'Puffing Billy' And The Prize 'Rocket' Part 1

'Puffing Billy' and the Prize 'Rocket'

by Helen Cross Knight.

PREFACE.

A brief book for the boys. G.o.d gives you work to do in the world. He gives you honourable work. There is much done that is mean and dishonourable. Depend upon it, _that_ is not His. In the beginning of your work, character grows _out_ of it; as you go on, your character goes _into_ it. Therefore the Bible declares that "G.o.d, without respect of persons, judgeth according to every man's work." We judge in the same way. This little book will show you how much the practice of the virtues--the humbler virtues--has to do with making good work.

A superior article cannot be produced without them.

But keep ever in mind that these virtues, however useful and important for your work in this world, have no _saving_ power in them; they form no plea for the favour of G.o.d; the key which unlocks the door of heaven is not found among them. Like the young man in the Gospel, you may have the loveliness of every natural virtue, and yet be lost.

As sinners in the sight of G.o.d, you need the atoning blood of the Redeemer; you need repentance and faith in that blood. Make Jesus Christ, therefore, the cornerstone of your character; on _that foundation build_ your character. Cultivate the graces of the Gospel.

Baptize the virtues with your Saviour's love. A n.o.ble Christian manhood can only be attained by the steady endeavours of a heart fixed on G.o.d, and a hand diligent, and delighting in the work He has given it to do. H. C. K.

CHAPTER I.

LIFE AMONG THE COAL-PITS.

What useful little fellow is this, carrying his father's dinner to him at the coal-pit? He takes care, also, of his little brothers and sisters, keeping them clear of the coal-waggons, which run to and fro before the cottage door. Then he is seen tending a neighbour's cows.

Now he is moulding mud engines, sticking in hemlock sticks for blowpipes; besides cutting many a good caper, and uttering all sorts of drolleries for the benefit of other little boys, who, like himself, swarm round, too poor to go to school, if school there were--but schools there were none.

The boys call him "Geordie Steve."

A lad is wanted to shut the coal-yard gates after work is over.

Geordie offers his services and gets the post, earning by it twopence a day. A neighbour hires him to hoe turnips at fourpence. He is thankful to earn a bit, for his parents are poor, and every little helps. He sees work ahead, however, more to his taste. What? He longs to be big enough to go and work at the coal-pits with his father. For the home of this little fellow, as you already perceive, is in a coal region. It is in the coal district of Newcastle, in the north-eastern part of England. You had better find it on the map.

I suppose you never visited a colliery. Coal is found in beds and veins underground. Deep holes are made, down which the miners go and dig it out; it is hoisted out by means of steam-engines. These holes are called shafts. The pitmen have two enemies to encounter down in the coal-pits--water, and a kind of gas which explodes on touching the flame of a candle. The water has to be pumped out; and miners are now provided with a lamp, called a safety-lamp, which is covered with a fine wire gauze to keep the gas away from the flame.

The coal is brought up from the pit in baskets, loaded on waggons, running then on tramroads, and sent to the sheds. Tramroads were a sort of wooden railway. A colliery is a busy and odd-looking spot.

Geordie's family lived in one room--father, mother, four boys, and two girls--curious quarters, one would think; but working men at that time had smaller wages and poorer homes than now, for Geordie was born in 1781, in the little village of Wylam, seven miles from Newcastle, and his full name is George Stephenson.

James, an older brother, is "picker;" and by-and-by George is old enough to be picker too, going with his father and brother to their daily tasks like a man. To clear the coal of stones and dross is their business. There are a number of pits around, and each one has a name, "Dolly pit," "Water-run pit," and so on.

I do not know how long George was picker, but we next find him driving a gin-horse at a pit two miles off, across the fields. Away he goes in the early morning, gladdened all along by many bird songs. George and the birds are fast friends. He knows where their nests are in the hedgerows, but he never robs them, and watches over them with fatherly affection. At home he has tame birds, whose pretty, knowing ways are the wonder of the neighbourhood. For many years a tame blackbird was as much one of the family as George himself, coming and going at pleasure, and roosting at night over his head. Sometimes it spent the summer in the woods, but was sure to come back with cold weather to share his care and crumbs through the winter.

