"I want to ken what has gone wrong with you?" said Mag Robertson, speaking to Black Jock, whom she had called into her house one morning as he returned from the pit for his breakfast.
"There's naething wrang wi' me," he said with cool reserve. "What dae you think is wrang?"
"Ay, it's a' right, Jock," she said, speaking as one who knew he understood her question better than he pretended. "I can see as far through a brick wall as you can see through a whinstone dyke."
"Maybe a bit farther, Mag," he said with a forced laugh, eyeing her coolly. "But what are you driving at?"
"You'll no' ken, I suppose?" she retorted. "Sanny has told me a' aboot it this morning afore he gaed to his work. My! I'd hardly hae looked for this frae you," she went on, her voice suddenly becoming softer and more soothing as if she meant to appeal to his sense of gratitude if any remained within him. "Efter what we've been to yin anither, I never expected you'd dae this. I aye thocht that you'd be loyal as we hae been tae you. We hae made oursel's the outcasts o' the district for you, an' noo you wad turn on us like this. No, I never thocht it o' you at a'!"
"What are you ravin' at this morning?" he asked, in a quiet voice, as if he meant to force her into being more definite. "I don't ken I'm sure what you are drivin' at."
"Dae you no?" she broke in quickly, loosing hold of herself as she saw that her method of attack was not going to succeed. "I hae been suspectin' something for a while. You hinna been in owre my door for three weeks an' that's no your ordinar. But I have seen you gaun in tae Tam Granger's nearly every nicht in that time. An' I can put twa an' twa together. Dae you think we dinna ken the reason that Sanny has lost his contracts an' the reason why Tam Granger has stepped into them? Oh, ay," she cried, her voice rising as she continued. "I can see hoo things are workin'! I ken a' aboot it. Wee Leebie, I suppose, will be afore some o' us noo. The stuck-up limmer that she is. She gangs by folk as brazened as you like, wi' her head in the air, as if she was somebody. You wad think she never had heard o' Willie Broonclod, the packman, that she sloped when she left doon the country. Nae wonder she has braw claes to glaik aboot in; for they were gey easy paid. The dirty glaiket limmer that she is. I wonder she disna think shame o' hersel'."
"What the hell's a' this to me?" asked Walker abruptly breaking in upon her tirade.
"I suppose it'll no' mean onything to you," she returned. "But I just wanted to tell you, that you're no her first, for Willie Broonclod gaed to her lang afore she cam' here, an' she's left him wi' a guid penny that he'll never get. But her man's a contractor noo, makin' big money, an' Jock Walker ca's in to see her whenever he's needfu' an' there's naething sae low as a packman noo for her. The brazen-faced stuck-up baggage that she is. Does she think I dinna ken her? Her, with her hair stuck up in a 'bun' an' her fancy blouses an' buckled shoon, an' a'!" Mag was now very much enraged and she shouted and swore in her anger.
"Ach, gang to hell," he said with brutal callousness. "You're no' hauf a woman like Leebie. She's a tippy wee lass, an' has a way wi' her. She has some spirit, an' is aye snod and nate," and there was a tantalizing smile about his lips that was plainly meant to irritate Mag.
"I was guid enough a gey lang while, an'—"
"Ay, but you've haen a damn'd guid innins," he interrupted. "A dam'd guid innins, an' I canna see what the hell you hae to yowl at."
"A guid innins, you muckle black-hearted brute!" she cried. "By heavens, an' I'll see that you get yours afore I hae done wi' you. Dinna think though I hae been saft wi' you a' along, that I'll ay be like that. Oh, no, I can stand a lot; but you'll find oot that Mag Robertson hasna selt her a' tae you, without driving a hard bargain afore she lets you alone. You can gang back to your tippy wee baggage! Gang to hell, baith you an' her, an' joy be wi' you baith! But I'll put a sprag in your wheel afore you gang far. Mind that! By —— I will! She'll nae toss her heid as she gangs past me as if I was dirt. Her, an' her fine dresses that she never payed for wi' money an' her fal-lals. By heaven! But you hae a fine taste!" She finished up exasperated beyond all control by his coolness.
"Ay, it wad seem so," he laughed brutally. "When I look at you, I begin to wonder what the hell I was lookin' at. You're like a damnationed big lump o' creesh," and he laughed in her face, knowing this would rouse her more than ever. Then as she choked and spluttered in her anger he said: "But what the hell odds is't to you, you baggage?" and his eyes and voice were cold and brutal beyond expression. "Leebie Granger is young," he went on insultingly, in a collected even voice which he strove to make jaunty in tone. "She's as fresh an' young. An' you're auld, an' fat an' as ugly as hell, an' if I dae gang to Leebie you hae damn all to dae wi' it. As I said, you've had your innin's, an' been gey well paid for it, an' I dinna gie a damn for you."
"Dae you no'?" she cried now livid with anger and losing all control over her words and actions, her eyes flashing with maddened rage and the froth working from her lips. "I'll let you ken or no'. I'll tear the pented face off your new doll; and I'll sort you too, you dirty black brute that you are."
"Gang to hell!" he shouted, starting out of the door so suddenly that he almost ran into the next door neighbor who hearing the noise had crept noiselessly on tiptoe to the door the better to hear all that was going on.
"What the hell's wrang wi' you?" he demanded turning in rage upon the eavesdropper. "Have you naething else to dae than that? Gang in an' get your dirty midden o' a hoose cleaned an' I'll see that you don't stay lang in Lowwood to spy on ony mair folk!" and cowering in shame the poor woman backed into the door and shut it, making up her mind that her man would be sacked that day, and wondering where they would flit to, so as to find work and a house.
Walker strode up the row with Mag Robertson shouting behind him and the neighbors all coming to the doors as they passed, and craning their necks, while keeping their bodies safe hidden within the doorways of their homes.
"We're surely gettin' an entertainment the day," observed one fat old woman to another woman two doors away, as they both looked after Mag as she followed Walker up the row, shouting her worst names at him, and vowing what she'd do with Leebie Granger, when she got hands on her.
"Ay," replied the other woman stealing along the wall to the doorway of the older woman, and slipping inside as if she were afraid of being detected. "It's a hell o' a business when blackguards cast oot."
"Wheest, Annie, dinna swear," remonstrated the old woman. "I dinna like to hear folk swearin' at a'. I wonner the Lord disna open the grun' to swallow the half o' the folk noo-a-days; for I never heard sic swearin' a' my life."
"Och, there's nae harm meant," returned Annie, taken aback by the old woman's admonition. "It's jist a habit that folk get into an' they canna help it. But listen to her," she broke off, alluding to Mag Robertson again. "She micht think shame o' hersel', the shameless lump that she is. She'd hae been faur better to hae keepit her mouth shut, Phemie."
"That's true, Annie," replied Phemie. "Listen to her. My, she's no' canny an' she's fairly givin' him a bellyfu'. But they're a' yae swine's pick an' no' yin o' them decent. I wadna be in her shoon for a' the money that ever was made in Lowwood. She micht hae kent hoo it wad end. Hark at her. My, but it's awfu'."
"Keep in, Annie," Phemie admonished as they both craned their necks to look up the row as she saw Walker turning to face Mag. "Dinna let him see you or your man will get the sack. My! but she's layin' it in tae' him. What a tongue."
"Lord bless us! He's strucken her, Phemie," said Annie, clutching her neighbor's shoulder as she spoke. "My, he's gaen her an awfu' blow on the mouth an' knocket her doon. Come inside for as sure as daith it'll end in a coort case, an' I'm no wanting to be mixed up in it," and they went inside and shut the door, looking at each other with frightened eyes. Then Annie, stealing to the window and lifting the curtain a little at the side, gazed sideways up the row, reporting to Phemie everything that happened.
