CHAPTER VIII
DERRICK STERLING'S SPLENDID REVENGE
The new breaker, in which Paul Evert now worked as a slate-picker, was in general appearance very much like the old one, but its interior arrangement was different, and of such a nature as to make life much easier for those who worked in it. The greatest improvement was the introduction of a set of machines called "jigs." The coal from the mine, after being drawn to the very top of the breaker, first passed between great spiked rollers, or "crushers;" then through a series of "screens," provided with holes of different sizes, that separated it into several grades of egg, stove, nut, pea, buckwheat, etc. From the screens it was led into the jigs. These are perforated iron cylinders set in tubs of water, and fitted with movable iron bottoms placed at a slight angle. A small steam-engine attached to each machine raises and lowers or "jigs" this iron bottom a few inches each way very rapidly. The contents of the cylinders are thus constantly shaken in water, and as the slate is heavier than the coal, most of it settles to the bottom, and is carried off through a waste chute. The wet coal runs out through other chutes placed a little higher than that for slate, and extending down through the length of the breaker to the storage bins at its bottom. Along these chutes in the new breaker, as in the old one, sat rows of boys picking out the bits of slate that had escaped the jigs, and among them was Paul Evert.
When Derrick Sterling entered the new breaker on the afternoon of the day following that which had brought such memorable adventures, he was surprised at the comparative absence of coal-dust. It still rose in clouds from the crushers and screens, but there was none above the chutes. He understood the theory of jigs, but had never seen them at work, and now he was so greatly interested in watching them as almost to forget the errand on which he had come. It was only when Mr. Guffy spoke to him that he thought of it, and handed the breaker boss the note he had come to give him.
"All right," said the boss reading it. "I'm sorry to lose him, for he is a quiet, steady lad, and, could in time be made very useful as a picker. I doubt, though, if his back would hold out long at the work. Yes, you may take him along now if you want to."
Stepping over to where his friend sat, Derrick said, "Come, Paul, you're not to work any more to-day; I want to have a talk with you outside."
When they had left the breaker, Derrick said, "How would you like to go down into the mine, Paul, and be a door-tender, very near where I work, and get twice as much money as you can make in the breaker?"
"Of course I should like it," answered Paul, gravely; "but I don't think they want a cripple like me down there."
"Yes, they do want just exactly such a fellow as you are; they found out last night what you could do in a mine. Mr. Jones says that if you want to you can go down with me to-morrow morning, and begin at once without waiting for the end of the month. You are to go with me to the store this evening for your mine cap, lamp, and boots. See, here's the order for them."
Paul stared at the order for a moment as though he could not believe it was real. Then exclaiming, "Oh goody, Derrick! I'm so glad to get out of that hateful, back-aching breaker," he gave a funny little twirl of his body around his crutch, which was his way of expressing great joy.
Derrick shared this joy equally with Paul, and to see them one would have supposed they had just come into fortunes at least. To a stranger such rejoicings over an offer of monotonous work down in the blackness of a coal mine would have seemed absurd, but if he had ever been a breaker boy he could have fully sympathized with them.
The two boys were standing beside the check-board, near the mouth of the slope, and after their rejoicings had somewhat subsided Derrick said, "Let's see who's sent up the most to-day."
The check-board was something like the small black-board that hangs behind the teacher's desk in a school-room. It was provided with several rows of pegs, on which hung a number of wooden tags. Each of these tags, or checks, had cut into it the initials or private mark of the miner to whom it belonged. When a miner working in the underground breasts or chambers filled a car with coal and started it on its way to the slope, he hung on it one of his checks. When the same car reached the top of the slope the "check boss" stationed there took the check from it and hung it in its proper place on the check-board. At the end of working-hours the number of checks thus hung up for each miner was counted, and the same number of car-loads of coal credited to him.
Acting on Derrick's suggestion, the boys turned to the check-board, and quickly saw that there were more checks marked M. T. than anything else.
"Why, Monk Tooley has got the most by three loads!" exclaimed Derrick, counting them.
"He must have worked all through lunch-hour, and like a mule at that. I wonder what's got into him?"
"Perhaps he's trying to make up for what Bill won't earn now," suggested Paul, quietly.
