That morning Robert Sinclair was initiated into the art of "drawing" by
his brother John. The road was fairly level, to push the loaded "tubs,"
thus leaving his father to be helped with the pick at the coal "face."
After an hour or two, Robert, though getting fairly well acquainted with
the work, was feeling tired. The strange damp smell, which had greeted
his nostrils when the cage began to descend with him that morning, was
still strong, though not so overpowering as it had been at first. The
subtle shifting shadows cast from his little lamp were becoming
familiar, and his nervousness was not now so pronounced, though he was
still easily startled if anything unusual took place. The sound of the
first shot in the pit nearly frightened him out of his wits, and he
listened nervously to every dull report with a strange uneasiness. About
one o'clock his father called to him.
"Dinna tak' that hutch oot the noo, Robert. Just let it staun', an' sit
doon an' tak' yir piece. Ye'll be hungry, an' John an' me will be out
the noo if we had this shot stemmed."
"A' richt," cheerfully replied the boy, withdrawing down to the end of
the road, where his clothes hung upon a tree, and taking his bread from
one of his pockets, he sat down tired and hungry to await his father and
John.
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