"He's kicking her, Phemie. Eh, the muckle beast that he is. My God, he'll kill her afore he's finished wi' her. He's hitting her on the face every time she tries to rise an' gaein' her anither kick aye when she fa's doon again. Oh! my God, will naebody interfere. He'll kill her as sure as death," and she stepped back with blanched face sickened at the spectacle she had described.
"Here she comes, Annie," said her neighbor after a few moments. "My! what a face. Dinna look you at her," cried Phemie in alarm pushing back Annie who had moved near to the window to get a better view. "In God's name, woman, dinna you look at her. You shouldna ha' looked at onything that has taken place. If onything is wrang wi' your bairn when it is born I'll never forgi'e' mysel' for lettin' you look at this business at a'. Gang awa' back an' sit down an' try an' forget a' aboot what you hae seen. Dinna look up till she gangs back intae the hoose," and the old woman kept Annie sitting back at the bedside in the corner farthest from the window until Mag staggered to her home, her face streaming with blood.
Not a soul was in sight as Mag returned; but many a pair of eyes watched her from behind curtained windows, and expressions of sympathy were common even though her relations with Walker were common knowledge in the village, and had been censured by everyone in consequence for her misdeeds. They all knew why Mag had "opened out" on Walker that morning and the reason she had been set aside for another who pleased his fancy.
Tam Granger and his wife had recently come into the district from a neighboring village, where Leebie's name had been coupled with a local draper's or packman's in some scandal. Black Jock had soon got into contact with them and finding them willing tools he had deserted Sanny and Mag Robertson. All the contracts were taken from Sanny and given to Tam, and it was this that had made Mag watch for Walker coming in for his breakfast, determined to have it out with him, with the result which is chronicled above.
The encounter between Mag and Black Jock was the talk of the village. Mag was mad with rage, and having washed her bruised face, she ramped out and in all day, washing the floor, clattering among dishes and scouring pots and pans. She was working off her anger and swearing and threatening, until most of the other women in the row grew afraid, and kept as much as possible within doors the rest of the day.
When the men returned from work the whole episode had to be gone through and described to them by their wives.
When Sanny Robertson came home that afternoon, he found Mag with swollen lips and half closed eyes and a face bruised all over. He did not have to wait long for explanations. She railed and swore and raged until one wondered from where she got all the energy, and all the strength. It was amazing why she did not collapse altogether.
Sanny sat quietly listening without comment, then washed himself and sat smoking by the fire for a time. He was a quiet go-as-you-please man, not given much to talking. But finally he could stand it no longer, and he took hold of his wife by the shoulder, saying.
"Noo, jist you listen, an' for God's sake shut your mooth. It'll no dae a bit o' guid ravin' like that. We are in a bigger hole noo than ever we hae been in a' oor lives, an' mind that. I've made up my mind what I am gaun tae dae. Sae listen. I'm gaun straucht awa' ower to Rundell's the morn, at the time when Mr. Rundell gangs hame frae the office for his breakfast, an' I'll tell him everything aboot the contracts. Then I'm gaun awa' doon the country tae look for work, an' I'll flit oot o' here an' tae hell wi't. Noo shut up an' gae me peace and quateness for an hoor, so that I can think oot things. You get awa' tae bed. Maybe by richt I should gang doon tae Black Jock an' stap a knife in him—if for nae ither thing than the way he has treated you the day, I should dae that. But I'm no gaun to dae it the noo. I'm no' blaming you for what has happened; for I'm mair to blame than you are. But I'll be even wi' that black beast, an' put an end to his rotten career, someway or another. Sae aff you gang to your bed, an' gie me a quate hoor tae mysel'," and there was such a quiet authoritative ring in his voice that Mag dared not disobey it, and she went quietly off to bed while he sat by the fireside smoking and thinking, and feeling that his home that night must surely be the most unhappy place on God's earth.
About midnight he knocked the ashes from his pipe, and placing it on the mantelpiece, went to bed and soon fell asleep, but Mag, an insane decision taking shape in her brain, lay and brooded and tossed till well on in the morning, when she rose, kindled the fire, "redd up" the house, prepared the breakfast and awoke her husband to partake of the meal she had prepared.
Never a word was spoken between them, and at last Sanny, after washing and dressing, walked out without a word, but fully determined in his heart to get equal with Walker before the day was over.
He went straight to Rundell House, and ringing the bell asked to see the mine owner.
He was shown into a room and Mr. Rundell came to him almost before he had been comfortably seated.
"Well, Sanny," he began genially. "What brings you here this morning?"
"A business that I'd rather no' been comin' on," replied Sanny uneasily shifting on his chair.
"Oh, nothing serious, I hope, is it?"
"Ay, it's serious enough," returned Sanny. "Mair serious than you think, Mr. Rundell; an' I dinna ken what you'll think o' me after I hae telt you."
"Oh, well, in that case," said the mine owner, becoming serious, and speaking with slow deliberation. "Just let me hear what it is all about, and we'll see how matters stand after you have told me," and he sat down in a chair opposite Robertson as he spoke.
"I hae lost my contracts, sir," began Sanny, not knowing how else to open up the subject. "But I'm gaun to tell you the hale story just in my ain way, so I want you to sit quate and no' interrupt me; for I hinna jist the knack of puttin' things maybe as they should be put. But I'll tell you the hale story an' then leave you to do as you like, an' think what you like."
"Very well, Sanny. Just go on. I did not know you had lost them. But just let me hear about the trouble in your own way."
"For gey near twenty year," began Sanny, "I've had maist feck o' the contracts in your pits back and forrit—me an' Tam Fleming. Walker an' us were aye gey thick, an' though it maybe was putten doon to you that oor offer to work ony special job was the cheapest, I may tell you that I never put in an offer in my life for yin o' them. Walker an'—an'" here Sanny stammered a little, "Walker an' oor Mag were gey thick, an' I'm ashamed o' this part o' the story; for I should hae been man enough to protect her frae him. But the money was the thing that did it, Mr. Rundell, an' I'm no' gaun to mak' excuses noo aboot it. But every bargain I had, I had to share the pay, efter the men was payed, penny aboot, wi' Walker. That was ay the bargain. He gaed us the job at his ain feegure, an' we shared the profits wi' him.
"Noo, jist keep yoursel' cool a bit," he said, holding up his hand as Rundell made to speak. "We did gey well," he resumed in his even monotone, like a man who was repeating something he had learned by heart. "But gey soon I found that I was expected to spend a good share o' my pay in drink, while Walker took a', an' never spent a penny. So it was, that for a' the money we made we've been gey little the better o't, an' very much the worse o' it. Without exception we shared penny aboot with Walker on every bargain we got, an' I ken he has a guid bank balance, while I hae nane.
"Noo, this is a rotten story frae end to end o't," he went on after a short pause to wipe his face with a handkerchief. "I allowed him to ruin my wife's character. I kent it was gaun on a' the time; but like mony mair I hae kent, a manager's favor was mair to me than the honor o' a wife. I let him tak' a share o' the money I made, an' spent my ain to keep him up on drink. But noo it's ended a'. A wheen o' weeks syne, a man ca'd Tam Granger came to the place and his wife being young an' fresh, an' guid-looking, besides being free, Walker's fancy was ta'en wi' her. So you ken what it means, when a gaffer carries on like that, an' the man is saft enough as weel as the woman being willin'. Tam got my contracts this week, an' I have to gang back into a common place and howk coals.