"That's so," said Derrick. "I never thought of that, Polly; and I haven't thanked you yet for going down into the mine to look for me last night, or told you what a splendid fellow I think you are."
"Please don't, Derrick," interrupted Paul, with a troubled expression; "you mustn't thank me for anything I tried to do for you. Don't I owe you more than anything I can ever do will pay for? Didn't you bring me out of the burning breaker? and don't I love you more than most anybody on earth?"
"Well, you're a plucky fellow anyway," said Derrick, "and I'd rather have you down in the mine if there was any trouble than half of the men who are there. Let's stop and see how Bill Tooley's getting along on our way home."
"All right," assented Paul; "only if his mother's there I shall be almost afraid to go in."
As the boys walked away from the vicinity of the check-board, a man who had come up the slope but a few minutes before, and had been watching them unobserved, stepped up to it. He was Job Taskar the blacksmith, known to the men who met in the chamber at the bottom of the air-shaft, in the old workings, as Body-master of Raven Brook. The check boss had asked him to stop there a minute, and look out for any cars that might come up, while he stepped inside the breaker.
Casting a hurried glance around to see that no one was looking, Job Taskar slipped three of Monk Tooley's checks from their peg, thrust them into his pocket, altered the chalked figure above the peg, and resumed his place.
When Derrick and Paul reached the Tooleys' house it seemed to them even more noisy than usual. Several women sat gossiping with Mrs. Tooley in the door-way, while a dozen children and several dogs ran screaming or barking and quarrelling in and out of the room where the sick boy lay.
They asked his mother how he was, and what the doctor had said of his condition.
"Ye can go in and see for yourselves how he is," was the reply, "there's naught to hinder. Doctor said he was to be kept perfectly quiet and have nussin', but how he's going to get either with them brats rampaging and howling, and me the only one to look after them, is more than I know."
Accepting this invitation, the boys stepped inside, and picking their way among the children and dogs to the untidy bed on which Bill lay, spoke to him and asked him if there was anything they could do for him.
He was conscious, though very weak and in great pain, and on opening his eyes he whispered, "Water."
For more than an hour he had longed for it, until his parched tongue was ready to cleave to the roof of his mouth, but nobody had come near him, and he could not make himself heard above the noise of the children.
Taking the tin dipper that lay on a chair beside the bed Derrick went out to the hydrant to fill it with the cool mountain water that flowed there.
Paul drew a tattered window-shade so that the hot western sun should not shine full in the sick boy's face, loosened his shirt at the neck, smoothed back the matted hair from his forehead, and with a threatening shake of his crutch, drove a howling dog and several screaming children from the room.
These little attentions soothed the sufferer, and he looked up gratefully and wonderingly at Paul. When Derrick returned with the water he lifted his head, and stretched out his hand eagerly for it. At that moment Mrs. Tooley came bustling to the bedside to see what the boys were doing. Catching sight of the dipper she snatched it from Derrick's hand, crying out that it would kill the boy to give him cold water, "and him ragin' wid a fever." This so frightened the boys that they hurriedly took their departure, and poor Bill cast such a wistful, despairing glance after them as they left the house that their hearts were filled with pity for him.
At the supper-table that evening Derrick asked:
"Does it hurt people who have a fever to give them water, mother?"
"No, dear; I do not think it does. My experience teaches me to give feverish patients all the cooling drinks they want."
Then Derrick told her what he had seen and learned of Bill Tooley's condition that afternoon. He so excited her pity by his description of the dirt, noise, and neglect from which the sick lad was suffering that she finally exclaimed, "Poor fellow! I wish we had room to take care of him here!"
"Do you, mother, really? I wanted to ask you, but was almost afraid to, if he couldn't come here and have my room till he gets well. You see he's always treated Polly worse than he has me, and yet Polly risked his life for him. It isn't anywhere near so much to do as that, of course; but I'd like to give up my room to him, and nurse him when I was home, if you could look after him a little when I wasn't. I can sleep on the floor close to the bed, and be ready to wait on him nights. You know I always liked the floor better than a bed, anyway, and I believe he'll die if he stays where he is."
They knew each other so well, this mother and son, that a question of this kind was easily settled between them. Though both fully realized what a task they were undertaking, it was decided that if his parents would consent Bill Tooley should be brought to their house to be nursed.
