That same day Walker intimated to Geordie, when he was at work underground, that a reduction was to be imposed on his ton rate, which meant for Sinclair that it would be more difficult to earn a decent wage. Geordie had always had it in his head to confront Walker about his very unfair treatment of him, and on this occasion he decided to do so.

“What way are you breakin’ my rate?” he asked, when Walker told him of the reduction.

“Oh, it’s no’ me,” replied Walker. “It’s Rundell. He thinks it can be worked for less than it’s takin’, and, of course, I’ve just to do as I am tell’d.”

“Weel, I don’t ken,” said Geordie. “But I’ve thocht for a lang while back that you had a hand in it. Have I done anything to ye, for I don’t ken o’ it?”

“Ye’ve never done me any harm, Geordie,” replied Walker with a show of sincerity. “What mak’s ye think that?”

“Weel, for a lang time noo’, I’ve ay been kept in hard places, or places wi’ nae air, or where there was water to contend wi’. There’s ay been something, an’ I ha’e come to the conclusion that there’s mair design than accident in it.”

“I dinna think so,” was the reply. “But maybe it’s because you’re ay agitatin’ to have a union started.”

“An’ what about it,” enquired Geordie, getting a bit heated. “If I ha’e been advocatin’ the startin’ o’ a union? It seems to me to be muckle needed.”

“Oh, I’ve nothing to say aboot it,” replied Walker. “It’s the boss, an’ I was merely givin’ ye a hint for yer ain guid.”

“It’s a’ richt,” exclaimed Geordie, getting still more heated. “I can see as far through a brick wall as you can see through a whin dyke. The boss has naething to do wi’ it. It’s you, an’ I’m quite pleased to get the chance to tell ye to yer face. Ye could, many a time, ha’e given me a better place, if you had cared. But let me tell you, if there was a union here, it would soon put an end to you an’ yer damn’d cantraips.”

“Very weel. Gang on an’ start yin. Man, though ye were a’ in a union the morn, I could buy an’ sell the majority of them for the promise of a guid place, or a bottle of whisky Ay, if they jist thocht they were in wi’ the gaffer, I’d get all I wanted frae the maist o’ them. A clap on the shoulder, a smile, or even a word would do it. The one hauf o’ the men can ay be got to sell the ither. Ye daurna’ cheep, man, but I hear of it.”

“Damn’d fine I ken that,” replied Geordie, “an’ it’s mair the peety. But that’s no’ to say that men’ll ay be like that. If they’d be true an’ stick to yin anither, they’d damn’d soon put an end to sic gaffers as you.”

“Maybe ye’ll be the first to be put an end to,” said Walker, rising to leave. “I might ha’e something to say to ”

“You rotten pestilence o’ hell,” cried Geordie, now fairly roused, and jumping over the coals on the “roadhead” after him. “I’ll cleave the rotten heart o’ ye if I get my fingers on ye, you an’ yer fancy women, yer gamblin’ an’ yer shebeens!”

But Walker was off; he did not like to hear these matters of his private life mentioned, and so Geordie, left to himself, lit his pipe, and sat down to cool his temper.

A few minutes later Matthew Maitland came round to borrow a shot of powder, and Geordie unburdened his mind to him.

“He’s a dirty brute,” said Matthew, “an’ it’s time we had a union started. I hear great stories aboot how Bob Smillie’s gettin’ on wi’ the union that he started doon the west country.”

“I ken Bob fine,” said Geordie. “He’s a fine fellow. I worked next wall to him doon there a while, an’ a better chap ye couldna’ get.”

“I hear that he’s gotten as muckle as tippence on the ton to some o’ the miners who ha’e joined. I’m gaun to join whenever it can be started.”

Geordie agreed that it would be good to have a union, but he knew that whoever led in the matter would very likely have to pay for his courage. There was the “Block” to consider, and he could not see how they might start a union just then in such hard times.

He sat and thought after Matthew had gone away, and was still sitting when Matthew’s shot went off. His lot, he knew, was hard. He could not afford to “flit,” even though he did find work somewhere else. His six children depended upon his readiness to swallow insult and injustice, and he could see no way but to submit. If only his first boy were ready for work, it would soon make a difference in the house. It was only a few months now till that time would come, and perhaps things might change.

All day he was sullen and angry, and he tore at his work like some imprisoned fiend, a great rebellion in his heart, and a fury of anger consuming him. Everything seemed to go wrong that day, and at last when “knock-off” time came, he felt a little easier, though still silent and angry. His last shot, however, missed fire, just as he was coming away home; and that, added to all the other things that day, made him feel that his whole life was clouded, and was one long trial.