"Weel, the wife couldna' stand being slighted like thet, an' Granger's wife had been tantalizin' her too, you ken hoo women rave when they are slighted. So she opened oot on Walker yesterday mornin' an' followed him up the row, the hale place being turned oot to hear her exposure o' him. She fair gaed mad wi' anger I think, an' lost a' control o' hersel' an' she followed him shouting so that a' the neighbors could hear her tauntin' an' jibin' at him, till he could staun it nae langer, an' he turned an' struck her, knockin' her doon on the green, an' then kickin' her, till she's a' bruised ower the body. She has an' awfu' lookin' face too, an' she came in bleeding like a sheep.
"So that's the hale ugly story, Mr. Rundell. As I said I'm gaun to mak' nae excuses. There's nane tae mak'; an' I'm cheap served for it a'. I should hae stood by the wife and protected her. But I'll dae it noo. She's mine, an' if she's no guid it is me that is to blame. I'm leavin', an' I'm gaun awa' doon the country the morn to look for work; but I thocht I'd tell you the whole rotten story first, then I'll get Walker, an' hae a reckonin' wi' him an' be off the morn. I'll pay off that black-hearted brute this day afore I leave Lowwood an' then my conscience will be easier."
Mr. Rundell sat stupefied and amazed at the story just told him by Robertson, and just as both men sat staring at each other and before another word could be said, a miner burst into the room, almost exploding with excitement, crying:—
"Oh, Mr. Rundell, you've to come to the pit at once. A woman has flung herself doon the shaft."
"Guid God! That'll be oor Mag," cried Sanny, starting up and out at the door, running in the direction of the pit and stumbling every few yards in his excitement.
When Sanny had left the house that morning to go and interview Mr. Rundell, Mag, with the insane decision she had made overnight still holding her mind, dressed herself in her best clothes, and without hesitation set off to the pit.
On her way down the row she stepped into Leebie Granger's house very excited though she had been fairly quiet all morning; so quiet in fact that Phemie Grey and Annie Watson could not help remarking upon it.
"She's been awfu' quate a' mornin', Phemie," said Annie, going into her neighbor's house. "She has worked away there as if she was gaun to clean the hale place, scrubbing oot the floor, although she washed yesterday; an' noo, she has on her Sunday best, wi' her new hat on too, an' she's awa' into Leebie Granger's. I wonner what'll hae ta'en her noo."
"Guid kens," replied Phemie, "but she's fair off her heid. Dae ye ken she's just like a daft body. Did you see the look in her e'en?" and so they discussed poor Mag, who had drawn their attention by the strangeness of her behavior.
"Oh, dinna be feart, Leebie," began Mag as she saw Leebie's apprehensive look. "I'm no' gaun to meddle wi' you, although I swore yesterday that I would. You've only done what I did before you. You are young, an' mair pleasin' than I am noo, an', as he said, I hae had a good innins. But, Leebie, you'll hae to look for another fancy man. He'll no' be lang yours. I'll see to that. Him an' me will gang oot thegither, if I can manage it. We've baith been rotten, an' it's richt that we should gang baith at once, an' rid the place o' a dam'd bad sore. Guid day, Leebie. It's a dam'd puir life to leave, an' while it maybe is a woman's lot in life to sell hersel' for ease and comfort, it's a' bad for her when she does it in a way that the world says is a wrang way; for she soon finds that her life isna worth a tinker's curse. She sells hersel' an' it's no worth while complainin' if the bargain turns oot a rotten yin.
"If every woman had plenty of honest work, there wad be nae fancy women, for they wadna ned do it. Guid day, Leebie. Maybe you'll think I'm strange a wee an' maybe so I am. You micht think I'm daft; an' maybe so I am. But after a while when you get time to think, you'll maybe feel that you hae heard mair soond sense oot o' Mag Robertson when she was mad than ever she spoke when she was supposed to be wise. Guid day, Leebie. Think ower a' I have said. I'm no gaun to hurt you; but I'm gaun to tak' Black Jock oot o' your clutches as shair as daith. You've had your innins too; but it has been a dam'd short yin. I've had mine, an' the game is feenished noo. It's time the hale thing was totaled up so that we can see wha is the winner. I've been maybe playin' a losin' game, Leebie, but noo we'll ken afore lang. Guid day, Leebie. I'm off," and she was out of the door leaving Leebie speechless with fear and amazement.
Mag flew down the brae to the pit almost running, while Leebie and other neighbors looked after her with a strange dread at their hearts.
When Mag arrived at the pit she asked a boy if Walker was up the pit yet for his breakfast.
"I dinna' think so," replied the boy. "He's kind o' late this mornin'; but there's the bell chappit three," he said as the signal was made from the bottom that men were about to come up. "That'll likely be him coming up."
The boy had no sooner spoken, than with a mad rush Mag darted forward, and opening the gates at the "low scaffold," where no one was near, being situated below the pit-head proper, with a loud scream she hurled herself down the shaft.
"God Almichty!" roared the engineman who saw all from the engine house, as he rushed out of the door, calling to the pit-head workers. "Mag Robertson has flung hersel' doon the shank!" and immediately all was consternation.
The engine keeper had just been in the act of signaling down to Walker, who was ready to ascend when he saw the flying figure dart forward and fling herself into the yawning abyss.
Walker, standing at the foot of the shaft waiting for the answering signal from above, heard the noise and the rush of Mag's body as it bumped from side to side in its mad descent, and starting back, he was just in time to get clear as the mangled mass of rags and blood and pulpy flesh fell with a loud splashy thud at the bottom, the blood spattering and "jauping" him and the bottomer, and blinding their eyes as it flew all over them.
"In the name o' Heavens what's that?" yelled Walker, screaming in terror and jumping aside from the bloody upturned face, with the wide, staring eyes, which he seemed to recognize, as the other parts of the body lay about, still quivering and twitching, and a horrible sickness came over him and terror flooded his mind.
"Bell, three, quick!" cried Walker, frantic with desperation in his voice. "Bell three, dammit. An' let us up out o' here. Hurry up, hell to you," and he drew the bell himself, and without waiting on the signal back from above, jumped into the cage, averting his face from those horrible eyes, which lay staring at him out of the darkness.
"Chap it awa', man!" he yelled at the bottomer, his voice rising to a scream. "Chap it, an' let us up to hell oot o' this," and the bottomer, no less frightened than he, tore at the bell, and jumping in himself just as the cage began slowly to ascend, clung to the bar, shivering with terror.
When Walker reached the surface, he was like a madman. He raved and swore and frothed like a churn, running here, there and everywhere nearly collapsing with rage, which sprang from terror.
Usually cool and calculating, steady and active-minded, he seemed to have lost all grip upon himself. He had been drinking heavily the night before and was none too sober in the morning when he was called upon to go to work. Mag Robertson's attack the night before had sent him to the drink, and being a heavy drinker he was in a bad state the following morning. Mr. Rundell found him swearing and raving in a great passion, sacking men and behaving like a maniac.
"Look here, Walker," he began at once, his quick temper rising anew as he thought of the story Sanny Robertson had told him. "I'll give you twenty-four hours to get out of here and away from the place; and if you are not gone in that time I shall inform the police. I know the whole story regarding the setting of the contracts. Sanny has told me, and if I was doing right I would not give you a single minute."
Walker seemed to calm down all at once, and his eyes became cringing as those of a kicked cur as he stood before the angry mine-owner.
