned.

I caught glimpses of her, and of Gentles standing on the bank rubbing his ear as I dived down again in quite a hopeless way now, and, stopping down a much shorter time, I had given a kick or two, and was rising, when my hands touched something which glided away.

This encouraged me, and I just took my breath above water, heard the cries, and dived again, to have the water thundering in my ears.

For a few moments I could feel nothing; then my left hand touched a bundle of clothes, and in another moment I was at the surface with the child’s head above water, and swimming with all my might for the side.

There was a wild shriek of excitement to greet me, and then there was very nearly a terrible catastrophe for finale to the scene, for, as soon as she saw that I had hold of her child, the frantic mother shook off her companion, and with a mingling of the tragic and ludicrous reached out with the broom to drag us both in.

Her excitement was too much for her; she took a step forward to reach us, slipped into deep water, went under, and the next minute she had risen, snatched at me, and we were struggling together.

I was quite paralysed, while the poor woman had lost her head completely, and was blind by trying to save herself—holding on to me with all her might.

Under the circumstances it is no wonder that I became helpless and confused, and that we sank together in the deep water close now to the dam head, and then all was black confusion, for my sensations were very different to what they were when I made my voluntary dives.

It was matter of moments, though, and then a strong hand gripped me by the arm, we were dragged to the side, and a dozen hands were ready to help us out on to the bank.

“Give me the child,” said a strange voice. “Which is the house? Here—the mother and one woman, come. Keep the crowd away.”

In a confused way I saw a tall man in black take the child in his arms, and I thought how wet he would make himself; while Mrs Gentles, panting and gasping for breath, seized me by the hand; and then they passed on in the middle of the crowd, augmented by a number of workmen, and disappeared into the cottage I knew so well.

“What! Was it you, Uncle Jack?” I said, looking up in his grave big eyes.

“Yes, my boy; and I only just came in time. How are you?”

“Horribly wet,” I said grimly and with a shiver. Then forcing a laugh as he held my hands tightly in his. “Why, you’re just as bad.”

“Yes, but you—are you all right?”

“Oh, yes, uncle! There’s nothing the matter with me.”

“Then come along and let’s run home. Never mind appearances; let’s get into some dry clothes. But I should like to hear about the child.”

It was an easy thing to say, but not to do. We wanted to go to Gentles’ house, but we were surrounded by a dense crowd; and the next minute a lot of rough men were shaking both Uncle Jack’s hands and fighting one with the other to get hold of them, while I—

Just fancy being in the middle of a crowd of women, and all of them wanting to throw their arms round me and kiss me at once.

That was my fate then; and regardless of my resistance one motherly body after another seized me, kissing my cheeks roundly, straining me to her bosom, and calling me her “brave lad!” or her “bonny bairn!” or “my mahn!”

I had to be kissed and hand-shaken till I would gladly have escaped for very shame; and at last Uncle Jack rescued me, coming to my side smiling and looking round.

“If he’s thy bairn, mester,” cried the virago-like woman who had helped Mrs Gentles, “thou ought to be proud of him.”

“And so I am,” cried Uncle Jack, laying his hand upon my shoulder.

Here there was a loud “hurrah!” set up by the men, and the women joined in shrilly, while a couple of men with big mugs elbowed their way towards us.

“Here, lay holt, mester,” said one to Uncle Jack; “drink that—it’ll keep out the cold.”

At the same moment a mug was forced into my hand, and in response to a nod from Uncle Jack I took a hearty draught of some strong mixture which I believe was gin and beer.

“How is the child?” said Uncle Jack.

“Doctor says he can’t tell yet, but hopes he’ll pull bairn through.”

“Now, my lads,” said Uncle Jack, “you don’t want us to catch cold?”

“No.—Hurray!”

“Nor you neither, my good women?”

“Nay, God bless thee, no!” was chorused.

“Then good-bye! And if one of you will run down to our place and tell us how the little child is by and by, I’ll be glad.”

“Nay, thou’llt shake han’s wi’ me first,” said the big virago-like woman, whose drenched clothes clung to her from top to toe.

“That I will,” cried Uncle Jack, suiting the action to the word by holding out his; but to his surprise the woman laid her hands upon his shoulders, the tears streaming down her cheeks, and kissed him in simple north-country fashion.

“God bless thee, my mahn!” she said with a sob. “Thou may’st be a Lunnoner, but thou’rt a true un, and thou’st saved to-day as good a wife and mother as ever stepped.”

Here there was another tremendous cheer; and to avoid fresh demonstrations I snatched my clothes from the woman who held them, and we hurried off to get back to Mrs Stephenson’s as quickly and quietly as we could.

Quickly! Quietly! We were mad to expect it; for we had to go home in the midst of a rapidly-increasing crowd, who kept up volley after volley of cheers, and pressed to our sides to shake hands.

That latter display of friendliness we escaped during the finish of our journey; for in spite of all Uncle Jack could do to prevent it, big as he was, they hoisted him on the shoulders of a couple of great furnacemen, a couple more carrying me, and so we were taken home.

I never felt so much ashamed in my life, but there was nothing for it but to be patient; and, like most of such scenes, it came to an end by our reaching Mrs Stephenson’s and nearly frightening her to death.

“Bless my heart!” she cried, “I thought there’d been some accident, and you was both brought home half-killed. Just hark at ’em! The street’s full, and the carts can hardly get by.”

And so it was; for whenever, as I towelled myself into a glow, I peeped round the blind, there was the great crowd shouting and hurrahing with all their might.

For the greater part they were workmen and boys, all in their shirt-sleeves and without caps; but there was a large sprinkling of big motherly women there; and the more I looked the more abashed I felt, for first one and then another seemed to be telling the story to a listening knot, as I could see by the motion of her hands imitating swimming.

