DOWN THE MINE.
All boys and girls know the pleasure of drawing up to a nice, bright,
sparkling fire on a cold winter night. They give little shivers of
comfort, and say, "What ever should we do without a good fire, such
weather as this?" But we dare say very few give a thankful thought to
the miner, whose hard toil has procured this comfort for them.
Perhaps some who read this do not live in a mining country, and have not
read or heard much about coal mines. If so, we think they will like to
follow Charlie as he goes to his work on Monday morning. Hudson Brownlee
called, as he promised, but we are sorry to say Charlie kept him waiting
full five minutes whilst he searched for a comforter. His mother had
told him to get it ready on Saturday night, but he put off until Monday
morning, then he put off until he got back from Harry Greenwell's. Harry
kept him longer than he expected, and he came tearing along just as
Hudson Brownlee reached the door; then the comforter had to be found.
At last they started. When Charlie stood near the great, dark, gaping
mouth of the pit, and remembered that he had to go down there, he
certainly felt as he afterwards described it, "very queer"--not afraid,
oh no, but queer.
The cage, as it is called, had just been let down, with its number of
sixteen men; when it came up again, Hudson Brownlee, Charlie, and some
other men and boys got in. If Charlie felt "queer" before, he felt still
"queerer" now, and when the cage began to descend, he felt almost sick
with the motion; it seemed to him as if they were never going to reach
the bottom. Down, down, down they went; the clatter of the engine above,
and the creaking of the cage, making Charlie fancy every now and then
that the rope was giving way, and that in another second they would all
be dashed to atoms. Whenever he looked up, and remembered that all their
weight was bearing upon that rope, he screwed himself up into the
smallest possible compass, as if that would make him lighter. He could
scarcely see anything at first, the change from broad daylight to the
glimmering light of the lamps that the men carried was so great.
"Are you all right, my boy?" said Brownlee's cheery voice; "keep up your
heart, we shall soon be out of this. He's a new hand," he said, turning
to the others.
"Who is it?" they asked.
"Why," said Brownlee, lowering his voice, "it's that young one that John
Heedman took to keep; his father was drowned, you'll remember--Scott,
the pilot."
On hearing this most of them were silent, but one boy thrust his lamp
forward, and stared rudely in Charlie's face.
"Why, if it isn't that Miss Nancy fellow, Scott!" he exclaimed, in
either real or pretended astonishment. "But it can't be," he went on, in
a mocking tone, "and yet it is; why, how ever has it happened that such
a nice, good boy, the ladies' pet, has come down amongst us roughs? I
thought he was going to be made a gentleman of--dear, dear! and he
hasn't got his white collar on; and his mother isn't with him."
"Come, hold that saucy tongue of yours, White Bob," said Brownlee, in an
angry tone, "or it will be worse for you."
The boy's proper name was Bob White. He was a tall, thin,
singular-looking lad, about fifteen years old, with a pale face. When he
first went to work in the mine some of the boys called him White Bob, in
nonsense, and the name had stuck to him.
He was certainly silent after Brownlee spoke to him, but he kept
throwing back his head, lifting up his hands, turning up his eyes, and
expressing his mock astonishment in so many odd ways, that the rest of
the boys, although they bore no ill-will to Charlie, were convulsed with
laughter. As for Charlie himself, he was in a great passion; it was
fortunate that just at this moment the cage reached the bottom, and in
the general scramble to get out he lost sight of Bob.
"Now, my boy, keep close to me," said Brownlee, "never mind those
fellows: keep your temper, and they'll soon tire of it. Now look about
you; you are many hundred feet under ground." It was a strange scene to
Charlie. Look where you would, nothing but black met the eye--black
walls, black floor, groups of black men standing about--every one and
every thing was covered with the bright coal dust that glittered and
sparkled in the rays of the lamps, like black diamonds.
"Now," said Brownlee, "we must get to work. I'll take you to your place,
as it is in my way;" and they turned up a sort of road or gallery that
had been cut out of the slate and coal. On each side of this branched,
right and left, other roads or galleries that had been formed by the
taking away of the coal; from these again branched other roads, and so
on, that you might walk for miles under ground, in and out of the
workings of the mine. As the coal is hewn away the roof is supported by
props of wood. In some places it was so low that Brownlee had to walk
stooping. Of course Charlie did not find all this out at first, for they
only had the light given by their lamps to guide them and relieve the
intense darkness.