"But I hinna telt you a' he has done," said Sanny Robertson, who came up just then in time to hear Mr. Rundell's words. "The dirty black-hearted brute murdered Geordie Sinclair. He telt me himsel' one nicht at the time when we were drinkin' together. He kent a' aboot Geordie workin' on the boss ground an' sent him to his death to get rid of him because in a soft moment I had telt Geordie hoo the contracts were set. He was feart Geordie wad tell you. He's a black-hearted murderer, an' noo he has added Mag's death to his list o' damnation. Tak' that! an' that! you dirty villain! I'll save the hangman the bother o' feenishin' you!" and Sanny was upon Walker tearing at him like a cat, and clawing his face with his nails, punching, biting and kicking him as hard as he could drive his hands and feet.
The attack was so sudden that Walker went down, and Sanny was on top of him before anyone could intervene.
"I'll tear the thrapple oot o' you, you dirty swine!" he squealed, as he tugged at Black Jock's throat.
Mr. Rundell and a couple of laborers soon pulled Sanny up, though he struggled to maintain his hold upon the throat of his adversary.
"Let me at him," he yelled, striving to get free. "Let me at him, an' I'll save the hangman a guid lot o' bother stretchin' his dirty neck! Oh, you swine! You dirty murderin' beast!" he shrieked, as he tried to break away from the restraining hands which held him.
But Sanny was soon overpowered, and Walker, bounding to his feet, was off up the railway towards his home, terror filling his heart, and his mind reeling with fear.
Mr. Rundell quickly organized a band of men to descend the shaft and recover Mag's body, and soon the whole village was in possession of the news, and the excitement was intense.
They gathered her up, a mass of dirty, pulpy flesh, scraping the remains together and shoveling them into a rude improvised box, the head and eyes being the only part of the body that resembled anything like a human being.
"Hell to my sowl, but this is the warst job that ever I got," said Archie Braidhurst, as he scraped a mass of blood and bones, mud and rags, together. "It's a hell o' a daith to dee."
"Ay, puir lassie," replied Adam Lindsay. "She's made a splash at the hinner end. Mag ay cried that it was best to mak' a splash aboot the things you did; but, by sirs, she has made yin this time. What an awfu' mess!"
"Splash!" echoed Archie with a grim laugh. "She's gane a' into jaups. She maun hae thocht she was a juck-pool. I would like to dee like a Christian when I dee, and no' shuffle oot like a scattered explosion, or a humplick o' mince."
"Oh, for Heaven's sake shut your mooth, an' let us get her gathered up an' get oot o' here. Dammit, hae ye nae common sense, swearin' an' jokin' about sic a thing! It's enough to tempt Providence, an' had it no' been for the tumblerful o' whisky that Mr. Rundell gied us I dinna think I could hae faced it. It's awfu'!"
"What the hell are ye girnin' at?" asked Archie, turning round on him. "Are ye feart Mag bites ye? Man, she's got a' her bitin' by noo, although I admit she's made a hell o' a mess at the end. Pit your shovel in here an' lift this pickle, an' no' stand there gapin' like a grisly ghost at the door o' hell! Fling it into her gapin' mouth, if you think she's goin' to bite you!" and the others laughed uneasily at Archie's sardonic humor.
It was a nerve-trying experience for most of them, and they felt sick with horror of it, in spite of the whisky and their grim jokes. The pit was put idle, and the men went home. A gloom brooded over the whole place.
Black Jock saw Mag Robertson's eyes staring at him, as he hurried over the moor. He had not even stopped to wash himself, but merely stowing some money into his pocket, was off, not deigning to answer his daughter's enquiries as to what was wrong, or where he was going. Every wild bird upon the moor seemed to shout at him in accusation; every living thing seemed to scream out in terror as he approached.
He laughed a harsh laugh, like the cry of a wild beast, and the sheep scampered away in fear. The wind moaned out of the gray clouds, which lay thick upon the hidden hills, and there was an early iciness in its breath as it groaned past; A soft, slushy sound rose from the moor at every step, until it seemed that even earth protested. Eerie and sad the moor was, gray and threatening the hills. Laughing at intervals that low gurgle which sprang from fear, as some wild bird would start up at his approach, he plodded on.
He did not know where he was going. He had no particular objective. He did not know what line he would pursue. He only wanted to get away from the scene of the tragedy, and those terrible eyes staring, which seemed to follow him from behind every bush or clump of heather, till in the gray mist it seemed as if the moor were alive with them.
Eyes everywhere. Eyes that never winked or moved. Eyes that never trembled with recognition or glimmered with life. Dead eyes, cold eyes, immovable and clear—horribly clear they were—eyes that simply stared, neither showing accusation nor denunciation; but there they were at every tuft of yellow grass, behind every moss-hag, and staring like pools of clear silent death, which struck horror to his heart. He bounded sideways as a partridge on whirring wing flew away at his approach, and almost dropped dead with fright as a muircock, with loud protesting voice, seemed to scream: "'way back! 'way back! 'way back!" and then, drawing out into a low grumbling command, as it came to earth a few hundred yards away, still muttering its orders to him, as he momentarily stood to recover from his fright.
The whinny of a horse upon the hillside, the low cry of a young cow, the bleat of a sheep, all added to his feeling of dread, until the sweat streamed down his body, as he swung along the moor.
At last he came to a little village, about six miles from Lowwood, and, entering the inn, he called for a supply of whisky.
"It's kind o' cauld the day," the landlady said in an affable way, as he stepped into the bar.
"Warm enough where I have been," he replied bluntly. "Gie's something to drink in whusky!"
"So it wad seem," she said in reply, noting his beaded forehead, as he wiped it with a colored handkerchief.
"You've surely been gey hard ca'd wherever you hae been," and there was a note of curiosity in her voice.
"I want a drink," he broke in abruptly, "an' it doesna matter a damn to you whether I hae been hard ca'd or no'. You're surely hellish keen to hae news. Dis a' your customers get the Catechism when they come in here?" he queried. "If they do, I may as well tell you to begin with, that I came in for whusky, an' no' to staun' an examination."
She saw at once that he resented her leisurely way and her attempt at affability, and she hastened to apologize.
"Look dam'd sharp," he growled, as she attended to his order. "I want whusky and plenty o' it."
"You are in an unco' hurry," she replied, getting nettled, as she filled a glass. "It doesna' do to be so snottery as a' that."
"Well, dammit, look alive. I'm dying for a drink. Bring in a bottle," as she placed a glass before him filled with whisky, "an' tak' the price o' your dam'd poison aff that!" and he flung down a sovereign upon the table.
"Look here," said the landlady, "I'll tak' nane o' your snash, so mind that. If folk come in here to be served, they've got to be ceevil."
"Oh, there's nae harm," he said apologetically, with a forced laugh, "but I'm in a hurry, and I want a drink."
"Weel, I maun hae ceevility. So if you don't gi'e the yin, you'll no' get the ither."
"That's all right," he said. "Keep the sovereign. I may need more. Tell me when it is all spent," and he filled a bumper and drained it without a halt.
"Weel, ye may be dirty at many a thing," she observed, as she noted his action, "but you're a gey clean drinker o' whusky anyway," and she left him with his bottle to fuddle alone.
"A gey queer body that," she mused, as she returned to the bar. "Lod! he's like a wannert thunder-storm, growlin' and grumblin', as if he had got lost frae the rest o' his company. But he seems to hae plenty o' siller anyway," she concluded, "an' he can drink whusky wi' anybody I ever seen try it."
By and by a village worthy came in, and he was at once hailed by Black Jock, and invited to have a glass.
"What are you drinkin', chappie?" he enquired.
"Same as you," was the reply, while a smile of pleased anticipation hovered round the worthy's face at this unexpected good fortune. "I jist ay tak' a moothfu' o' whusky. As a maitter o' fact, I was brocht up on the bottle, and I hae never been spained yet."
"Right you are, cocky! Drink up! You're the man I am lookin' for to help me to spend an hour or twa."
