Part 9 (2/2)

”I have heard papa speak of you so often,” she said, ”and of course I have seen you come in and out sometimes when I have been home for the holidays.”

”I have seen you in church,” Jack said, making a tremendous effort to shake off his awkwardness.

Jack Simpson will to the end of his life look back upon that hour as the most uncomfortable he ever spent. Then for the first time he discovered that his boots were very heavy and thick; then for the first time did his hands and feet seem to get in his way, and to require thought as to what was to be done with them; and at the time he concluded that white lace curtains, and a pretty carpet, and tea poured out by a chatty and decidedly pretty young lady, were by no means such comfortable inst.i.tutions as might have been expected.

It was two months from the commencement of the strike before Jack Simpson returned from Birmingham, coming home to stay from Sat.u.r.day till Monday. Nothing can be more discouraging than the appearance of a colliery village where the hands are on strike. For the first week or two there is much bravado, and antic.i.p.ation of early victory; and as money is still plentiful, the public-houses do a great trade. But as the stern reality of the struggle becomes felt, a gloom falls over the place. The men hang about listlessly, and from time to time straggle down to the committee-room, to hear the last news from the other places to which the strike extends, and to try to gather a little confidence therefrom. At first things always look well. Meetings are held in other centres, and promises of support flow in. For a time money arrives freely, and the union committee make an allowance to each member, which, far below his regular pay as it is, is still amply sufficient for his absolute wants. But by the end of two months the enthusiasm which the strike excited elsewhere dies out, the levies fall off, and the weekly money scarce enables life to be kept together.

It is distinctive of almost all strikes, that the women, beforehand averse to the movement, when it has once begun, throw themselves heartily into the struggle. From the time it is fairly entered upon until its termination it is rare indeed to hear a collier's wife speak a word against it. When the hardest pinch comes, and the children's faces grow thin and white, and the rooms are stripped of furniture, much as the women may long for an end of it, they never grumble, never pray their husbands to give in. This patient submission to their husbands'

wills--this silent bearing of the greatest of suffering, namely, to see children suffer and to be unable to relieve them--is one of the most marked features of all great strikes in the coal districts.

”Well, mother, and how goes it?” Jack asked cheerfully after the first greetings.

”We be all right, Jack; if we ain't we ought to be, when we've got no children to keep, and get nigh as much as them as has.”

”Eight s.h.i.+llings a week now, ain't it?”

Mrs. Haden nodded. Jack looked round.

”Holloa!” he said, ”the clock's gone, and the new carpet!”

”Well, you see, my boy,” Mrs. Haden said, hesitatingly, ”Bill is down-hearted sometimes, and he wants a drop of comfort.”

”I understand,” Jack said significantly.

”Jack,”--and she again spoke hesitatingly--”I wish ee'd carry off all they books out o' thy little room. There's scores of 'em, and the smallest would fetch a gla.s.s o' beer. I've kept the door locked, but it might tempt him, my boy--not when he's in his right senses, you know, he'd scorn to do such a thing; but when he gets half on, and has no more money, and credit stopped, the craving's too much for him, and he'd sell the bed from under him--anything he's got, I do believe, except his pups;” and she pointed to some of Juno's great grandchildren, which were, as usual, lying before the fire, a mere handful of coal now, in comparison with past times.

”I'll pick out a parcel of them that will be useful to me,” Jack said, ”and take them away. The rest may go. And now look here, mother. After paying you for my board, I have had for a long time now some eight s.h.i.+llings a week over. I have spent some in books, but second-hand books are very cheap--as dad will find when he tries to sell them. So I've got some money put by. It don't matter how much, but plenty to keep the wolf away while the strike lasts. But I don't mean, mother, to have my savings drunk away. I'm getting sixteen bob a week, and I can live on ten or eleven, so I'll send you five s.h.i.+llings a week. But dad mustn't know it. I'll be home in a month again, and I'll leave you a pound, so that you can get food in. If he thinks about it at all, which ain't likely, you can make out you get it on tick. Well, dad, how are you?” he asked, as Bill Haden entered the cottage.

”Ah, Jack, lad, how be it with 'ee?”

”All right, dad; getting on well. And how are things here?”

”Bad, Jack. Those scoundrels, the masters, they won't give in; but we're bound to beat 'em--bound to. If they don't come to our terms we mean to call the engine-men, and the hands they've got to keep the ways clear, out of the pits. That'll bring 'em to their senses quick enough. I've been for it all along.”

”Call off the engine-hands!” Jack said, in tones of alarm; ”you ain't going to do such a mad thing as that! Why, if the water gains, and the mines get flooded, it'll be weeks, and maybe months, before the mines can be cleared and put in working order; and what will you all be doing while that's being done?”

”It'll bring 'em to their senses, lad,” Bill Haden said, bringing his hand down on the table with a thump. ”They mean to starve us; we'll ruin them. There, let's have the price of a quart, Jack; I'm dry.”

Jack saw that argument against this mad scheme would be of no use, for his foster-father was already half-drunk, so he handed him a s.h.i.+lling, and with a shrug of his shoulders walked off to Mr. Merton's.

He had long since written to his master, saying that he preferred working his way up slowly in mining, to entering upon a new life, in which, however successful he might be at college, the after course was not clear to him; and his teacher had answered in a tone of approval of his choice.

On his way he stopped at the houses of many of his boy friends, and was shocked at the misery which already prevailed in some of them. Harry Shepherd's home was no better than the others.

”Why, Harry, I should scarce have known you,” he said, as the lad came to the door when he opened it and called him. ”You look bad, surely.”

”We're a big family, Jack; and the extra children's allowance was dropped last week. There's eight of us, and food's scarce. Little Annie's going fast, I think. The doctor came this morning, and said she wanted strengthening food. He might as well ha' ordered her a coach-and-four. Baby died last week, and mother's ailing. You were right, Jack; what fools we were to strike! I've been miles round looking for a job, but it's no use; there's fifty asking for every place open.”

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