Two hours after we were cheered by the news that my efforts had not been in vain, for after a long fight the doctor had brought the child to; and that night, when we thought all the fuss was over, there came six great booms from a big drum, and a powerful brass band struck up, “See, the Conquering Hero comes!” Then the mob that had gathered cheered and shouted till we went to the window and thanked them; and then they cheered again, growing quite mad with excitement as a big strapping woman, in a black silk bonnet and a scarlet shawl, came up to the door and was admitted and brought into the parlour.

I was horrified, for it was big Mrs Gentles, and I had a dread of another scene.

I need not have been alarmed, for there was a sweet natural quietness in the woman that surprised us all, as she said with the tears running down her cheeks:

“I’m only a poor common sort of woman, gentlemen, but I think a deal o’ my bairns, and I’ve come to say I’ll never forget a prayer for the bonny boy who saved my little laddie, nor for the true brave gentleman who saved me to keep them still.”

Uncle Jack shook hands with her, insisting upon her having a glass of wine, but she would not sit down, and after she had drunk her wine she turned to me.

I put out my hand, but she threw her arms round my neck, kissed me quickly on each cheek, and ran sobbing out of the room, and nearly oversetting Mr Tomplin, who was coming up.

“Hallo, my hero!” he cried, shaking hands with me.

“Please, please don’t, Mr Tomplin,” I cried. “I feel as if I’d never do such a thing again as long as I live.”

“Don’t say that, my boy,” he cried. “Say it if you like, though. You don’t mean it. I say, though, you folks have done it now.”

We had done more than we thought, for the next morning when we walked down to the office and Uncle Jack was saying that we must not be done out of our holiday, who should be waiting at the gate but Gentles.

“Ugh!” said Uncle Jack; “there’s that scoundrel. I hate that man. I wish it had been someone else’s child you had saved, Cob. Well, my man,” he cried roughly, “what is it?”

Gentles had taken off his cap, a piece of politeness very rare among his set, and he looked down on the ground for a minute or two, and then ended a painful silence by saying:

“I’ve been a reg’lar bad un to you and yours, mester; but it was the traäde as made me do it.”

“Well, that’s all over now, Gentles, and you’ve come to apologise?”

“Yes, mester, that’s it. I’m down sorry, I am, and if you’ll tek me on again I’ll sarve you like a man—ay, and I’ll feight for thee like a man agen the traäde.”

“Are you out of work?”

“Nay, mester, I can always get plenty if I like to wuck.”

“Do you mean what you say, Gentles?”

“Why, mester, wouldn’t I hev been going to club to-day for money to bury a bairn and best wife a man ivver hed if it hadn’t been for you two. Mester, I’d do owt for you now.”

“I believe you, Gentles,” said Uncle Jack in his firm way. “Go back to your stone.”

Gentles smiled all over his face, and ran in before us whistling loudly with his fingers, and the men all turned out and cheered us over and over again, looking as delighted as so many boys.

“Mr Tomplin’s right,” said Uncle Dick; “we’ve done it at last.”

“No, not yet,” said Uncle Jack; “we’ve won the men to our side and all who know us will take our part, but there is that ugly demon to exorcise yet that they call the traäde.”

That night I was going back alone when my heart gave a sort of leap, for just before me, and apparently waylaying me, were two of the boys who had been foremost in hunting me that day. My temper rose and my cheeks flushed; but they had come upon no inimical errand, for they both laughed in a tone that bespoke them the sons of Gentles, and the bigger one spoke in a bashful sort of way.

“Moother said we was to come and ax your pardon, mester. It were on’y meant for a game, and she leathered us both for it.”

“And will you hev this?” said the other, holding out something in a piece of brown-paper.

“I sha’n’t take any more notice of it,” I said quietly; “but I don’t want any present.”

“There, moother said he’d be over proud to tak it,” said the younger lad resentfully to his brother.

“No, I am not too proud,” I said; “give it to me. What is it?”

“Best knife they maks at our wucks,” said the boy eagerly. “It’s rare stoof. I say, we’re going to learn to swim like thou.”

They both nodded and went away, leaving me thinking that I was after this to be friends with the Arrowfield boys as well as the men.

They need not have put it in the newspaper, but there it was, a long account headed “Gallant rescue by a boy.” It was dressed up in a way that made my cheeks tingle, and a few days later the tears came into my eyes as I read a letter from my mother telling me she had read in the newspaper what I had done, and—

There, I will not set that down. It was what my mother said, and every British boy knows what his mother would say of an accident like that.

It was wonderful how the works progressed after this, and how differently the men met us. It was not only our own, but the men at all the works about us. Instead of a scowl or a stare there was a nod, and a gruff “good morning.” In fact, we seemed to have lived down the prejudice against the “chaps fro’ Lunnon, and their contrapshions;” but my uncles knew only too well that they had not mastered the invisible enemy called the trade.

Chapter Twenty Five.

A Terrible Risk.

“What are you staring at, Cob?”

It was Uncle Jack who spoke, and Uncle Dick had just come up with him, to find me in the yard, looking up at the building.

It was dinner-hour, and all the men had gone but Pannell, who was sitting on a piece of iron out in the yard calmly cutting his bread and meat into squares and then masticating them as if it were so much tilt-hammer work that he had to do by the piece.

“I was thinking, Uncle, suppose they were to set fire to us some night, what should we do?”

“Hah! Yes: not a bad thought,” said Uncle Dick sharply. “Pannell!”

“Hillo!” said that gentleman, rising slowly.

“Finish eating your bread and meat as you go, will you, and buy us twenty-four buckets.”

“Fower-and-twenty boockets,” said Pannell, speaking with his mouth full. “What do yow want wi fower-and-twenty boockets?”

“I’ll show you this evening,” replied my uncle; and, handing the man a couple of sovereigns, Pannell went off, and both Uncle Jack and I laughed at the quick way in which Uncle Dick had determined to be provided for an emergency.