"That'll suit me a' to bits," was the reply, "an' you are jist the man I hae been lookin' for. It's a guid thing we hae met, or we'd baith hae been unhappy."
So the hours passed, and each newcomer was invited to join the company, until it grew so large that the "big room" was requisitioned, and it soon held a laughing, joking, drinking, good-natured set of as drouthy individuals as ever met together in company. Every worthy for miles around seemed to get the news of the free drinks, and whisky and beer flowed like water, and the company grew more and more cheerful and happy.
Bottle after bottle of drink was consumed, and as the company got hilarious, a song was sung or a story was told, until the whole place had the air of a fair day about it.
Jock spent his money freely, and his company drank his health as freely as he paid for the drinks. So the merry hours went past, and the darkness came on. Yet for all the whisky that Walker consumed, he never seemed to get drunk. He was certainly a bit intoxicated, but was in that condition described by one of the company next day as being "sensibly drunk."
"Come on, damn you, you son of a tinkler," he urged. "Drink up, an' let us mak' a nicht o't," and thus urged they drained their glasses, and had them refilled again and again.
"Gie's a sang, Geordie," cried one of the company across the room to an old shaggy-faced individual, who sat and laughed and drank with happy demeanor, rubbing his bristly chin, which resembled the back of a hedgehog, with dirty gnarled fingers which seemed made for lifting glasses, having a natural crook in them, into which the glass as naturally fitted. "You hinna sung anything yet. Gie's yin o' your ain makin'."
"Lodsake, I canna sing," said Geordie, with the air of a man who wanted to be told he could sing.
"Ach, you can sing fine," was the chorused reply from nearly everyone in the company.
"Come on, Geordie, you ken you can sing fine. Man, there's no' a better singer in the place, auld and a' as ye are."
"Och, I canna sing noo, Charlie," replied Geordie, clearing his throat, "but I'll confess that I hae seen the day when I could lilt it wi' the best o' them."
"Oh, but we a' ken fine that you can sing. Man, it's a treat to hear him," said Charlie, turning to Black Jock. "He could wile the bird aff the bush. Gie's yin o' your ain, Geordie. It's aye best to hear you at yin o' your ain."
"Oh, weel," said Geordie with a show of reluctance, as he rose to his feet, making a noise in his throat, like the exhaust pipe of an engine, "seein' that you are all so pressin' on the maitter, I'll gi'e ye a bit verse or twa."
A roar of applause greeted Geordie as he sat down, and words of appreciation broke from everyone in the room.
"Dam'd guid, Geordie! Fill up your glass. That deserves a richt guid dram!" cried Black Jock, as he reached across the table and poured a bumper for Geordie. "Wha's gaun to sing next? Come on, chaps; let us mak' a nicht o't!"
"Hear, hear," said Geordie. "I'm just feelin' in gran' fettle for a nicht. Tammas Fairly will gie's a bit verse maybe. He can sing a fair guid song."
"Me sing!" exclaimed Tam. "Gae awa'! Ye ken fine I canna sing like you, Geordie," and there was a hint of assumed bashfulness in Tam's voice as he spoke.
"Come on, Tam. There's to be nae jookin' oot o' it. It's to be a sang roon' aboot, so you micht as weel begin noo, an' get your turn by."
"Ay, come on," chimed in Walker. "Let us enjoy oorsel' the nicht, when we are in a mood for it. Guid kens when we may ever spend a nicht thegither again. Come on, Tam, get up!"
"Oh, weel," said Tam with bashful reluctance, "I'll do my best," and clearing his throat, Tam sang.
"Hear, hear!" roared Black Jock. "That deserves a bumper too, Tammas. Fill up your glass. An honest dram's afore a' the simperin' Judies that ever held up their gabs to be kissed!" and filling another round, they drank, and roared, and cried their appreciation.
The fun waxed fast and furious, as song after song was sung, which sometimes were capped by a rough story or a questionable joke from someone in the company.
"But you havena gi'en us a sang yoursel'!" observed Charlie, turning to Black Jock, after most of the company had obliged with an effort.
"No, I havena gi'en you a sang," he replied with a coarse laugh, "but I hae paid for a' the drinks, an' I suppose that'll please the maist o' you better than a dizzen sangs frae me."
"Quite true," said Geordie. "You're a gentleman, an' I never met a better. I only hope we'll hae the pleesure o' meetin' you here again afore lang. It's been yin o' the best nichts I hae spent for a lang time."
"That's true, Geordie," said Charlie. "He has gi'en us yin o' the best nichts I hae ever spent. In fact I never min' o' haein' a better, an' to celebrate it, if nane of you hae ony objections, I'll sing anither sang."
"Hear, hear," cried Walker heartily. "Order for the sang," and he tapped the table loudly with a bottle, as he called for quietness amid the din.
"Order for the sang, boys!" bawled Geordie, "Charlie is gaun to favor the company," and as the noise immediately ceased, Charlie sang a song about the fascinating women.
"That's a guid yin, Charlie," roared Walker, thumping the table as he roared. "I hae had a lang experience o' weemin' bodies," and he winked across to Geordie as he spoke, "an' I can say they are rale blood-suckers. They're like whisky, gran' at the time, but you sing sorry next day, an' fin' oot what a fool you hae been. They hing on to you like leeches, an' mak' a mess o' things at the en'. Though you had a face like a crocodile as long as you had plenty of cash, they'd lick your feet; when your money's done, they're awa' like swallows at the first nip o' autumn frost!"
"Ay, it's a dam'd funny world," he went on in a lower tone, as if half speaking to himself. "A fu' purse an' you've plenty o' frien's, an' a woman when you need her, but if your purse is toom, your heart may grien a hell o' a lang while afore yin wad ever come near you."
Thus the evening passed till some were lying below the table, unable to sit up and take their round; and finally the closing hour arrived, and all had to disperse.
Black Jock, again left to himself, deserted by all his company, and in spite of all the drink he had consumed walking fairly steadily, stepped out upon the country road, neither caring nor knowing in which direction he went. His head bent forward upon his breast, or rolling occasionally from side to side, seemed too heavy for his neck to support, as he swayed from the center of the road to its margin.
The horrible staring eyes began again to infest his journey, and seemed to accompany him wherever he went. He could not get away from them. Out in the lonely night, the whole sky merry with stars, was alive with staring eyes, that glared down upon him from above with a cold sinister light. They looked at him from the hedgerows; they glared at him from behind every bush or knoll by the wayside; they glowered at him from behind the trees; and they even perched upon his shoulders and peeped at him in accusation.
"Damn you!" he growled, striking at them as if he would brush them from his sight; but still they followed and accused no matter where he turned. He grew more and more irritated and alarmed, as they seemed to multiply with every minute that passed; and he quickened his pace, but in spite of his speed, they still pursued and multiplied.
Driven mad by the persistence of their stare, he rushed from side to side of the road, striking at them, hitting out with his hands, and kicking with his feet; but still they grew in numbers and in immensity.
He shook himself as if to free his body from them; he rushed ahead, swearing and muttering; he growled and shouted, sometimes pleading to be let alone, and sometimes roaring defiance to the night air; but still the eyes held him relentlessly, implacably, and ever growing in numbers, until it seemed as if the whole countryside were alive with them. They came nearer and receded again; they swarmed round him in legions, then withdrew behind the hedges to stare at him with wide-open lids. They drew him onward, and he advanced cautiously. Then they rushed at him, and retired again, as if driven back; but still they were there, just round the bend of the road, just behind that bush, just over that hedge, and behind that tree, glaring and looking at him, and ready to rush forth again as soon as they thought he was sufficiently off his guard.
