Taking Tales Part 28

"I don't know," said Kempson; "the child is very ill, if not dead already. Let us put him to bed and send for the doctor. It's more than you or I can do to cure him of ourselves."

Poor d.i.c.k was breathing, and twitching with his hands, but was quite unconscious. His black clothes were taken off him by his mother, who washed and put him to bed, while Samuel went to fetch the doctor attached to the mines. The doctor at once said that something had shaken his nerves, that he must be kept quiet, but well fed and amused.

He had had a fright, that was it. Samuel knew the tricks that were played, and he guessed that some one had frightened d.i.c.k, and resolved to find out who it was, if he could. The best thing they could do for d.i.c.k just then, after he had taken the doctor's stuff, was to send for David Adams to come and amuse him. David, who had just come up from the pit, very gladly came as soon as he had washed, and brought his most amusing books, and he sat and read by d.i.c.k's bedside. This did d.i.c.k a great deal of good, and while he listened to David's reading, he almost forgot his fright.

The next day, which was Sunday, he was a great deal better, and David came again to spend the day with him. n.o.body went from the village to a place of wors.h.i.+p, the nearest was some way off, the men were tired, and the women wanted to tidy their houses. The afternoon was very fine, and while the people were sitting at their doors, or standing about in groups in the dirty, unpaved street, a gentleman came among them with a small bundle of printed papers in his hand.

"Here comes a schoolmaster," said one. "I wonder now what he wants with us."

"May be to teach us something we don't know," observed a second.

"If he had come to tell us that our wages had risen, I'd have thanked him," said a third, with a sneer.

"Maybe he is a parson of some sort," said Joseph Kempson. "I, for one, should like to hear him, and so would the boys in there. There was a time when never a Sunday pa.s.sed but what we went to the house of prayer.

Now, from one end of the year to the other we are not seen inside one."

Joseph sighed, as he spoke.

The stranger had observed Kempson, and seeing something pleasant in his face, came up and addressed him, "Perhaps you will give me a chair," he said; "I should like to sit down and read to those who may wish to hear me."

"Yes, sir, gladly," answered Kempson, bringing out a chair. "I have a sick boy within; he will hear all you say, as the window is open."

The gentleman read for a short time, and a good many people came round and listened, and though! what he was reading very interesting. Then he took out a Bible, and read from that; and, closing the book, told them of G.o.d's great love for man, which made Him send His Son Jesus Christ into the world, first to show men how to live, not to fight and quarrel, but to do good to all around them; and then, men being by nature sinful, and justly condemned, that He might offer Himself up as a sacrifice, and take their sins upon Himself.

"My dear friends, trust in this merciful loving Jesus," he exclaimed.

"He has completed the work of saving you, it is perfect in every way.

All you have to do is to repent and trust to Him, and to go and sin no more, intentionally, wilfully that is to say. Oh, my dear friends, think of the love and mercy of G.o.d, through Christ Jesus. He never refuses to hear any who come to Him. His love surpa.s.ses that of any human being; His ears are ever open to our prayers."

"I should like to have a talk with you, sir," said Kempson, when the stranger, having finished speaking, was giving his tracts to the people around. "There are some things which you said, sir, which I haven't heard for a long time, or thought about, but I know that they are true."

"Gladly, my friend," was the answer.

The stranger had a long talk with Joseph, and promised to come again before long to see him.

STORY SIX, CHAPTER 3.

Several days pa.s.sed by. d.i.c.k did not seem exactly ill, but he prayed and begged so hard that he might not go back to the pit, that when the doctor came and said also it might do him harm, his father consented not to take him. Still Joseph did not like losing his boy's wages. David had promised, on the next Sat.u.r.day, as soon as he came back from the pit, to come and read to d.i.c.k. When the evening arrived, however, David did not appear. d.i.c.k was beginning to complain very much of David, when Mrs Adams came to ask if he was there, as he had never come home. When Joseph came in, he said that he had not seen him all day. He thought that he had not gone down into the pit. Mrs Adams began to get into a great fright. David had left home in the morning to go to his work in the pit, and she was sure that he would not have gone elsewhere. When Joseph came in, he undertook to go to the pit's mouth and learn if David had gone down. He came back, saying that there was no doubt about his having gone down, but no one remembered for certain that he had come up again.