George, too, had a famous breed of rabbits; and as for his dog, it was one of the most accomplished and faithful creatures in the district. In fact, the boy had an insight into animal nature, as we shall find he had into other things, that gave him power over it--a power which he never abused.

George next arose to be a.s.sistant fireman with his father, at a s.h.i.+lling a day. He was fourteen, and so small of his age that he used to hide when the inspector came round, lest he should be thought too small for his wages. If small in body, he was large in heart, intent in all things to _do his best_. And this made his work so well done that it could not escape the notice of his employers. When he went to the office on the Sat.u.r.day night to receive his wages, double pay was given him, twelve instead of six s.h.i.+llings. George could scarcely believe in his good luck. When he found it was really no mistake, he took the money and rushed out of the office, exclaiming, "I am now a made man for life!"

George rapidly shot ahead of his father, a kind old man who always stayed as fireman, while his boy climbed one round after another up the ladder of promotion. At seventeen we find him plugman. What is that? A plugman has charge of a pumping-engine, and when the water in the pit is below the suction holes he goes down the shaft and plugs the tube, in order to make the pump more easily draw. The post required more skill and knowledge of machinery than any he had filled before, and George proved himself equal to it.

Indeed he loves his engine as he loves his birds. It is quite a pet with him. He keeps it in prime order. He takes it to pieces and cleans it and studies it; pries into the why and wherefore, and is never satisfied until he understands every spring and cog of the machinery, and gets the mastery of it. You never find him idling away his time.

In leisure moments he is at his old study, moulding clay engines, and putting new thoughts into them.

He wished he knew the history of engines, and how they were thought out at first. Somebody told him about Watt, the father of steam-power, and that there were books which would satisfy his curiosity. Books!

What good would books do poor George? He cannot read. Not read? No. He is eighteen, and hardly knows his letters. Few of the colliers could.

They were at that time a rough and generally ignorant set of men, whose pay-day was a holiday, when their hard-won earnings were squandered at c.o.c.k-fights and ale-houses.

If one was found who _did_ read, what a centre of light was he! At night the men and boys gathered around him, when by the light of his engine-fire he would give them the news from an old newspaper, or a sc.r.a.p of knowledge from some stray magazine, or a wild story from an odd volume; and on these occasions no one listened with more profound attention than George.

Oh, it was so wonderful to read, he thought! It was to open the gates into great fields of knowledge. Read he must. The desire grew upon him stronger and stronger. In the neighbouring hamlet of Welbottle old Robin Cowens taught an evening school.

"I'll go," cried George.

"And I too," echoed Tommy Musgrove, a fellow-workman, quite carried away by George's enthusiasm.

Now they went to Robin's school three evenings a week. I do not know how it was with Tommy, but old Robin never had a better scholar than George; indeed, he soon out-learned his master. His schooling cost him threepence a week, and, poor as it was, put into his hand the two keys of knowledge, READING and WRITING.

These mastered, he longs to use them. Andrew Robertson opens an evening school nearer than Welbottle, and Andrew proposes to teach arithmetic, a branch George is anxious to grapple with next. "And he took to figurin' wonderful," said Master Andrew, speaking of his new scholar, who soon left his cla.s.s-mates far behind. And no wonder.

Every spare moment to George was more precious than gold-dust, and was used accordingly. When not on duty he sits by his engine and works out his sums. No beer-shop enticed him to its cups. No c.o.c.k-fight tempted him to be its spectator. He hates everything low and vulgar.

Andrew was proud of his pupil, and when George removed to another pit the old schoolmaster s.h.i.+fted his quarters and followed him. His books did not damage his interest in business. Was the plugman going to stay plugman? No. Bill Coe, a friend of his, advanced to a brakeman, offered to show George all about the machinery. The other workmen objected. One man stopped the working of the engine when George took hold of it, "for," he cried angrily, "Stephenson _can't_ brake, and is too clumsy ever to learn."