The buckets came, and were run by their handles upon a pole which was supported upon two great hooks in one of the outhouses against the wall of the yard, and some of the men noticed them, but the greater part seemed to pay not the slightest heed to this addition to our defences.

But at leaving time, after a few words from Uncle Dick to Uncle Jack, the latter stood in the yard as the men came out, and said sharply:

“Four-and-twenty men for a window wash. Who’ll help?”

A few months before, such a demand would have been met with a scowl; but quite a little crowd of the men now stopped, and Pannell said with a grin:

“Wonder whether there’ll be a boocket o’ beer efter?”

“Why, of course there will, my lad,” cried Uncle Jack, who ranged the men in order.

“Why, ’tis like being drilled for milishy, mester,” said one man, and there was a roar of laughter as the buckets were passed out of the shed, and the men were placed in two rows, with Uncle Jack at one end, Uncle Dick at the other; the two ends resting, as a soldier would say, on the dam, and on the works.

It was wonderful how a little management and discipline made easy such a business as this, and I could not help smiling as I saw how my idea had been acted upon.

There were a few sharp words of command given, and then Uncle Jack dipped his bucket into the dam from the stone edge where we had bathed poor Piter, filled it, passed it on to Number 1 of the first row, and took a bucket from the last man of the second row, to fill. Meanwhile the first bucket was being passed on from hand to hand through a dozen pairs when it reached Uncle Dick, who seized it, hurled it up against the grimy windows of the works, and then passed it to the first man of the second row.

In a minute or two the men were working like a great machine, the pails being dipped and running, or rather being swung, from hand to hand till they reached Uncle Dick, who dashed the water over the windows, and here and there, while the empty buckets ran back to Uncle Jack.

The men thoroughly enjoyed it, and Pannell shouted that this would be the way to put out a fire. But my uncles did not take up the idea, working steadily on, and shifting the line till the whole of the glazed windows had been sluiced, and a lot of the grit and rubbish washed away from the sills and places, after which the buckets were again slung in a row and the men had their beer, said “Good-night!” quite cheerily, and went away.

“There,” said Uncle Dick, “I call that business. How well the lads worked!”

“Yes,” said Uncle Jack with a sigh of content as he wiped his streaming brow; “we could not have got on with them like that three months ago.”

“No,” said Uncle Bob, who had been looking on with me, and keeping dry; “the medicine is working faster and faster; they are beginning to find us out.”

“Yes,” said Uncle Dick. “I think we may say it is peace now.”

“Don’t be in too great a hurry, my boys,” said Uncle Jack. “There is a good deal more to do yet.”

It is one of the terrible misfortunes of a town like Arrowfield that accidents among the work-people are so common. There was an excellent hospital there, and it was too often called into use by some horror or another.

It would be a terrible tale to tell of the mishaps that we heard of from week to week: men burned by hot twining rods; by the falling of masses of iron or steel that were being forged; by blows of hammers; and above all in the casting-shops, when glowing fluid metal was poured into some mould which had not been examined to see whether it was free from water.

Do you know what happens then? Some perhaps do not. The fluid metal runs into the mould, and in an instant the water is turned into steam, by whose mighty power the metal is sent flying like a shower, the mould rent to pieces, and all who are within range are horribly burned.

That steam is a wonderful slave, but what a master! It is kept bound in strong fetters by those who force its obedience; but woe to those who give it the opportunity to escape by some neglect of the proper precautions.

One accident occurred at Arrowfield during the winter which seemed to give the final touch to my uncles’ increasing popularity with the work-people, and we should have had peace, if it had not been for the act of a few malicious wretches that took place a month or too later.

It was one evening when we had left the works early with the intention of having a good long fireside evening, and perhaps a walk out in the frosty winter night after supper, that as we were going down one of the busy lanes with its works on either side, we were suddenly arrested by a deafening report followed by the noise of falling beams and brickwork.

As far as we could judge it was not many hundred yards away, and it seemed to be succeeded by a terrible silence.

Then there was the rushing of feet, the shouting of men, and a peculiar odour smote upon our nostrils.

“Gunpowder!” I exclaimed as I thought of our escapes.

“No,” said Uncle Dick. “Steam.”

“Yes,” said Uncle Jack. “Some great boiler has burst. Heaven help the poor men!”

Following the stream of people we were not long in reaching the gateway of one of the greatest works in Arrowfield. Everything was in such a state of confusion that our entrance was not opposed; and in a few minutes we saw by the light of flaring gas-jets, and of a fire that had begun to blaze, one of the most terrible scenes of disaster I had ever witnessed.

The explosion had taken place in the huge boiler-house of the great iron-works, a wall had been hurled down, part of the iron-beamed roof was hanging, one great barrel-shaped boiler had been blown yards away as if it had been a straw, and its fellow, about twenty feet long, was ripped open and torn at the rivets, just as if the huge plates of iron of which it was composed were so many postage-stamps torn off and roughly crumpled in the hand.

There was a great crowd collecting, and voices shouted warning to beware of the falling roof and walls that were in a crumbling condition. But these shouts were very little heeded in the presence of the cries and moans that could be heard amongst the piled-up brickwork. Injured men were there, and my uncles were among the first to rush in and begin bearing them out—poor creatures horribly scalded and crushed.

Then there was a cry for picks and shovels—some one was buried; and on these being brought the men plied them bravely till there was a warning shout, and the rescue party had only just time to save themselves from a falling wall which toppled over with a tremendous crash, and sent up a cloud of dust.

The men rushed in again, though, and in an incredibly short space of time they had dug and torn away a heap of broken rubbish, beneath which moans could be heard.