When Monk Tooley came up from the mine that evening and examined the check-board to see how the numbers to his credit compared with the tally he had kept, he became very angry, and accused the check boss of cheating him. The latter said he knew nothing about it. There were the checks to speak for themselves. He had hung each one on the peg as it came up.
"Den dey've been stolen!" exclaimed the angry man, "an' if I catch him as done it, I'll make him smart for it, dat's all."
The check boss tried to show him how perfectly useless it would be for anybody to steal another's checks. "You know yourself it wouldn't do him any good, Tooley," he said. "He couldn't claim anything on 'em, or make any kind of a raise on 'em; besides I've been right here every minute of the day, barrin' a couple when I ran inside the breaker on an errand. Then I left Job Taskar, as honest a man as there is in the colliery, to keep watch, and he said nothing passed while I was gone."
"Well," answered Monk Tooley, "I'm cheated outer three loads, and you know what dat is ter a man what's worked overtime ter make 'em, an' has sickness and doctor's bills at home. But I'll catch de thief yet, an' when I do he'll wish he'd never know'd what a check was."
As he was walking down the street after supper, smoking a pipe and thinking of his sick boy, who seemed to have grown worse since morning, and of his lost checks, Monk Tooley was accosted by Derrick Sterling, who said,
"Good-evening, Mr. Tooley. How's Bill this evening?"
"None de better fer your askin'," was the surly answer, for the man felt very bitter against Derrick, to whom he attributed all his son's trouble.
"I'm sorry to hear that he isn't any better," continued the boy, determined not to be easily rebuffed.
"Well, I'm glad yer sorry, an' wish yer was sorrier."
This did not seem to promise a very pleasant conversation, but Derrick persevered, saying,
"It must be very hard for Mrs. Tooley to keep so many children quiet, and I believe the doctor said Bill must not be troubled by noise, didn't he?"
"Yes, an' if ye'd muzzle yer own mouth de whole place would be quieter."
"My mother wanted me to say to you that if you'd like to send Bill over to our house for a few days, it's so quiet over there that she thought it would do him good, and she'd be very glad to have him," said Derrick, plunging boldly into the business he had undertaken to manage.
"Tell yer mother ter mind her own brats an' leave me ter mind mine, den de road'll be wide enough for de both of us," was the ungracious answer made by the surly miner to this offer, as he turned away and left Derrick standing angry and mortified behind him.
"That comes of trying to do unto others as you would have others do unto you," he muttered to himself. "Seems to me the best way is to do unto others as they do unto you, and then nobody can complain. I declare if I had as ugly a temper as that man has I'd go and drown myself. I don't believe he's got one spark of human feeling in him."
Monk Tooley was not quite so bad as Derrick thought him, but just at that time everything seemed to go wrong with him, and he was like some savage animal suffering from a pain for which it can find no relief. He began to repent of his ugliness to Derrick almost as soon as the latter had left him, saying to himself, "Maybe de lad meant kindly arter all."
Going back to his untidy, noisy home, he entered the house, and standing by his son's bedside gazed curiously at him. The boy was evidently growing worse each minute, as even the unpractised eye of the miner could see. He was tossing in a high fever, calling constantly for the water which in her ignorance his mother would not give him, nor did he appear to recognize any of those who stood near.
"I fear me his time's come," said one of the neighbor women, several of whom, attracted by curiosity, came and went in and out of the house.
Although the remark was not intended for his ears, Monk Tooley heard it, and apparently it brought him to a sudden determination. Without a word he left the house and walked directly to that of the Sterlings. Entering the open door-way without the ceremony of knocking, which was little practised in that colliery village, he found the family gathered in their tiny sitting-room, Derrick poring intently over a plan of the old workings of the mine, Helen reading, and their mother sewing.
Bowing awkwardly to Mrs. Sterling, he said, "Derrick tells me, missus, dat you're willin' to take my poor lad in and nuss him a bit. His own mither has no knowledge of de trade, an' he's just dyin' over yon. If yer mean it, and will do fer him, yer'll never want for a man to lift a hand fer you and yours as long as Monk Tooley is widin call."
"I do mean it, Mr. Tooley, and if you can only get him here, I'll gladly do what I can for him," said Mrs. Sterling.