On the way home from the pit he heard the story of Robert’s rebellious outburst at school, and when he came into the house his wife saw by his face that something had upset him. She proceeded to get him water to wash himself, and brought in the tub, while he divested himself of his clothes, flinging each garment savagely into the corner, until he stood naked save for his trousers. Most miners are sensitive to the presence of strangers during this operation, and it so happened at that particular time the minister chose to pay one of his rare visits among his flock in the village.

“Wha the hell’s this noo?” asked Geordie, when he heard the tap at the door, as he looked up through soapy eyes, his head all lathered with the black suds. “Dammit, they micht let folk get washed,” he said angrily.

When he heard the voice of the minister, he plunged his head into the tub, and began splashing and rubbing, and lifting the water over his head.

“Oh, you are busy washing, I see, Mr. Sinclair,” observed the minister, looking at the naked collier.

“Ay,” said Geordie shortly, “an’ I dinna think you’d ha’e thankit me for comin’ in on the tap o’ you, when you were washin’ yerself,” he said bluntly a remark which his wife felt to be a bit ill-natured, though she said nothing.

“Oh, I am sorry,” replied the minister. “I did not mean to intrude. I’ll not stay, but will call back some other time,” and his voice was apologetic and ill at ease.

“I think sae,” retorted Geordie, splashing away and spitting the soap from his mouth. “Yer room’s mair to my taste than yer company the noo.”

“My! that was an awfu’ way to talk to the meenister,” said Mrs. Sinclair when the door was again closed. “You micht aye try to be civil to folk,” and there was resentment in her voice.

“Ach, dammit, wha can be bothered wi’ thae kind o’ folk yapping roun’ about when yer washin’ yerself. He micht ken no’ to come at this time, when men are comin’ hame frae their work,” and he went on with his splashing. “Here, gi’e my back a rub,” and he lay over the tub while she washed his back from the shoulders downward, making it clean and free from the coal dust and grime. Then she proceeded to dry him all over with a rough towel, after which he put on a clean shirt, and taking off his pit trousers, stepped into the tub and began to wash his lower limbs and make them as clean as the upper part of the body.

“Ach, folk should ha’e a place to wash in anyway,” he grumbled, as if to justify his outburst, for secretly he was beginning to feel ashamed of it. “The folk that ha’e the maist need o’ a bath are the folk wha never get the chance o’ yin,” he went on. “Look at that chap wha was in the noo. He never needs to dirty a finger, an’ look at the hoose he has to bide in, wi’ its fine bathroom an’ a’ things that he needs. Och, but we are a silly lot o’ blockheads!” And so he raved on till he sat down to his frugal dinner of potatoes and buttermilk, after which he relapsed into silence again, and sat reading a newspaper.

It was in this mood that Robert found him when he returned from the moors. Nellie had noticed that something was worrying her husband, and she suspected some fresh trouble at the pit, though she asked no questions.

“Where hae ye been?” asked Geordie very calmly, as Robert entered furtively, and sat down on a chair near to the door. The boy did not answer. He dreaded that calmness. He seemed to feel there was something strong, cruel and relentless behind it. But he had something of his father’s nature in him, so he sat in silence.

“What kind o’ conduct’s this I hear ye’ve been up to?” was the next question, with the same studied calm, seemingly passionless and pliable. Still no answer from the boy, though when he looked at his father he felt afraid. He turned his eyes appealingly to his mother, but her face betrayed nothing, and a feeling of hopelessness entered Robert’s heart. There was nothing else but to go through with it.

“Tak’ aff yer claes,” quietly commanded the father, and the boy reluctantly began to peel off his scanty garments one by one, till he stood naked on the bare floor. He was glad that no one except the baby was in to see his humiliation, his brothers and sisters being all out at play.

The father rose and went to the corner where his working clothes lay in a heap. Selecting the belt he wore round his waist at his work, he grasped it firmly, and with the other hand took the boy by one arm, saying:

“Are ye going to answer my question noo’, and tell me where ye ha’e been?”

But Robert did not answer, so down came the hard leather belt with a horrible crack across the naked little hips, and a thick red mark appeared where the blow had fallen. A roar of pain broke from the boy’s lips, in spite of his resolution not to cry, as lash after lash fell upon his limbs and across the little white back. Horribly, cruelly, relentlessly the belt fell with sickening regularity, while the tender flesh quivered at every blow, and an ugly series of red stripes appeared along the back and down across the sturdy legs.

“Oh, dinna’ hit me ony mair, faither,” he pleaded at last, the firm resolution breaking because of the pain of the blows. “Oh, dinna hit me!” and he jumped as the blows fell without slackening. “Oh, oh, oh! Mother, dinna’ let him hit me ony mair!” roared the boy, while the grim, set face of the parent never relaxed, and the belt continued to lash the quivering flesh.