I stood close beside my uncles, as, blackened and covered with dust and sweat, they toiled away, Uncle Jack being the first to chase away the horrible feeling of fear that was upon me lest they should be too late.

“Here he is,” he cried; and in a few minutes more, standing right down in a hole, he lifted the poor maimed creature who had been crying for our help.

There was a tremendous cheer raised here, and the poor fellow was carried out, while Uncle Dick, who, somehow, seemed to be taking the lead, held up his hand.

“Hark!” he said.

But there was no sound.

“If there is no living creature here,” he said, “we must get out. It is not safe to work till the roof has been blown down or fallen. If there is anyone alive, my lads, we must have him out at all risks.”

There was a cheer at this, and then, as soon as he could get silence, Uncle Jack shouted:

“Is anyone here?”

There was a low wailing cry for help far back beyond the ripped-up boiler, and in what, with tottering wall and hanging roof, was a place too dangerous to approach.

“Come, lads, we must have him out,” cried Uncle Dick; but a gentleman, who was evidently one of the managers, exclaimed:

“No, it is too dangerous.”

“Volunteers!” cried Uncle Dick.

Uncle Jack, Uncle Bob, Pannell, Stevens, and four more men went to his side, and in the midst of a deathly silence we saw them go softly in and disappear in the gloom of the great wrecked boiler-house.

Then there was utter silence, out of which Uncle Dick’s voice came loud and clear, but ominously followed by the rattling down of some fragments of brick.

“Where are you? Try and speak.”

A low piteous moan was the reply.

“All right, my lads, down here!” we heard Uncle Jack cry. “No picks—hands, hands.”

“And work gently,” cried Uncle Dick.

Then, in the midst of the gloom we could hear the rattling of bricks and stones, and though we could see nothing we could realise that these brave men were digging down with their hands to try and get out the buried stoker.

The flames burned up brightly, casting curious shadows, and though we could see nothing, lighting the men over their gallant task, while I, as I gazed in, trying to penetrate the gloom, felt as if I ought to be there by my uncles’ side.

This feeling grew so strong that at last I took a few steps forward, but only to be seized by a pair of strong arms and brought back.

“Nay, nay, lad,” said a voice that I started to hear, for it was Gentles’; “there’s plenty risking their lives theer. Yow stay.”

Just then there was a hoarse shriek of terror, a wild yell from the crowd, for a curious rushing rumble was heard, a dull thud, and another cloud of dust came rolling out, looking like smoke as it mingled with the fire.

In the midst of this the men who had been digging in the ruins came rushing out.

“Part of the roof,” cried Uncle Dick, panting, “and the rest’s falling. Are you all here, lads?”

“Ay, all,” was answered as they looked from one to the other in the flickering light.

“Nay, not all,” shouted Stevens. “Owd lad Pannell’s buried alive. I see ’un fall.”

There was a murmur of horror and a burst of wailing, for now a number of women had joined the throng.

“Are you hurt?” I cried anxiously.

“Only a few cuts and bruises, Cob,” said Uncle Dick. “Now, my lads, quick. We must have them out.”

The men stopped short, and there was a low angry murmur like the muttering of a coming storm.

“Quick, my lads, quick!”

There was a hoarse cry for help from out of the ruins, and I knew it must be our poor smith.

“No, sir, stop,” cried the gentleman who had before spoken. “I’d dare anything, but we have sacrificed one life in trying to save others. I have just been round, and I say that at the least movement of the ruins the left wall must come down.”

There was a loud cry of assent to this, and amongst shouts and a confused murmur of voices there came out of the gloom that fearful cry again:

“Help!”

“The wall must fall, men,” cried Uncle Dick loudly. “I can’t stand and hear that cry and not go. Once more volunteers.”

Half a dozen men started out of the crowd; but the peril was too great. They shrank back, and I saw my three uncles standing together in the bright light of the burning building, blackened, bleeding, and in rags.

Then Uncle Dick put out his two hands, and Uncle Jack and Uncle Bob took them. They stood together for a short minute, and then went towards the tottering wall.

“Stop!” cried the gentleman. “You must not risk your lives.”

For answer Uncle Jack turned his great manly face towards us and waved his hand.

Then they disappeared in the gloom, and a curious murmur ran along the great crowd. It was neither sigh, groan, nor cry, but a low hushed murmur of all these; and once more, as a dead silence fell, we heard that piteous cry, followed by a hoarse cheer, as if the sufferer had seen help come.

Then, as we listened in dead silence, the rattling of brickwork came again, mingled with the fluttering of the flames and the crackle and roar of burning as the fire leaped up higher and higher from what had been one of the furnace-holes, and across which a number of rafters and beams had fallen, and were blazing brightly, to light up the horrible scene of ruin.

Battle and crash of bricks and beams, and we all knew that my uncles must be working like giants.

“I daren’t go, Mester Jacob,” whispered Gentles. “I’d do owt for the brave lads, but it’s death to go. It’s death, and I daren’t.”

All at once, as everyone was listening for the fall of the tottering wall, some one caught sight of the moving figures, and a deafening cheer rose up as Uncle Dick appeared carrying the legs and Uncles Jack and Bob the arms of a man.

They came towards where I was standing, so that I was by when poor Pannell was laid down, and I went on one knee by his side.

“Much hurt?” I panted.

“Nay, more scared than hurt, lad,” he said. “I was buried up to my neck, and feeling’s gone out of my legs.”

“Stop now, gentlemen, for heaven’s sake!” cried the manager.

“What! And leave a poor fellow we have promised to come back and help!” cried Uncle Dick with a laugh.

“But it is certain death to go in, gentlemen,” cried the manager passionately. “At the least vibration the roof will fall. I should feel answerable for your lives. I tell you it is death to go.”

“It is moral death to stay away,” cried Uncle Dick. “What would you do, Cob?”