"Back!" he roared again, striking out with his fist as they rose only a couple of yards ahead. "Back! an' be damned to you," as a whole swarm larger and larger, so that they lighted up the night, came rushing round him.
They were hissing and roaring at him this time. They had hitherto been silent, and he seemed to hear at first a low murmuring whisper, as if they consulted together as to the best way to attack him. Then the whisper grew to a louder swishing sound like the noise Mag had made as her body hurtled from side to side on falling down the shaft. It grew louder and louder, like the wind coming through far-off trees, gradually swelling to a roar. The eyes grew in numbers and got larger with the noise; and finally, with terror clutching at his heart and an oath upon his lips, he turned to run back, only to find that they had all merged into two wide, horribly glaring fiery eyes which were bearing down upon him with the speed and noise of an express train. They were on him before he could turn, as if they now realized that he was fully at their mercy, and with the courage of desperation he flung himself bodily upon them and went down crushed beneath the heavy mass of a motor driven with reckless speed by a young man rushing to catch a train.
Walker was down before the young man realized what had happened and the hoot of the horn had merely spurred Black Jock to the last desperate leap to death, the lights of the motor having taken on the shape of all the pursuing eyes that had followed him that night.
When he was taken from beneath the wheels, his neck broken and his body smashed, Black Jock had paid the last penalty, and the eyes which destroyed him flashed out accompaniment to his departing soul. And the winking skies, still merry with the stars of night, looked down unmoved, while the night-birds on the moor answered one another in their flight, and called a last farewell to the spirit of Black Jock.
The storm which had been brewing in the industrial firmament grew more threatening and the clouds grew blacker until it seemed as if nothing could prevent a commotion on a big scale.
The demand for a fuller life and more security was being made by the miners all over the country. Organization was proceeding apace, and a new idea was being glimpsed by the younger men especially, which filled their hearts and fired their imagination.
"Do you think the time has come now, Bob?" asked Robert Sinclair, speaking to Smillie one day, as they proceeded by rail to a conference together, "when the whole Federation can try its power in a demand for something real?"
"What do you mean by something real, Robert?" asked Smillie, with a keen look at the young, eager face turned towards him.
"Some guarantee of comfort in our lives," was the reply. "You know that we have none now. You and others of us have been teaching the miners to work towards the day when a standard of ease and comfort will be assured to all. We have worked for it, and the miners now are looking for something tangible."
"Yes, I know; but do you think, Robert, that the time has come to put it to the test?" and Smillie had gone on to tell of some of the difficulties they were faced with.
So they talked and discussed, exchanging opinions and hopes; and all over the mining world their dreams were being voiced, and had helped to make the coming crisis.
Conferences were held, and the whole matter threshed out from every angle. The miners were united as they had never been before and the whole of the British miners were determined to use their organization to enforce their demands.
It was a triumph for Smillie's genius, the climax of his dream, to have them united as one body to fight what he called their real enemies. One federation linked together by common ideals, with common interests bound by common ties, united by traditions, by creed, by class, by common tastes shared, by suffering and hardship. It was his monument, and perhaps he regarded it with no little pride.
When Robert was appointed delegate to the council of his Union from his branch, he set himself to master thoroughly, in every detail, its machinery, and very soon his voice was raised in the debates, and it amazed even himself to find what a power he seemed to possess over his fellows. He soon learned to state his case in simple unaffected language which took a marvelous hold upon his hearers, while at times his warm glowing imagination would conjure up a living picture that hit with irresistible force, and made a lasting impression upon those who listened.
He gradually became more fluent, and studied how best to impress his comrades. His earnestness and enthusiasm were unquestioned, and sometimes were even found to be a serious obstacle to the older type of leader, men for the most part lacking imagination, and whose older and more prosaic outlook could not understand the younger man, whose zeal they regarded with impatience.
But Smillie soon recognized Robert's talent and his worth, and gave him more scope than he otherwise might have done.
Robert's admiration for his chief was unbounded, though it did not keep him from differing from Smillie at times on matters of detail. On principles they were generally at one with each other and while it was rarely that they differed, the occasions upon which they did so were remembered by all who heard. Smillie soon realized that there was an unshakable will behind the young man, and watched him under every difficult occasion with a certain amount of pride, as he grew in individuality and resource. Robert was not a frequent speaker, but was always listened to with respect when he did speak.
An industrial crisis was upon the country and everyone was expectant, and wondering how it would all end. Keir Hardie's preaching of the working class gospel was a big factor in Robert's development and the latter was soon in demand for platform lectures, stirring up the workers and pleading with them to organize, and teaching them economics through historical allusion and industrial evolution until he soon became recognized as one of the coming forces in the working-class movement. He was as yet very impulsive, and while such a trait had generally a powerful appeal on the average audience of the working class type, it often put him into somewhat compromising situations, when dealing with the more sober and serious work of the organization. Still he was showing up well, and only time and experience were needed to cure his defects. So the year ended, and the cloud grew more and more threatening.
January brought the crisis to a head, and the Government, recognizing that nothing could avert a strike and as the foreign situation was passing through a critical period, requested that a conference should be called in London, and invited the miners and the mine-owners to come together so that the Prime Minister and other statesmen could be present to try and adjust the grievance. It was a historic gathering and one that marked an epoch in the history of the industrial movement.
Delegates were present from almost every Miners' Lodge in Great Britain, while the owners were also fully represented.
The Prime Minister acted as chairman of the gathering and he was supported on the platform by other members of the Government, while Smillie and other well-known leaders represented the men and a number of the owners represented the Coal Masters' Association.
The platform party was an imposing one. Men of big reputation were there, and Robert felt himself wondering, as he looked at them, how ordinary they looked after all, and he began to speculate as to the qualities they possessed which had given them such importance.
"That's the Chancellor o' the Exchequer," said one of the delegates to Robert, pointing out the individual named. "He's a wee eatin'-an'-spued' lookin' thing when you see him sittin' there, isn't he?"
"Ay," answered Robert casually, as he surveyed the group. "I was just wondering how it was they had a' gained such reputations. In appearance they are not much to boast about."
"Ach, they're jist a lot o' oily tongued wheedlers," was the reply, "an' that wee ferrit-eyed yin is the worst o' them a'. Just wait till he begins to speak, an' you'll think he's a showman. He can fairly pit on the butter, an' he'll send us a' away hame in the belief that we're the finest set o' men he ever met, an' mak' us feel that if we decide to do anything against what he recommends, the hale country will gang to ruin."
"Oh," said Robert, as his fellow delegate paused, "I've read aboot him."
"Ay, but wait till you hear him. We can a' come up here as angry as hell, ready to string him up to the nearest lamp-post; but after he has spoken an' slaivered ower us for a while, we begin to feel differently, an' finally gang awa hame wi' our minds made up that we are the salt o' the earth. Man, it tak's a' the sting oot o' bein' dune, to be dune sae well an' sae completely."
"Yes, but when you know that why do you allow yourselves to be wheedled?"
"Ach, man; it's a' right askin' that question; but efter thae chaps get round aboot you, wi' their greasy tongues, an' their flatterin' ways, you jist begin to think that it's nae use to bother ony mair aboot resistin'. Look at that auld fermer-collier lookin' chiel, wi' his white heid an' his snipe-nose an' a smile on his face that wad mak' you believe he was gaun to dae you some big service. That's the smile that has made him Prime Minister. You'd think frae his face that he was just a solid easy-gaun kindly auld fermer, who took a constant joy in givin' jeelie-pieces to hungry weans. But when he speaks, and gets a grip o' you, he's yin o' the sooplest lawyers that ever danced roun' the rim o' hell withoot fallin' in. He'd do his faither, that yin. He wad that."