A brakeman has charge of an engine for raising coal from a pit. The speed of the ascending coal, brought up in large hazel-wood baskets, was regulated by a powerful wooden brake, acting on the rim of the fly-wheel, which must be stopped just when the baskets reach the settle-board where they are to be emptied. Brakemen were generally chosen from experienced engine-men of steady habits; and in spite of the grumbling of older colliers, envious perhaps of his rise, it was not long before George learned, and was appointed brakeman at the "Dolly pit." This was in 1801.

[Ill.u.s.tration: STEPHENSON'S COTTAGE.]

CHAPTER II.

MENDING AND MAKING--LITTLE BOB.

George was now twenty; sober, faithful, and expert. Finding a little spare time on his hands, he took to cobbling to increase his gains, and from this source contrived to save his first guinea. To this greater diligence he was urged by his love for f.a.n.n.y Henderson, a fine, sweet-tempered girl, whom he shortly married, and went to housekeeping in the upper room of a small cottage in Willington, six miles from Newcastle. Happy were they in each other, and in their simple, industrious, and frugal habits; and when a little son was born to them, George, who loved birds, rabbits, and dogs so well, welcomed with all the tenderness of a father's heart the little Bobby.

Robert he was named, after his grandfather.

Accidents, they say, will happen in the best regulated families.

f.a.n.n.y's family was not an exception. One day the cottage chimney got on fire, and the neighbours, with friendly zeal, not only poured water enough down the chimney to put out a much bigger and more alarming fire, but enough to deluge the poor little home of the brakeman with soot and water, making a pitiful sight to the young husband when he reached it. His eight-day clock, the choicest bit of furniture the young couple had, was completely smothered by ashes. What was to be done? Sending it to a clock-maker for repairs was quite out of the question--it would cost too much.

"I'll try my own hand at it," said George. After righting everything else he attacked the clock, took it to pieces, carefully cleaned it, put it together, set it, and it _ticked_, ticking on as faithfully as ever. The astonished neighbours now sent him their clocks, and George became one of the most famous clock doctors in the district!

The young man's reputation for business soon won him a situation in Killingworth, the best and largest colliery in the region. But his brightened worldly prospects were soon clouded by a dark sorrow--the death of his young wife, after three happy years of married life. Poor George felt it deeply, which was perhaps one reason for accepting a situation in Scotland, hoping in a change of scene to divert the mournful current of his thoughts.

Leaving his little boy in kind hands, he set off to the north with his pack on his back, a-foot and alone, for Montrose, a long journey in those days. Good wages he received, and good friends he no doubt made, for everybody loved his honest and generous character; yet by the end of the year he yearned to get back to the friends and scenes of his early days. It was not home in Scotland, for it is only home where the heart is. With his savings in his pocket--twenty-eight pounds--back he trudged to Killingworth; and not before his friendly presence was greatly needed to comfort his aged parents, plunged in debt and affliction. By a terrible accident his father had lost his eyesight. No longer able to work, and receiving little or no help from his other children, who were barely able to maintain themselves, the old couple had a hard battle with life. But George is back again; all is now righted. He paid off their debts, and moved them to comfortable lodgings beside his own. He has father, mother, and Bobby to look after, and is thankful and happy in doing it.

Those were dark days, however, for the working-men of England. War was draining the country of men and money. Taxes were high, wages low, bread scarce, and able-bodied men were liable at any time to be impressed for the army or naval service. George himself was drawn, and go he must, or find a subst.i.tute; he found one, but it cost all he had to hire him.

Poor George was in straits. His spirits were much damped by the prospect of things around and before him. All business was in a discouraging condition. Some of his friends were about emigrating to America, and he at one time nearly concluded to join them. It was a sore trial to the young man. He loved his English home; and bitter tears did he in secret shed as he visited old haunts, the fields and lanes and scenes of his boyhood, feeling and fearing that all too soon the wide Atlantic might roll between him and them. But the necessary funds for such an enterprise were not forthcoming. George gave it up, therefore, and went to work for what wages the times would allow.

Better times would come.