“Go!” I cried proudly, and then I started up panting, almost sobbing, to try and stop them. “No, no,” I cried; “the danger is too great.”

I saw them wave their hands in answer to the cheer that rose, and I saw Pannell wave his with a hoarse “Hooroar!” and then the gloom had swallowed them up again.

“I lay close to the poor lad,” whispered Pannell. “Reg’lar buried alive. Asked me to kill him out of his misery, he did, as I lay there; but I said, ‘howd on, my lad. Them three mesters ’ll fetch us out,’ and so they will.”

“If the roof don’t fall,” said a low voice close by me, and the same voice said, “Lift this poor fellow up and take him to the infirmary.”

“Nay, I weant go,” cried Pannell, “aw want to stay here and see them mesters come out.”

“Let him rest,” said the manager, and upon his asking me I raised Pannell’s head, and let him rest against my chest.

Then amidst the painful silence, and the fluttering and crackling of the fire, we heard again the rattling of bricks and stones; but it was mingled with the falling of pieces from the roof. Then there was a crash and a shriek from the women as a cloud of dust rose, and my heart seemed to stand still, for I felt that my uncles must have been buried; but no, the sound of the bricks and stones being dragged out still went on, and the men gave another cheer.

The manager went round again to the back of the place, and came tearing back with three or four men shouting loudly:

“Come out! Come out! She’s going!”

Then there was a horrible cry, for with a noise like thunder the left side and part of the roof of the building fell.

The dust was tremendous, and it was some minutes before the crowd could rush in armed with shovels and picks to dig out the bodies of the brave men buried.

The murmur was like that of the sea, for every man seemed to be talking excitedly, and as I knelt there by Pannell I held the poor fellow’s hand, clinging to him now, and too much shocked and unnerved to speak.

“They’re killed—they’re killed,” I groaned.

But as I spoke the words the people seemed to have gone mad; they burst into such a tremendous cheer, backing away from the ruins, and dividing as they reached us to make way for my uncles to bear to the side of Pannell the insensible figure of the man they had saved.

That brave act performed for an utter stranger made the Arrowfield men talk of my uncles afterwards as being of what they called real grit; and all through the winter and during the cold spring months everything prospered wonderfully at the works. We could have had any number of men, and for some time it was dangerous for my uncles—and let me modestly say I seemed to share their glory—to go anywhere near a gathering of the workmen, they were so cheered and hero-worshipped.

But in spite of this good feeling there was no concealing the fact that a kind of ill-will was fostered against our works on account of the new inventions and contrivances we had. From whence this ill-will originated it was impossible to say, but there it was like a smouldering fire, ready to break forth when the time should come.

“Another threatening letter,” Uncle Jack would say, for he generally attended to post matters.

“Give it to me,” said Uncle Bob. “Those letters make the best pipe-lights, they are so incendiary.”

“Shall we take any notice—appeal to the men—advertise a reward for the sender?”

“No,” said Uncle Dick. “With patience we have got the majority of the workmen with us. We’ll show them we trust to them for our defence. Give me that letter.”

Uncle Jack passed the insulting threat, and Uncle Dick gummed it and stuck it on a sheet of foolscap, and taking four wafers, moistened them and stuck the foolscap on the office door with, written above it to order by me in a bold text hand:

“Cowards’ Work.”

and beneath it:

“To be Treated with the Contempt it Deserves.”

But as time went on the threats received about what would be done if such and such processes were not given up grew so serious that when Mr Tomplin was told he said that we ought to put ourselves under the care of the police.

“No,” said Uncle Dick firmly; “we began on the principle of being just to our workmen, and of showing them that we studied their interests as well as our own, that we are their friends as well as masters, and that we want them to be our friends.”

“But they will not be,” said Mr Tomplin, shaking his head.

“But they are,” said Uncle Dick. “What took place when I stuck that last threat on the door?”

“The men hooted and yelled and spat upon it.”

“But was that an honest demonstration?”

“I believe it was.”

“Well,” said Mr Tomplin, “we shall see. You gentlemen quite upset my calculations, but I must congratulate you upon the manner in which you have made your way with the men.”

“I wish we could get hold of the scoundrels who send these letters.”

“Yes,” said Mr Tomplin; “the wire-pullers who make use of the men for their own ends, and will not let the poor fellows be frank and honest when they would. They’re a fine race of fellows if they are led right, but too often they are led wrong.”

The days glided on, and as there were no results from these threats we began to laugh at them when they came, especially as Tom Searby the watchman also said they were good for pipe-lights, and that was all.

But one night Uncle Dick took it into his head to go down to the works and see that all was right.

Nothing of the kind had been done before since the watchman came, for everything went on all right; the place was as it should be, no bands were touched, and there seemed to be no reason for showing any doubt of the man; and so Uncle Jack said when Uncle Dick talked of going.

“No, there is no reason,” said Uncle Dick; “but I cannot help feeling that we have been lulling ourselves too much into a feeling of security about the place. I shall wait till about one o’clock, and then walk down.”

“No, no,” said Uncle Jack; “I’m tired. Had a very heavy day, and of course you cannot go alone.”

“Why not?”

“Because we should not let you. Even Cob would insist upon going.”

“Of course!” I said. “I had made up my mind to go.”

“It’s quite right,” said Uncle Bob. “We’ve been remiss. When sentries are set the superior officers always make a point of going their rounds to see if they are all right. Go, Dick, and we’ll come with you.”

Uncle Dick protested, but we had our own way, and about a quarter to one on a bitter March night we let ourselves out and walked down to the works.

For my part I would far rather have gone to bed, but after a few minutes the excitement of the proceeding began to assert itself, and I was bright and wakeful enough.

We walked quickly and briskly on till we came to the lane by the factory wall; but instead of turning down we all walked on along the edge of the dam, which gleamed coldly beneath the frosty stars. It was very full, for there had been a good deal of rain; and though the air was frosty there was a suggestion of change and more rain before long.

