He glanced at Mysie, wondering how she
felt, and he thought she looked white and ill.
"Take a wee rest, Mysie," he said. "Are ye no' awfu' dizzy?"
Mysie heard, but "six and sixpence a week" was still ringing in her
head. Indeed, the monotonous swing of the tables ground out the refrain
in their harsh clamor, as they swung backwards and forwards. "Six and
sixpence a week," with every leap forwards; "six and sixpence a week" as
they receded. "Six and sixpence" with every shake and roar, and with
each pulsing throb of the engine; and "six and sixpence a week" her
little hands, already cut and bleeding, kept time with regular beat, as
she lifted the stones and flung them aside. She was part of the
refrain--a note in the fortissimo of industry. The engines roared and
crashed and hissed to it. They beat the air regularly as the pistons
rose and fell back and forth, thump, thud, hiss, groan, up and down, out
and in: "Six and sixpence a week!"
Mysie tried to straighten herself, as Robert had advised, and
immediately a pain shot through her back which seemed to snap it in two.
The whole place seemed to be rushing round in a mad whirl, the roof of
the shed coming down, and the floor rushing up, when with a stagger
Mysie fell full length upon a "bing" of stones, bruising her cheek, and
cutting her little hands worse than ever.
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