single
gentle or kind word spoken to him in all his stormy life. In spite of it
he was troubled with some prickings of conscience, and a sort of pity
that evening, as he reflected upon the unhappy condition of the lad whom
he had left to wander alone amid the awful blackness of the abandoned
gangway. He had not intended to do anything so cruel as this when he
first left Derrick where he did. He thought the boy would certainly cry
out for help, and after allowing him to suffer thus for a short time he
meant to go to him and offer to release him upon condition of his
joining the Young Sleepers. This plan had been upset by Derrick's
disappearance, and then it was more to assert his authority over his
companions than with the idea of inflicting further cruelty upon their
victim that he had ordered him to be left for a while. Now he began to
feel anxious concerning the fate of the lad, and eager to effect his
release.

Feeling thus, as soon as he had finished an uncomfortable supper in his
wretched home, filled with quarrelling children, and ruled by a
slatternly, shrill-voiced mother, he hurried out to try and induce some
of his companions to accompany him down into the mine in a search for
Derrick. He had some difficulty in doing this, for the other boys were
badly frightened by what had taken place, and dreaded to return into the
mine. It was more than an hour after he started out before he had
persuaded four of the boldest among them to join him in the proposed
search.

As this little party gathered at the mouth of the slope, and prepared to
descend in a car that was about to start down with some timbers for
props, a timid voice said,

"Can't I go too, Bill? Please let me! I know you are going to look for
Derrick. Please, Bill!"

It was Paul Evert, who, with an undefined feeling of dread and fear for
the safety of his friend, had hung on the outskirts of various groups of
boys in the village street until from their conversations he had learned
the whole story. With senses sharpened by anxiety and love, he had
discovered that Bill Tooley and his companions were going in search of
the missing lad. Now, with his father's mine cap bearing its tiny lamp
on his head, he begged to be allowed to go with them.

Bill hesitated for a moment, and then, for fear lest if he refused Paul
would spread the story of what he had discovered, or perhaps, moved by
some better feeling, he said, "Yes, pile in if yer want to, dough I
don