When we reached the top of the dam we turned and looked back.

Everything was as quiet as could be, and here and there the glow from the lowered furnace-fires made a faint halo about the dark building, so quiet and still after the hurry and buzz of the day.

As we went back along the dam the wavelets lapped the stone edge, and down below on the other side, as well as by the waste sluice, we could hear the water rushing along towards the lower part of the town, and onward to the big river that would finally carry it to the sea.

We were very silent, for every one was watching the works, till, as Uncle Dick and I reached the lane, we stopped short, for I caught his arm.

I had certainly heard whispering.

There were half a dozen persons down near the gate, but whoever they were they came towards us, said “good-night!” roughly, turned the corner, and went away.

It looked suspicious for half a dozen men to be down there in the middle of the night, but their manner was inoffensive and civil, and we could see nothing wrong.

Uncle Dick slipped his key into the lock, and as he opened the little door in the gate there was a low growl and the rush of feet.

“Piter’s on the watch,” I said quietly, and the growl turned to a whine of welcome.

“Be on the look-out,” said Uncle Dick; “we must speak or Searby may attack us.”

“Right,” said Uncle Jack; “but he had better not.”

The dog did not bark, but trotted on before us, and we could just see him as we took a look round the yard before going into the buildings.

Everything was quite right as far as we could tell. Nothing unusual to be seen anywhere, and we went at last to the main entrance.

“Nothing could be better,” said Uncle Dick. “Only there is no watchman. I say, was I right in coming?”

“Right enough,” replied Uncle Jack; “but look out now for squalls. Men in the dark have a suspicious look.”

We entered, peered in at the great grinding-shop, and then began to ascend the stairs to the upper works.

“All right!” said Uncle Dick. “I wish we had a light. Can you hear him?”

He had stopped short on the landing, and we could hear a low, muttering noise, like a bass saw cutting hard leather.

Score! Score! Score! Slowly and regularly; the heavy breathing of a deep sleeper.

“I’m glad we’ve got a good watcher,” said Uncle Jack drily. “Here, Piter, dog, fetch him out. Wake him then.”

The dog understood him, for he burst into a furious fit of barking and charged up into the big workshop, and then there was a worrying noise as if he were dragging at the watchman’s jacket.

“Get out! Be off! Do you hear!”

“Hi, Searby!” roared Uncle Jack.

There was a plunge, and a rush to the door, and Searby’s big voice cried:

“Stand back, lads, or I’ll blow out thee brains.”

“What with?” said Uncle Bob; “the forge blast? There, come down.”

Searby came down quickly.

“Lucky for yow that one of yo’ spoke,” he said. “I heard you coming, and was lying wait for you. Don’t do it agen, mesters. I might hev half-killed yo’.”

“Next time you lie in wait,” said Uncle Dick, “don’t breathe so loudly, my man, or you will never trap the visitors. They may think you are asleep.”

“Give him another chance,” said Uncle Jack as we went home.

“Yes,” said Uncle Bob; “it is partly our fault. If we had visited him once or twice he would have been always on the watch.”

“Well,” said Uncle Dick, “I don’t want to be unmerciful, and it will be a lesson. He’ll work hard to regain our confidence.”

Next morning there were two letters in strange hands, which Uncle Jack read and then handed round.

One was a threat such as had often been received before; but the other was of a very different class. It was as follows:

“Mesters,—There’s somewhat up. We don’t kno wat, but game o’ some kind’s going to be played. Owd Tommy Searby gos sleep ivvery night, and he’s no good. Some on us gives a look now an’ then o’ nights but yowd beter wetch im place yoursens.—Some frends.”

“That’s genuine,” said Uncle Dick emphatically. “What’s to be done?”

“Go and do as they advise,” said Uncle Jack. “You see we have won the fellows over, and they actually act as a sort of police for us.”

The consequence of this letter was that sometimes all four, sometimes only two of us went and kept watch there of a night, very much to old Searby’s disgust, but we could not afford to heed him, and night after night we lost our rest for nothing.

“Are we being laughed at?” said Uncle Bob wearily one night; “I’m getting very tired of this.”

“So we all are, my dear fellow,” said Uncle Jack: “but I can’t help thinking that it is serious.”

Uncle Jack was right, for serious it proved.

Chapter Twenty Six.

Fire and Water.

One dark night at the end of March we went down to the works all four, meaning to watch two and two through the dark hours. The wind blew hard and the rain fell, and as we reached the lane we could hear the water lapping and beating against the sluice and the stones that formed the head of the dam, while the waste rushed away with a hollow roar.

“Pity to lose so much good power,” said Uncle Jack.

“Sun and wind will bring it back to the hills,” said Uncle Dick gravely. “There is no waste in nature.”

I half expected to see a group of men, friends or enemies, waiting about; but not a soul was in sight, and as we reached the gates I shivered involuntarily and thought that people must have very serious spite against us if they left their snug firesides to attack us on a night like that.

Uncle Dick opened the little door in the gate and we stepped in, but to our surprise there was no low growl and then whine of recognition from Piter.

“That’s strange,” said Uncle Jack suspiciously, and he walked on quickly to the door of the building and listened.

There was no dog there, and his chain and collar did not hang over the kennel as if they had been taken from the dog’s neck. They were gone.

This seemed very strange, and what was more strange still, though we went from grinding-shop to smithy after smithy, furnace house and shed, there was no sign of the dog, and everything seemed to point to the fact that he had been led away by his chain, and was a prisoner somewhere.

“Looks like mischief,” whispered Uncle Bob. “Where’s that scoundrel lying asleep?”

We went upstairs to see, and expected to find our careful watchman carefully curled up somewhere, but there was no snoring this time, and Uncle Bob’s threat of a bucket of water to wake him did not assume substance and action.

