Part 6 (1/2)

”No,” said Uncle Jack quietly; ”the mischief was done before we came.

This place has been to let for a long time.”

”Yes,” said Uncle Bob, ”that's why we got it so cheaply.”

”And,” continued Uncle Jack, ”these fellows have had the run of the works to do their grinding for almost nothing. They were wild with us for taking the place and turning them out.”

”Yes,” said Uncle d.i.c.k, ”that's the case, no doubt; but I'm very sorry I began by hurting that fellow all the same.”

”I'm not, Uncle d.i.c.k,” I said, as I compressed my lips with pain. ”They are great cowards or they would not have thrown a piece of iron at me;”

and I laid my hand upon my shoulder, to draw it back wet with blood.

CHAPTER FOUR.

OUR ENGINE.

”Bravo, Spartan!” cried Uncle Bob, as he stood looking on, when, after walking some distance, Uncle d.i.c.k insisted upon my taking off my jacket in a lane and having the place bathed.

”Oh, it's nothing,” I said, ”only it was tiresome for it to bleed.”

”Nothing like being prepared for emergencies,” said Uncle Jack, taking out his pocket-book, and from one of the pockets a piece of sticking-plaster and a pair of scissors. ”I'm always cutting or pinching my fingers. Wonder whether we could have stuck Cob's head on again if it had been cut off?”

I opined not as I submitted to the rough surgery that went on, and then refusing absolutely to be treated as a sick person, and go back, I tramped on by them, mile after mile, to see something of the fine open country out to the west of the town before we settled down to work.

We were astonished, for as we got away from the smoky pit in which Arrowfield lay, we found, in following the bank of the rivulet that supplied our works, that the country was lovely and romantic too. Hill, dale, and ravine were all about us, rippling stream, hanging wood, grove and garden, with a thousand pretty views in every direction, as we climbed on to the higher ground, till at last cultivation seemed to have been left behind, and we were where the hills towered up with ragged stony tops, and their slopes all purple heather, heath, and moss.

”Look, look!” I cried, as I saw a covey of birds skim by; ”partridges!”

”No,” said Uncle Bob, watching where they dropped; ”not partridges, my lad--grouse.”

”What, here!” I said; ”and so near the town.”

”Near! Why we are seven or eight miles away.”

”But I thought grouse were Scotch birds.”

”They are birds of the moors,” said Uncle Bob; ”and here you have them stretching for miles all over the hills. This is about as wild a bit of country as you could see. Why, the country people here call those hills mountains.”

”But are they mountains?” I said; ”they don't look very high.”

”Higher than you think, my lad, with precipice and ravine. Why, look-- you can see the top of that one is among the clouds.”

”I should have thought it was a mist resting upon it.”

”Well, what is the difference?” said Uncle Bob, smiling.

Just then we reached a spot where a stream crossed the road, and the sight of the rippling water, clear as crystal, took our attention from the hills and vales that spread around. My first idea was to run down to the edge of the stream, which was so dotted with great stones that I was soon quite in the middle, looking after the shadowy shapes that I had seen dart away.

My uncles followed me, and we forgot all about the work and troubles with the rough grinders, as we searched for the trout and crept up to where we could see some good-sized, broad-tailed fellow sunning himself till he caught sight of the intruders, and darted away like a flash of light.