"I'll bring him, mum, I'll go fer him now;" and Monk Tooley, with another awkward pull at the brim of his hat, left the house.
In five minutes he was back, accompanied by another miner, and between them they bore a mattress on which lay the sick boy.
He was undressed, bathed, and placed in Derrick's cool, clean bed. Within an hour cooling drinks and outward applications had so reduced the fever and quieted him that he had fallen into a deep sleep.
Within the same time all the village knew, and wondered over the knowledge, that Monk Tooley's sick lad was being cared for in the house of the widow Sterling.
CHAPTER IX
SOCRATES, THE WISE MINE RAT
When Derrick and Paul found themselves descending the slope, together with a carful of miners, the next morning, it seemed to them a long time since they had traversed its black depths. So accustomed do the toilers of the colliery become to exciting incidents that elsewhere would furnish subject for weeks of thought and conversation, that often a single day suffices to divert their attention to something new. So it was with our two boys, in whose minds their recent adventures were already shorn of their terrors, and only thought of as something unpleasant, to be forgotten as quickly as possible. Therefore they did not speak of them as they talked together in low tones, but only of the present and the future.
"I think it's awful good of you and your mother to take Bill Tooley into your own house and nurse him," said Paul.
"Oh no," laughed Derrick, "it isn't so very good. Revenge is what we are after, and that is one way of getting it."
Hearing Bill Tooley's name mentioned between the boys, one of the miners who rode in the car with them had leaned forward to learn what they were saying. At Derrick's last remark this man started back and gazed at him curiously.
"He's got the very stuff in him to make a Mollie of," he thought. "To think he's so sly. He's got the fellow he hates into his own house, pretending that he wants to nurse him, and now he's going to take out his revenge on him. Perhaps he's going to poison him, or fix pins in the bed so they'll stick him. Anyway, I'll have to give Monk the hint of what he's up to." Then, admiringly, and half aloud, he muttered, still looking at Derrick, "The young villain!"
From the foot of the slope Derrick set off for the stable to get Harry Mule, while Paul waited for the making up of a train of empty cars, in which he was to ride to the junction near the blacksmith's shop. There Derrick was to meet him, take him to his post of duty, and tell him about opening and closing the door, and tending the switch of which he was to have charge.
In spite of the fact that he and Derrick had been friends but a single day, Harry Mule appeared to recognize his young driver, and gave him a cordial greeting as he entered the stable. At least he threw up his head and uttered a tremendous bray, which went "Haw! he-haw, he-haw, he-haw!" and sounded so absurdly like a laugh that Derrick laughed from sympathy until the tears ran down his cheeks. The mule gazed at him with a look of wonder in his big eyes, and stood so meek and quiet while his harness was being put on that Derrick thought perhaps his feelings had been hurt. To soothe them he talked to him, and told him that Paul had come down into the mine to work.
As they left the stable, and Derrick stopped to fasten the door, Harry started in the opposite direction from that in which he should have gone, and ran down the gangway, kicking up his heels and braying, as though he were a frisky young colt in a pasture instead of an old bumping-mule down in a coal-mine. Derrick ran after him, and for some time could see the reflection of the collar-lamp, which was swung violently to and fro by the animal's rapid motion. The disappearance of this light in the distance was followed by an angry shouting and a muffled crash.
Derrick was provoked that his mule should have made all this trouble, and was anxious to discover the full extent of the mischief done, but he could not help laughing when he reached the scene of confusion. The first object he saw was Harry himself, standing still and gazing demurely at him with the wondering look which was his most common expression. He was hitched in front of a string of mules which were attached to a train of empty cars, and was evidently prepared to act as their leader. The boy driver of these mules, with many muttered exclamations, was trying to disentangle their harness from the snarl it had got into, and in one of the cars stood Paul Evert, looking somewhat dilapidated and greatly disgusted.
"Hullo, Derrick!" he called out. "Where did that mule come from?"
"Why, that's Harry, my bumping-mule," answered Derrick as he came up laughing.
"Bumping-mule! I should think he was," said Paul. "He made these cars stop so quick that I was almost bumped out of 'em, and the skin's all knocked off my nose. I don't see what he wanted to come bumping along this way for."