For though we searched everywhere it soon became evident that Searby was not present, and that we had come to find the works deserted.

“Then there is going to be some attack made,” said Uncle Dick. “I’m glad we came.”

“Shall you warn the police?” I whispered.

“No,” said Uncle Jack sharply. “If we warn the police the scoundrels will get to know, and no attack will be made.”

“So much the better,” I said. “Isn’t it?”

“No, my lad. If they did not come to-night they would be here some other time when we had not been warned. We are prepared now, so let them come and we may give them such a lesson as shall induce them to leave us in peace for the future.”

“Do you mean to fight, then?” I asked.

“Most decidedly, boy. For our rights, for our place where we win our livelihood. We should be cowards if we did not. You must play the dog’s part for us with your sharp eyes and ears. Recollect we have right on our side and they have wrong.”

“Let’s put the fort in a state of defence,” said Uncle Dick merrily. “Perhaps it will turn out to be all nonsense, but we must be prepared. What do you say—divide in two watches as we proposed, and take turn and turn?”

“No: we’ll all watch together to-night in case anything serious should be meant.”

It did seem so vexatious that a small party of men should be able to keep up this system of warfare in the great manufacturing town. Here had my uncles brought a certain amount of prosperity to the place by establishing these works; the men had found out their worth and respected them, and everything was going on in the most prosperous way, and yet we were being assailed with threats, and it was quite possible that at any moment some cruel blow might be struck.

I felt very nervous that night, but I drew courage from my uncles, who seemed to take everything in the coolest and most matter-of-fact way. They went round to the buildings where the fires were banked up and glowing or smouldering, ready to be brought under the influence of the blast next day and fanned to white heat. Here every precaution was taken to guard against danger by fire, one of the most probable ways of attack, either by ordinary combustion or the swift explosion of gunpowder.

“There,” said Uncle Jack after a careful inspection, “we can do no more. If the ruffians come and blow us up it will be pretty well ruin.”

“While if they burn us we are handsomely insured,” said Uncle Dick.

“By all means then let us be burned,” said Uncle Bob laughing. “There, don’t let’s make mountains of molehills. We shall not be hurt.”

“Well,” said Uncle Dick, “I feel as if we ought to take every possible precaution; but, that done, I do not feel much fear of anything taking place. If the scoundrels had really meant mischief they would have done something before now.”

“Don’t halloa till you are out of the wood,” said Uncle Jack. “I smell danger.”

“Where, uncle?” I cried.

“In the air, boy. How the wind blows! Quite a gale. Brings the smell of naphtha from those works half a mile away. Shows how a scent like that will travel.”

“I say, boys,” said Uncle Bob, “what a trade that would be to carry on—that or powder-mills. The scoundrels would regularly hold one at their mercy.”

“Wind’s rising, and the water seems pretty lively,” said Uncle Dick as we sat together in the office, listening to the noises of the night.

We were quite in the dark, and from time to time we had a look round about the yard and wall and that side of the building, the broad dam on the other side being our protection.

“What a curious gurgling the water makes!” said Uncle Bob as we sat listening; “anyone might think that half a dozen bottles were being poured out at once.”

“The water plays in and out of the crevices amongst the stones, driving the air forth. I’ve often listened to it and thought it was someone whispering out there beneath the windows,” said Uncle Dick.

Then came a loud gust of wind that shook the windows, and directly after there was the strong sour scent of naphtha.

“They must have had an accident—upset a tank or something of the kind,” said Uncle Jack. “How strong it is!”

“Yes; quite stinging. It comes each time with the puffs of wind. I suppose,” continued Uncle Dick, “you would consider that which we smell to be a gas.”

“Certainly,” said Uncle Bob, who was, we considered, a pretty good chemist. “It is the evaporation of the spirit; it is so volatile that it turns of itself into vapour or gas and it makes itself evident to our nostrils as it is borne upon the air.”

“There must be great loss in the manufacture of such a spirit as that.”

“Oh, they charge accordingly!” said Uncle Bob; “but a great deal does undoubtedly pass off into—”

He stopped short, for Uncle Jack laid his hand upon his knee and we all listened.

“Nothing,” said the latter; but I felt sure I heard a noise below.

“I heard the gurgling sound very plainly,” said Uncle Dick. “There it is again. One might almost think there was water trickling into the building.”

“Or naphtha, judging by the smell,” said Uncle Bob. “It’s very curious. I have it!” he cried.

“What do you mean?” said Uncle Jack sharply.

“There has been an accident, as we supposed, at the naphtha works, and a quantity of it has floated down the stream and into our dam.”

“It has been very clever then,” said Uncle Jack gruffly, “for it has floated up stream a hundred yards to get into our dam, and— Good heavens!”

He sprang to the window and threw it open, for at that moment a heavy dull explosion shook the room where we were, and in place of the darkness we could see each other distinctly, for the place seemed to have been filled with reflected light, which went out and then blazed up again.

“Ah!” ejaculated Uncle Jack, “the cowards! If I had a gun!”

I ran to his side, and in the middle of the dam, paddling towards the outer side, there was a sort of raft with three men upon it, and now they were distinctly seen, for the black water of the dam seemed to have suddenly become tawny gold, lit by a building burning furiously on our right. That building was our furnace-house and the set of smithies and sheds that connected it with the grinding-shops and offices.

Uncle Jack banged to the window and took the command.

“Cob,” he cried, “run to the big bell and keep it going. Our lads will come. Dick, throw open the gate; Bob, follow me. Fire drill. We may nip the blaze in the bud.”