"Oh father, let's you and I go down and look for him!" exclaimed d.i.c.k; "I feel quite strong and able for it."

"Why I thought you'd be afraid of going down the pit again, boy,"

remarked Joseph.

"No, father," answered d.i.c.k, "I remember what that missionary gentleman said the other day, if we are doing our duty we shouldn't fear, for G.o.d will take care of us; and I am sure that I should be doing my duty looking after David, who has been so kind to me."

Joseph could say nothing against it; so as soon as he had had some supper, he, with d.i.c.k and Mrs Adams, set out to find the "doggy" of the pit, to learn if he knew for certain that David had come up, and if not, to get his and the "b.u.t.ty's" leave to go down and search for him. [Note 1.] On their way three or four other men offered to go with them.

The doggy could not say that David had come up, and the whole party, therefore, were lowered down the pit, except Mrs Adams; she sat down near the mouth, waiting anxiously for their return.

While she sat there, a lad dressed as a sailor drew near. He stood still near the mouth of the pit, looking about him. The ground was high; and he could have seen a long way had it not been for the smoke from hundreds of tall chimneys which every now and then sent out thick wreaths, which hung like a black cloud over the scene.

In the far distance was the large town of Newcastle, also full of tall chimneys, with a cloud of smoke over it. Close to it flows the river Tyne. All around were tall engine-houses, out of which came all sorts of curious, dreadful sounds,--groans, and hissings, and whistlings, and clankings of iron; while high up in the air, stretching out from them, were huge beams like the arms of great giants working up and down in all sorts of ways; some pumping water out of the mines from the underground streams which run into them, others lifting the baskets of coal out of the shafts, or bringing up or lowering down the miners and other men engaged in the works. The noises proceeded chiefly from the gins, and pulleys, and wheels, and railways; all busy in lifting the coal out of the pit and sending it off towards the river. The whole country looked black and covered with railway lines, each starting away from one of these great engine-houses which are close to the mouths of the pits.

There were rows of small wagons or trucks on them, and as the huge arms lifted up a corve, or basket, it was emptied into the wagon till they were filled, and then away they started, some of them without engines, down an inclined plane towards the river. Away they went at a rapid rate, and it seemed as if they would be carried furiously over the cliff, or rather the end of a long, high stage into the river. On a sudden, however, they began to go slower; then they stopped, and one wagon went off by itself from the rest till it got to the end of the pier; then two great iron arms got hold of it, and gently, as if it was a baby, lifted it off the pier and lowered it down till it reached the deck of a vessel lying underneath. When there, the bottom opened and the coals slipped out into the hold of the vessel. Then up the wagon went again, and another came down in the same way, till the whole train was emptied; then off the wagons set, rolling away to be filled again.

The sailor lad observed poor Mrs Adams's anxious, eager looks.

"What is the matter now, mother?" he asked, going up to her, and speaking in a kind tone. "You seem down-hearted at something."

"Yes; well I may be, my lad, when my little son, as good and bright a child as ever lived, has been and got lost down in the pit. He went down at daybreak this morning, and no one has ever seen him since. Such a dreadful place, too, full of dark pa.s.sages and pits and worked-out panels; and then there is the bad gas, which kills so many; and then there are the rolleys, and many a poor lad has got run over with them.

Oh dear, oh dear!"

"Well, mother, I hope the lad will be found," said the young stranger.

"I didn't think the place was like that; may be you'll tell me something more about it."

The poor widow was too glad to have some one to talk to, so she told the lad all about the mine, the number of hours the boys worked, and the wages they got, and the way they were treated generally. The young sailor thanked her heartily. "I thought as how I'd been forced to lead something like a dog's life at sea, and I had a mind to come and have a turn at mining; for thinks I to myself, I'll have a dry jacket and plenty of grub, and a turn in to a quiet bed every night, but now I hear what sort of work it is, I'll go back to the old brig; we've daylight and fresh air and change of scene, and though we are dirty enough at times, I'll own we haven't to lie on our backs and peck away at coal in a hole three feet high, with the chance of being blown to pieces any moment."