"Why, I told him you were coming," said Derrick, "and I suppose he wanted to welcome you to the mine."
"Well, I'm sorry you told him, and—"
Just then the driver shouted "Gee up!" and Harry Mule, anxious to do his duty in his new position, started ahead so briskly as to pull the other three mules promptly into line and give a violent jerk to the cars. Losing his balance with this unexpected motion, Paul sat suddenly down in the bottom of the car he was in, and there he wisely decided to remain.
When they reached the junction, Derrick asked Paul to wait for him until he and Harry Mule had distributed the empty cars to their several destinations. Attracted by its cheerful light, Paul stepped inside the blacksmith's shop, where Job Taskar, who was hammering away as busily as usual, glanced up as he entered, but paid no further attention to him. A minute later the smith, who had just begun his day's work, and still wore his coat, pulled it off and flung it to one side. Something dropped from one of its pockets unnoticed by him as he did so, and Paul was on the point of calling his attention to it. He did not, however, because the smith's helper, a slim, dreary-looking young man, to whom nobody ever paid much attention, also noticed the falling object, and picked it up without being seen by Job. Gazing at it curiously for a moment, he restored it, as Paul thought, to the pocket from which it had fallen. In reality, he slipped it into a pocket of his own coat which lay under that of his boss.
Derrick now came back, and with him Paul went to the door that he was to tend. Just inside of it, on a platform laid above the ditch of black, rapidly flowing water, stood a rude arm-chair made out of rough boards. Above it hung a board full of holes into which several pegs were thrust. Derrick told Paul that with these pegs he must keep tally of the number of loaded cars that passed this station, and that he must always be ready to answer promptly the call of "Door." Within reach from the chair was a lever by means of which the switch was moved. Paul was told that after each door call there would come another explaining on which track the approaching cars were to go, and that he must listen carefully for it and set the switch accordingly. After showing him the large oil-can from which he might refill his lamp, Derrick bade him good-by and returned to his own work.
This morning passed much more pleasantly to the young mule-driver than the first one had. Not only did Tom Evert greet him cordially, and thank him for what he had done for Paul, but Monk Tooley gave him a gruff "Mornin', lad," and most of the other men spoke pleasantly to him, as though to atone in a measure for his previous suffering. Above all, he occasionally had to pass Paul's station, and the mere sight of his faithful friend leaning on his crutch and holding open the door was a source of joy.
As Paul had much spare time on his hands, he occupied it in becoming acquainted with his surroundings, and was especially interested in the curious markings on the black slate walls of the gangway near his door. Many of these were in the form of exquisite ferns, others of curious leaves such as he had never seen, quaint patterns like the scales and bones of queer fishes, or the ripplings of water on a smooth beach. In one place he found tiny tracks, as though a small bird had run quickly across it, and had stamped the imprint of its feet on the hard surface.
It was Paul's first lesson in geology, and it gave him his first idea that this hard slate, and the veins of coal enclosed between its solid walls, might have had a previous existence in another form. He pondered upon the length of time that must have passed since those ferns grew, and since that running bird made those footprints, and finally concluded to ask Derrick if he knew.
At noon, after Harry Mule had been sent jingling to his stable, Derrick rejoined his friend, and they ate lunch together. As they talked of the strange markings on the walls, and Derrick confessed that he knew no more concerning their age than Paul, the latter suddenly paused, and with a slight gesture directed attention to something in the roadway.
Looking in the direction indicated, Derrick saw, sitting bolt-upright on its hind-legs, and gazing steadily at them, an immense rat. He was quite gray, and evidently very old; nor did he seem to be in the least bit afraid of them.
"Doesn't he look wise?" whispered Paul.
"As wise as Socrates," answered Derrick.
Not having had Derrick's education, Paul did not know who Socrates was, but the name pleased him, and he said it over softly to himself—"Socrates, Soc, Socrates. That's what I'm going to call him, Derrick—'Socrates.' I've seen him round here two or three times this morning, and every time he's sat up just like that, and looked as if he knew all that I was thinking about. I believe he could tell how old the ferns are."
"I don't believe they're as old as he is," replied Derrick, laughing.
The rat did not seem to like this, for at Derrick's laughter he gave a little squeak and darted away, disappearing beneath the door.