The fire-bell was not rung, the gate was not thrown open; for as we ran out of the office and down the stairs it was to step into a pool of naphtha, and in a few instants we found that a quantity had been poured in at the lower windows—to what extent we could not tell—but it was evident that this had been done all along the basement by the scoundrels on the raft, and that they had contrived that some should reach one of the furnaces, with the result that in an instant the furnace-house had leaped into a mass of roaring flame, which the brisk gale was fanning and making the fire run along the naphtha-soaked buildings like a wave.

“Stop, stop!” roared Uncle Jack; “we can do nothing to stay this. Back to the offices and secure all books and papers.”

So swiftly was the fire borne along by the gale that we had hardly time to reach the staircase before it came running along, licking up the naphtha, of which a large quantity had been spilled, and as it caught there were dozens of little explosions.

I do not think either of us gave a thought to how we were to get away again, for the valuable books and plans had to be saved at all hazards; so following Uncle Jack we rushed into the big office, the safe was opened, and as rapidly as possible a couple of tin boxes were filled with account-books, and a number of papers were bound round with string.

“You must look sharp,” said Uncle Bob.

“But we must take my books, and odds and ends, and fishing-tackle,” I cried.

“Better try and save our lives,” said Uncle Bob. “Are you ready?”

“No; there are some plans we must take,” said Uncle Dick.

“You must leave them,” shouted Uncle Bob. “There, you are too late!” he cried, banging to the door at the end of the workshop; “the flame’s coming up the stairs.”

“We can get out of the windows,” said Uncle Jack coolly.

“The place beneath is all on fire,” cried Uncle Bob, flinging himself on his knees. “The floor’s quite hot.”

We should have been suffocated only that there was a perfect rush of cold air through the place, but moment by moment this was becoming hot and poisonous with the gases of combustion. The flames were rushing out of the grinding-shop windows beneath us, and the yard on one side, the dam on the other, were light as day.

In one glance over the fire and smoke I saw our wall covered with workmen and boys, some watching, some dropping over into the yard. While in a similar rapid glance on the other side I saw through the flame and smoke that on one side the dam bank was covered with spectators, on the other there were three men just climbing off a rough raft and descending towards the stream just below.

“Now,” said Uncle Jack, seizing one box, “I can do no more. Each of you take your lot and let’s go.”

“But where?—how?” I panted.

“Phew!”

Uncle Jack gave vent to a long whistle that was heard above the crackling wood, the roar of flames carried along by the wind, and the shouts and cries of the excited crowd in the yard.

“It’s worse than I thought,” said Uncle Jack. “We can’t get down. Keep cool, boys. We must save our papers. Here, there is less fire at that window than at either of the others—let’s throw the boxes out there. They’ll take care of them.”

We ran to the far corner window, but as we reached it a puff of flame and smoke curved in and drove us back.

It was so with every window towards the yard, and escape was entirely cut off.

The men were trying to do something to save us, for there was a tremendous noise and excitement below; but they could do absolutely nothing, so rapidly had the grinding-shop beneath us been turned into a fiery furnace.

And now the flames had mastered the end door, which fell inward, and flame and black and gold clouds of smoke rolled in.

“Quick, Cob!—into the office!” roared Uncle Dick; and I darted in with some of the papers, followed by the rest, Uncle Jack banging to the door.

“Keep cool, all of you,” he cried. “I must save these books and papers.”

“But we must save our lives, Jack,” said Uncle Dick. “The floor’s smoking. Our only chance is to jump into the dam.”

“Through that blaze of flame!” said Uncle Bob gloomily.

“It is our only chance,” said Uncle Jack; “but let’s try to save our boxes as well. They will float if we take care.”

“Now, then, who’s first?”

The window was open, the tin boxes and the packets on the table, the dam beneath but invisible; for the flame and smoke that rose from the window below came like a fiery curtain between us and the water; and it was through this curtain that we should have to plunge.

Certainly it would be a momentary affair, and then we should be in the clear cold water; but the idea of taking such a leap made even my stout uncles shrink and vainly look round for some other means of escape.

But there were none that we could see. Above the roar and crackling of the flames we could hear the shouting of the mob and voices shrieking out more than crying, “Jump! Jump!” Everything, though, was one whirl of confusion; and I felt half-stifled with the terrible heat and the choking fumes that came up between the boards and beneath the door.

It was rapidly blinding as well as confusing us; and in those exciting moments leadership seemed to have gone, and if even I had made a bold start the others would have followed.

At last after what seemed to have been a long space of time, though it was doubtless only moments, Uncle Jack cried fiercely:

“Look: the floor’s beginning to burn. You, Dick, out first, Cob shall follow; and we’ll drop the two tin boxes to you. You must save them. Now! Are you ready?”

“Yes,” cried Uncle Dick, climbing on a chair, and thrusting his arm out of the window.

As he did so, there was a puff like some gigantic firework, and a large cloud of fiery smoke rose up full of tiny sparks; and he shrank back with an ejaculation of pain.

“Hot, Dick?” cried Uncle Jack almost savagely. “Go on, lad; it will be hotter here. In five minutes the floor will be burned through.”

“Follow quickly, Cob,” cried Uncle Dick; and then he paused, for there was a curious rushing noise, the people yelled, and there were shrieks and cries, and above all, a great trampling of feet.

We could see nothing for the flame and smoke that rose before the window; and just then the roar of the flames seemed to increase, and our position became unendurable.

But still that was a curious rushing noise in the air, a roar as of thunder and pouring, hissing rain, and a railway train rushing by and coming nearer and nearer every moment; and then, as Uncle Dick was about to step forth into the blaze and leap into the dam, Uncle Jack caught him and held him back.

Almost at the same moment the rush and roar increased a hundred-fold, confusing and startling us, and then, as if by magic, there was a tremendous thud against the walls that shook the foundations; a fierce hissing noise, and one moment we were standing in the midst of glowing light, the next moment we were to our waists in water dashed against the opposite wall, and all was black darkness.