"What is that?" asked Charlie, as a little spark of light like a
glowworm appeared in the distance, and a low rumbling noise met their
ears.
"You'll see in a minute," said Brownlee, smiling at Charlie's wonder.
The light came gradually nearer and nearer, and then Charlie saw it was
a lamp carried by a boy who had charge of a little pony and some coal
tubs--sort of square tubs on wheels. Brownlee told him that the boys who
had that work were called putters; they were occupied in taking empty
tubs to the men who hewed the coal, and in bringing away the full tubs,
and that they earned good wages: they had a shilling a score for the
tubs they removed.
"I should think the poor ponies have a hard life of it," said Charlie.
"Do they take the tubs right away to the mouth of the pit?"
"No, they only go so far, then the engine pulls them to the shaft, and
they are drawn up to bank, to be emptied and sent down again."
"We seem to have come a long way," said Charlie.
"About a mile," answered Brownlee; "but we've worked a deal further out
that way," pointing to the left. "We're either under the sea or close at
the edge, out there."
Charlie gave a little shudder. "Where is my work, please?" he asked.
"Oh, we've passed your place; the door we came through last is the one
you have to take care of. I'm just taking you round a bit, as you're new
to it. Mind your head," he called, as they turned up a low gallery to
the right, and they both went along stooping. "Stop there," said
Brownlee, creeping along by himself a little further, and sitting on his
heels opposite a wall of bright coal. "There," he said, "how would you
like to sit cramped up like this for six hours, hewing coal, and hearing
the stone above you crack like a gun, and move about as you work,
expecting every moment you'll have to run for your life--that is, if you
have the chance? I had a narrow escape last winter," he said, as he
joined Charlie again; "two of us were working together, and all of a
sudden there was an awful crack, like a cannon going off. It was who
could scramble up and run quickest, I can tell you. It was my luck to
be last, and down came a tremendous piece; the end of it just dropped on
my foot as I was running, and it held me as fast as if a mountain had
been on the top of me, although I was free all but my foot. None of them
durst venture to me for a good bit, for there was an awful noise going
on round me, and there I laid as fast as could be, expecting every
moment would be my last."
"What dangerous work!" exclaimed Charlie. "I should think nobody durst
do it if they didn't know they had God to protect them and take care of
them."
"I'll see you to your work now," said Brownlee, turning the subject.
"Here we are," he said; "do you see this seat behind the door? then all
you've got to do is to sit here and pull that rope that opens the door
when the putters or any of the men want to come through. The boys stay
down twelve hours, but I'll see you again before I go up. It'll be
lonely for you at first," he said, kindly.
"Rather," said Charlie; "but I must remember that I am not alone."
Brownlee looked at him inquiringly.
"I mean, you know, that we are _never_ alone; that He is always with
us," said Charlie, simply, with an upward glance and movement of the
head.
"Oh, aye," said Brownlee, hesitatingly, and moving off, as if he felt it
was a subject he could not say much upon.
It was strange how that thought clung to the miner--not alone; not
alone! It haunted him, and often as he worked he glanced uneasily over
his shoulder into the darkness beyond, with a sort of feeling that he
was being watched--that there was a presence, an invisible something or
some one hovering near, and listening to his very thoughts.
It was quite a relief when a putter or any one came near that he could
speak to. Hudson Brownlee had known perfectly well ever since he was a
child that "God is everywhere," but he had never thought about it; he
was _realizing_ His presence for the first time, and it made him nervous
to feel that he was alone with God, who was powerful, and whom he had
neglected.
We must now go back to Charlie. His duty, if it was dull and lonely, was
simple and easily attended to. He had opened the door for a great many
boys and men, but he had not seen anything more of Bob White. Charlie
remembered he was an old enemy, and had often waylaid himself and the
other boys on their way to Mrs. Greenwell's class, and ridiculed them.
His saucy, mocking tongue made him the terror of most of the boys in the
mine. He had had the run of London streets for ten years, before his
mother removed into the north, and was more than a match for most of the
north country boys in a battle of words.