Robert looked at the various individuals as they were described, keenly interested and feeling that this comrade of his was describing much of what he himself had felt about these men, and wondered more and more as to what it was that had given them their power.
"They're a fine rogues' gallery when you see them a' sittin' there," went on the other. "They ken we are up here the day determined to demand our terms, an' that's the way they are a' turned out. Just you wait till they begin, an' you'll see a fine bit o' play actin'. They'll play us aboot as auld Tom Tervit wad play a trout in the Clyde. They hae ony amount o' patience, an' they'll gae you onything but the thing you want. They'd promise us the kingdom o' Heaven; an' they'll give us plenty o' line to run wi'; but a' the time they'll be lookin' for a chance to land us. An' they'll do it. Jist you wait."
"Well, it will be our own fault if we let them," said Robert, shortly, as he listened. "I would not let any of them do that. If we have our minds made up on what we want, I can't see why we should be wheedled like that."
"Neither do I," was the reply. "But it is aye done for all that. Then there's that ither chiel—I think he's on the Local Government Board or something. He's a corker, wi' a face like yin o' they pented cupids that the lasses send to the young men on picture postcards. Look at his nice wee baby's mooth, an' the smile on it too. It wad dazzle a hungry crocodile lookin' for its denner. His e'en are aye brighter than ony I ever saw—an' speak! Guid God! He could speak for a hale June day. He's gran' at makin' your flesh creep. He blinds you wi' sparks, an' fire-works, his words are that hot an' glowin', an' he fair dumbfounders you wi' fine soundin' sentences an' lang words. He's a corker I can tell you! But here, they are gaun to begin," he broke off hurriedly as the Prime Minister rose to his feet. Then in a sly whisper, he added:—"Just you pay attention, an' tell me after if you can tell how we hae been dune. They are here to do us the day, as sure as daith."
The Prime Minister's speech was a masterly plea for compromise; but through it all, it seemed as if he was laying the blame upon the miners for the critical stage which had been reached. He appealed and cajoled, asked them to take long views, and talked fine platitudes about self-sacrifice, and the spirit of brotherhood, which could alone bring peace and contentment. The country was in danger, and it would be a terrible crime if the miners forced a strike; for only upon the great white solitudes of self-sacrifice and mutual help, whose peaks towered away into the realms of eternity, could real satisfaction be gained, and much more of a like kind.
Then followed other ministers, who took their cue from their chief; but there was no hint that any of them had ever made a serious attempt to understand the problem which has arisen to confront them so seriously.
They talked, or so at least it seemed to Robert, who sat in the body of the hall with the rest of the delegates, to the miners as if they were children, naughty and spoilt; and of course such an attitude could never bring about any form of agreement to sensible men, who deal every day with the life at the rough, raw edges of things.
So it was, when four of them had spoken after the Prime Minister, and none of them had shown any attempt to grapple with the subject under dispute, Robert felt more and more the truth of his fellow-delegates' description. It was all a masterly bit of wheedling and the Chancellor's effort especially was designed to win them over to a compromise settlement.
He began jocularly with a broad jest which set the delegates all rocking with laughter, telling how glad he was to be there to talk over with them the difficulties which had arisen. It always gave him pleasure to meet them and to get to know their point of view; because usually their good sense and their large stock of prudence made them amenable to listening to a reasoned argument.
He was glad they always recognized there were two sides to most disputes, and he felt sure whatever the outcome of this conference might be they would not allow their good sense to stand in the way of a possible settlement. Gradually he worked into more serious lines, and with vivid language, putting the case for the opposite side, gently bringing their minds by degrees further and further away from the point—the real point of issue.
Then finally when sufficiently developed, he gathered all the threads together, and in a great burst of poetic eloquence and fiery fervor he swept along like a tornado in a grand burst of superb oratory, his eyes rolling and flashing, his hands and head poised into beautifully effective gesture, and appealed to them in great rolling, fiery sentences that completely swept the conference like a whirlwind, and sat down amid a great burst of applause which broke with splendid spontaneity from the assembled delegates, and the winning golden smile upon his face which Robert's companion had described earlier in the day.
Robert could hardly analyze his feelings. He felt he did not know whether to admire or condemn, but all the time he felt a slow rising indignation within him, and that the Conference was being swung away from what they had met to discuss. Perhaps it was his companions' conversation that did it. He could not tell; but unable to contain himself longer his impulsive nature getting the upper hand, he bounced to his feet, pale and excited, though trying hard to curb and control himself, and in a low tense voice, which at first halted a little, electrified the gathering by a speech wrung from his very soul.
"Mr. Chairman," he began, in this unexpected incident, "I have listened very attentively to the speeches just delivered by yourself and the other honorable gentlemen."
Here some of the other delegates intervened to tell him that he was not expected to speak, but the Prime Minister, for some reason unknown, told him to go on and so he proceeded.
Then Robert proceeded to pour out his soul, stating the miners' grievances and their rights as men. How they were always put off with promises, and defeated in dialectics and the game of wits. As he spoke he felt the assembly gradually thaw, then become liquid, finally it seemed to join the torrent of his eloquence, and sweep on, blotting out all resistance.
When at last he sat down a wild burst of applause rent the air, as he sat down pale and excited; but glad that he had got the chance at last of speaking what he felt to the enemies of his class.
For fully five minutes the delegates went wild in their cheering and applause. Again and again it broke out afresh, when it had spent itself a little, and seemed to be dying down, but the memory of it always stirred them to fresh outbursts until at last, taking advantage of a lull, the Prime Minister suggested that he and his colleagues would prefer that the conference should stand adjourned till the next day, and this was agreed to by the delegates, who were not averse to the holiday.
Congratulations were showered upon Robert from all sides. Even men who differed from him on most things grasped his hand and shook it, and told him how proud they were of his little speech.
Robert heard and saw all their pleased enjoyment but was vaguely troubled in his heart, wondering how Smillie would have taken it, and this pained him more than the pleasant things the other delegates said to him.
"Man, Sinclair," said the one who had sat next to Robert in the Conference, when they got out on to the street, "you've fairly upset the hale jing bang o' them the day. Lod! But I was like a balloon in a high wind, fair carried away wi' you. I never thocht you could have done that. I was in the opinion that Smillie was the only yin that could stand up to that set o' rogues. It was great. It was that."
Robert laughed uneasily and bashfully as he answered, "I couldn't help it, Davie," then adding as an afterthought, "Maybe I hae put my fit in it. I wonder how Smillie took it a'."
"Ach, well, it disna matter a damn, onyway. You did fine, an' I canna see how Smillie has onything ado wi' it. However, we hae a hale day to oorsel's now, what dae you say to gaun to the length of Kew Gardens? It's a gran' place, an' I hae a sister oot there in service."
"Oh, I don't mind. I don't know onything aboot London and as you are nae stranger, I might as well gang wi' you, as bother onybody else to show me roun'."
"There's some of thae chaps'll fairly enjoy this," said Davie, nodding in the direction of some of the delegates. "That's the way they agreed to adjourn sae already. They jist leeve for the conferences. It's the time they like. They booze and get their horns oot for a day or two, an' I can tell you, Rab, it's maybe jist as well that they dinna bring their weemin folks wi' them. However, it tak's a' kinds of folk to mak' a world, I suppose, so let's off, and see as muckle o' London as possible," and they set off and were soon swallowed up in the great Metropolis.
When the London Conference ended, the delegates hurried back to put the terms of the suggested agreement before the men, and as they journeyed the whole topic of conversation was of the Conference, and of the terms which had been suggested as a basis for settlement of the dispute.