Mrs. Sinclair, who by this time was crying too, feeling every blow in her mother-heart, began to fear this grim, cruel look on her husband’s face. He was mad, she felt, and there was murder in his eyes; and at last, spurred to desperation, she jumped forward, tore at the belt with desperate strength, and flung it into the corner, crying, as she gripped the boy in her arms.

“In the name of Heaven, Geordie, are ye gaun to kill my bairn afore my een?”

She tore the boy fiercely from his father’s grasp and shielded him from her husband, exclaiming at the same time with indignation, “Ha’e ye nae humanity aboot ye at a’? Hit me if ye are goin’ to hit any more. It’s murder, an’ I’ll no’ stand ony longer an’ let ye do it.”

Geordie, surprised and amazed at her action, and the fierceness in her voice, looked up, and immediately reason seemed to steal back into his mind. A flush of shame overspread his face, and he sat down, burying his face in his hands.

“Wheesht, sonny. Wheesht, my wee man,” crooned the mother soothingly, as she began to help Robert to get on his clothes, the tears falling still from her own eyes, as she saw the ugly stripes and bruises upon his back beginning to discolor. “Wheesht, sonny! Dinna’ greet ony mair. There noo’, my wee son. Daddy’s no’ weel the nicht,” she excused, “an’ didna’ ken what he was doin’.” Then breaking into a louder tone: “I wonder what in Heaven’s name puir folk are born for at a’. There noo’. There noo’. Dinna greet, my wee man, an’ mither’ll gi’e ye yer denner.”

Sinclair could stand it no longer, so slipping on his boots and reaching for his cap, he went out, never in all his life feeling more ashamed of himself.

Left to themselves for all the other children were still out at play Nellie soon had Robert quietened and sitting at his dinner of cold potatoes and buttermilk. Bit by bit she drew from him the story of the fight at school; divining for herself the reason for Robert’s attack upon Peter Rundell, she soon was in possession of the whole story with its termination of revolt against the headmaster and even the confession of what he had written on the table.

“An’ what did ye do wi’ the tawse, son?” she enquired, her dark eyes showing pride in the revolt of her laddie. She was proud to know that he had sufficient character to stand up to a bully, even though he were a headmaster.

“I buried them in the muir,” he replied simply, “but I dinna’ want to tell naebody where they are. I’ll never gi’e them back.”

“Oh, weel, if ye dinna’ want to tell me, dinna’ do it,” she said. “I’ll gang with ye to the school the morn, an’ I’ll see that ye’re no’ meddled wi’. But, Robin, while I like to see ye staunin’ up against what is wrong, I dinna want ye to dae wrang yerself. An’ I think ye was in the wrang to strike Peter. He staggered against ye, an’ I dinna think he wad try to tramp on yer taes. An’ always when ye’re in the wrang, own up to it, an’ make what amends ye can.”

Robin did not reply to this, but she could see that he knew she was right. Before he could say anything she added, “Come awa’ noo’, if ye ha’e gotten yer denner, son, I think ye should gang awa’ to yer bed. Ye’ll be the better o’ a lang sleep. Dinna’ think hard o’ yer faither; he’s feelin’ ashamed o’ hittin’ ye. There must be something botherin’ him, for I dinna’ mind o’ him ever leatherin’ one o’ ye like that.”

This was true, for Geordie Sinclair was rather a “cannie” man, and had never been given to beating his children before. She felt that something had happened in the pit, and whatever it was it had made her husband angry.

Robert again stripped off his clothes and crept into bed, while his mother seemed to feel every pain once more as she looked upon the soft little body with the ugly black stripes upon it. She placed him under the rough blankets as snugly as possible, telling him to lie well over near to the wall, for there were five of them now who lay abreast, and there was never too much room. He was soon asleep, and Mrs. Sinclair put fresh coals on the fire, and began to tidy up, so as to have everything as cheerful as possible when her husband should return. It was no easy matter to keep a house clean, with only a single apartment, and eight individuals living in it.

The housing conditions in most mining villages of Scotland are an outrage on decency. In Lowwood there were no sanitary conveniences of any kind, and it was a difficult matter for the women folk to keep a tidy house under these circumstances. But it was wonderful, the homeliness and comfort found in those single apartment houses. It was home, and that made it tolerable. In such homes fine men and women were bred and reared, but the credit was due entirely to our womenfolk; for they had the fashioning of the spirit of the homes, and the spirit of the homes is always the spirit of the people.