Within five minutes Paul pointed again, and there sat the rat in precisely the same position as before.
"Perhaps this is what he wants," said Paul, throwing a bit of bread towards the rat. Approaching it cautiously, the beast first smelled of it, and then seizing it in his mouth again darted beneath the door. Several times did he thus come for food, but he always carried it away without stopping to eat even a crumb.
"He must have a large and hungry family," said Derrick.
"Or else it isn't his dinner-hour yet, and he is waiting for the proper time to eat," laughed Paul.
Always after this Socrates the rat was a regular attendant upon the boys at lunch-time, and he never failed to receive a share of whatever they had to eat. Often at other times, when no sound save the steady gurgle of the black water beneath him broke the tomb-like silence of the gangway, Paul would see the little beady eyes flashing here and there in the dim lamplight, and would feel a sense of companionship very comforting to his loneliness. At such times Paul would talk to the rat about the queer pictures on the walls, and ask him questions concerning them. For hours he talked thus to his wise-looking companion, until he began to believe that the rat understood him, and could really answer if he chose.
Sometimes when he was asked a question he could not answer, he would reply, "I don't know, but I'll speak to Socrates about it"; and at the first opportunity he would explain the whole difficulty to his gray-whiskered friend. Frequently, by thus thinking and talking the matter over, he would arrive at some conclusion, more or less correct, and this he would report as "What Socrates thinks."
At noon that day Monk Tooley, as usual, ate his lunch and smoked his pipe with Job Taskar in the blacksmith's shop; but he was very quiet, and not inclined to be talkative as was his habit. When he left, the blacksmith's helper slipped out after him, and saying, "'Ere's summut I think belongs to you, Mr. Tooley," handed him three bits of wood, on each of which was deeply scored M. T.
"My lost checks!" exclaimed the miner. "Where'd yer get 'em, Boodle?"
"They dropped out hof Taskar's pocket when 'e flung hoff 'is coat this mornin', and hi picked 'em hup unbeknownst to 'im."
"So he's de one as stole 'em, is he?" began the miner in a passion. Then, changing his tone, he added, "But never mind, Boodle; of course he only took 'em for de joke, and we'll say no more about it. Yer needn't mention havin' found 'em."
"Hall right, Mr. Tooley, hit shall be has you says," replied the helper, meekly, though he was really greatly disappointed at this turn of affairs. He disliked as much as he feared his boss, and had hoped that this little incident might lead to a quarrel between him and the miner whose lost property he had just restored.
Monk Tooley went back to his work muttering to himself, "All dis means summut; but we'll just lie low a bit, and mebbe Body-master an me'll have a score ter settle yet."
The Young Sleepers had been so badly demoralized by the incidents following their attempt to extract a treat from Derrick, and especially by the mishap of their leader, that they had not the courage to repeat the experiment. Derrick and Paul therefore left the mine that evening without being molested. They took pains, however, not to be very far behind two brawny pillars of strength in the shape of Tom Evert and Monk Tooley when they reached the foot of the slope.
Before going home Monk Tooley walked with Derrick to the Widow Sterling's, to inquire after his boy, and was much pleased to learn that he was getting along nicely.
"It lightens my heart ter hear yer say dat, missus," he said to Mrs. Sterling, "an' it's not one woman in ten thousand would do what yer doin' fer my poor lad."
"Derrick proposed it," said Mrs. Sterling, with a mother's anxiety that her son should receive all the credit due him. "Without his help I'm afraid I should not have been able to invite Bill to come here."
"He's a fine lad, missus," replied the miner, "an' if de time ever comes dat I can serve you or him, my name's not Monk Tooley if I don't jump at de chance."
After sitting a while with Bill, and doing what lay in his power to make him comfortable, Derrick again got out his father's plans of the old workings of the mine, and pored over them intently. Finally he exclaimed, "It's all right; I am sure of it!"
"What are you so sure of, my son?" asked his mother, looking up from her work.
"Something I have been trying to find out for Mr. Jones, mother, but he does not want a word said about it; so I must keep the secret to myself, at any rate until after I have seen him."
"Seems to me that you and Mr. Jones have a great many secrets together. You really are becoming quite an important young man, Derrick."