"Well, you can a' say what you like," put in Davie Donaldson, who had sat beside Robert in the Conference, "but in my opinion we hae been diddled again. The wee showman wi' the ferret een was too mony for us, an' he jist twisted us round his wee finger as he liked."
"Ach, but you are never content," replied another who was of an opposite opinion. "It doesna matter what kind o' terms you get, you're never content."
"I'm no' content wi' thae terms ony way," persisted Davie stubbornly. "What the hell's the use o' makin' a demand for something, an' sayin' afore you gang that you mean to hae it, an' then to tamely tak' the hauf o' it, an' gang awa' hame as pleased as a wheen weans wha have been promised a penny to tak' castor oil? I'd be dam'd afore I'd tak' that."
"You're owre ill to please," said the other. "You're never satisfied wi' a fair thing. Didn't you hear as weel as me that there was a danger o' war breakin' oot at the present time, an' we couldna possibly hae a strike at a time like this."
"War!" retorted Davie, heatedly. "They'll aye hae a war or something else to fricht you wi', when you show that you mean business. Wha the hell hae we to quarrel wi' onyway, I'd like to ken?"
"Oh, it micht be France, or Germany, or Russia, or some ither o' thae cut-throat foreign nations."
"An' what are you gaun to quarrel aboot?" yelled Davie still more heatedly.
"What the hell do I ken?" was the answer.
"Then, if you don't ken, why the damn should you quarrel? It's a dam'd silly thing to fecht at ony time, but it's a dam'd sicht sillier to fecht withoot haein' a quarrel at a'," cried Davie, now fairly roused. "That's jist hoo they diddle us. They diddle the workers o' France an' ither countries in the same way. Maybe the French Government is telling the French colliers that there is a danger o' a war wi' Britain at this minute, to keep them quate; an' if they are, do you an' me ken anything aboot what the war will be for? No' a thing does yin o' us ken. Wars are no' made by workin' folk at all! They are made wi' the ither crowd, an' they laugh in their sleeves when they hae sent us awa' back to our work an' oor hames as quate as mice," and Davie looked round in triumph, asking with his eyes, and in the tones of his voice, for confirmation of his views from the others.
Thus they talked and discussed, exchanging opinions about all things in strong but expressive language, as the train sped northwards bearing them home. District meetings were organized, and the leaders put persuasively the arguments for the acceptance of the terms laid down. All through the crisis the men had behaved admirably, for they had learned to trust Smillie, even when they felt doubtful of his policy. Robert took a big share in the organizing of these meetings and in addressing them. He flung himself into this work whole-heartedly. The terms certainly did not please him; but, as the majority at the London Conference had decided to recommend them to the men, he thought it his duty to sink his personal opinions, and in the interests of discipline and the unity of the organization—as he had already had his say and had been found in the minority—he put all his efforts into trying to get the men to accept the suggested terms, and go forward as one united body. His persuasive powers of appeal, and his straight, direct way of argument, commended him to his comrades. By the time that the ballot had been carried through in the various districts, it was mid-February, and the Scottish delegates met in Edinburgh to give the result of the voting among the rank and file.
Robert attended the Conference, and while he had appealed to the men to accept the terms of the London Conference, he secretly hoped that the ballot vote of the men would decide to fight; for, like Davie Donaldson, he believed they had again been side-tracked. He wondered how Smillie regarded the matter. He had not had an opportunity of talking with Smillie to learn his opinion, but he felt sure that his leaders did not like the terms either.
If, however, the men had agreed on acceptance, he could not help matters; but a direct refusal from the rank and file would, he thought, be an intimation to the more reactionary leaders that the spirit of revolt was growing, and would give the rebels the chance for which they were looking. But he would soon know, he thought, as he hastened to the Synod Hall, where the Conference was to be held; for the result of the ballot was to be announced at the end of the first part of the Conference.
There was some routine business to get over when it opened, and after a while the President rose and gave the result of the ballot, which showed a considerable majority for acceptance, and this brought the adjournment for dinner.
Robert felt that he wanted to spend a quiet five minutes or so before the Conference resumed; so he hurried through with his dinner and then strolled out into Princes Street Gardens, which attracted him very much. His mind seemed to want peace and quietness, and as he walked along, turning over the situation and examining it from all points of view, the fluttering of early mating birds among the shrubs soon shifted his thoughts to other things; and, as they romped and courted, and fought among the bushes, his thoughts went back to the moor at home, and the little wood, and the memories of other things.
The vague stirrings of power within him had become more pronounced during the last six months, and he felt conscious of a growing sense of importance. It was not that he was conceited, but his mental muscles, as it were, seemed to have gained in power from the strenuous exertions which they had lately undertaken.
He knew that he possessed talents far above the average of his class. He was sensible of a certain superiority, yet it was not from the contemplation of this that he drew his elation. He saw the issue quite clearly and knew the pathway which must be trodden. He was not personally ambitious for the sake of making an impression or gaining power. He knew that in too many cases men had in the past made their position a sinecure in the Labor Movement and he condemned their action. The Movement must be served and not lived on. Not personal betterment, but the betterment of the whole lot. Whatever it demanded of service from anyone should be given willingly, no matter in what direction the call were made.
Musing thus, he strolled along among his hopes of the future. His life's work lay here, working for his own class—for humanity. There was nothing else to win him; for like most young men in like circumstances he had already concluded that now, since Mysie was not to be his, there was nothing else to which he could better devote his life.
Where was Mysie, he wondered? What had happened to her? She had completely gone out of everybody's knowledge, and no one seemed to know anything about her.
He moved slowly along and at the thought of Mysie his former decision seemed a cold one and he felt that she still held a big place in his life. Moving towards a seat a little way ahead so that he might enjoy this mood, the figure of a girl started up as if to go, and immediately he rushed forward, all his pulses afire, and his whole being stirred beyond words.
"Mysie!" he exclaimed, jumping forward, "Guid God! where have you come from? Where have you been?" and his hands were holding hers, and his eyes greedily scanning her face as if he would look into her very soul, and read the story of the last few months.
"Oh, Rob," she said, with a gasp, "I didna think I wad meet you here."
"Sit down," he said hurriedly, as he recovered himself. "Sit down and rest. You're ill. What's the matter? Where have you been? Tell me all about it!" There were tears in Mysie's eyes too, as she weakly sat down, unable to do anything else. She had recognized him as he approached, and had started up to get away; but he had also recognized her, and she was too late.
"Hoo is my mither an' my faither?" she enquired, after a short silence, as she tried to recover herself. "Hoo are they a' at hame?" the greedy heart hunger for loved ones drove her to the impatient enquiry. "Did they miss me muckle, Rob? Were they awfu' vexed at what I did? Tell me a' aboot it then, I want to ken."
"But you must tell me first aboot yoursel', Mysie," he replied evasively, searching in his mind the best way to adopt in telling her of the things he knew would wound her. "Come, Mysie," he urged, "you surely can trust me. I have always been your friend, and I only wish now to hear all about you. Why did you go away?"
She saw him look at her, and a quick flush overspread her thin, pale cheeks as she detected his look. He had no need to ask further.
"Oh, Rob, I wish—I wish I had died a year syne!" and a wild burst of sobbing came over her as she spoke.
"Dinna greet, Mysie," he said, as his hand reached out and began to stroke her hair tenderly. Then after a short pause, "Wha was he, Mysie? Tell me, an' I'll tear the black heart oot o' him!"
But Mysie only cried, uncontrollably, and hid her face in her hands; for the homely doric on Robert's tongue touched her and it came readier to him in moments like these, and the tender touch of his hand upon her head gave her comfort, soothing her, and staying her grief, as a child is quieted by the loving hand of a mother.