"I can't say that you are wrong, my lad," said the poor widow, looking up at the sailor. "It has been a fatal calling to those belonging to me, and I would advise no one to enter it who has any other means of living."

"Thank ye, mother, thank ye," answered the stranger, "I'll take your advice, but I should like to know if they find that poor boy of yours; I hope they will, that I do." The sailor could not stop any longer, as it was getting late; but he asked the widow where she lived, that he might come back and learn if her son was found. Then off he set, running as hard as he could go, to get back to the high-road, by which he might reach the river before it was dark.

Meantime d.i.c.k and his father and the other men went down the pit with their lamps, to look for David. "It's like hunting for a needle in a rick of hay, I'm thinking," said one of the men. "If we could learn what way the little fellow was going when he was last seen; you know there are more than sixty miles of road, taking all into account, and it will be a pretty long business to walk over them."

"Right, mate, but the poor boy won't have got very far," observed Joseph Kempson. "Come along now."

The men hurried on along the dark, low galleries. d.i.c.k every now and then shouting out with his young, shrill voice, "David, David Adams!"

But there was no answer. It was a work of danger too; for they had to pa.s.s along several pa.s.sages in which the air felt very heavy, and they knew well that if it had not been for their Davy lamps they would all have been blown to pieces. They called and called, and looked into every dark corner, still David was not to be found. The men began to talk of giving up the search as a bad job. "Oh don't let us give up, father," exclaimed d.i.c.k, "David must be somewhere." Joseph liked little David, but still he was tired, and he thought, with the other men, that they might hunt on for a week and yet not find him. However, they all agreed to take another long round.

The poor widow sat and sat, anxiously waiting the return of her friends.

The banksman at the mouth of the pit received the signal from those below that they were ready to be drawn up. It was now quite dark.

"Stay quiet, dame, stay quiet," he said, as the poor widow was about to lean over the mouth of the pit to watch for her boy. "May be, after all, the lad isn't there. I've known boys lost for many a day down the pits, and yet found at last."

Little d.i.c.k with his father and the other men were soon at the top. As they one after the other got out of the basket, the poor widow eagerly advanced with out-stretched arms to clasp her son. "Oh my boy, my boy, where are you? Come, David, come!" she exclaimed.

"Very sorry, Mrs Adams, very sorry; but we couldn't find the little chap," said Samuel Kempson, in a tone which showed that he felt what he said. The other men echoed his words. "Still it's better to come without him than to bring him up as many have been brought up, as you well know, without life in him. Don't give way now, we'll try again, and more than likely that he'll find his way back to where people are at work."

The widow heard some deep sobs. They came from d.i.c.k. "You're a kind, good lad; you loved my boy," she cried, pressing him to her, and giving way to bitter tears.

"And I will go down and look for him again, that I will, Mrs Adams; so don't take on so, now," answered d.i.c.k, stopping his own sobs.

Samuel insisted on the widow coming to his house. She, after some pressing, consented, and the men a.s.sisted her along in the dark towards the village. They may have been rough in looks and rough in language, but the widow's grief softened their hearts and made them kind and gentle in their manner. Mrs Kempson received the poor widow with much kindness, and did her best to comfort her.

They did little else all the evening but talk of little David and what had become of him. Mrs Kempson recollecting what her own son had done, observed that perhaps he had come up after all, and had gone away to Newcastle, or s.h.i.+elds, to get on board s.h.i.+p.

"Oh no, no, my David would never have gone away from me," exclaimed Mrs Adams; yet, as she said this, hope came back to her heart, for he might perhaps have thought that he was going off to make his fortune, and that if he came to her first she might prevent him. "Alack, alack, there's little wisdom in young heads. Maybe he's gone that way, Mrs Kempson,"

she said at last, and the thought seemed to bring some comfort to her.