Under old Saunders the Fairburn men disputed every yard of the way,
but they were entirely outnumbered, and were slowly but surely forced
back upon the works they had so recently left. All had happened in the
course of a very few minutes.
George, on his way to his home, some half mile away, had made scarce
half the distance when his ears were assailed by the noise of conflict
somewhere behind him. He stopped and listened, the yells growing
louder and fiercer every instant. Then he darted back towards the pit,
reaching the spot just in time to see his men make a dash for the
shelter of the sheds around the mouth, followed by a howling,
threatening mob.
In a moment the youngster sprang through the entrance of the largest
of the sheds, and closed the door, shooting home the two thick rough
bars of wood that did duty for bolts, amid shouts from his men of "The
young gaffer! We'll all stick to him!" And in spite of his youth,
George was at once installed as captain of the little Fairburn band.
He had always been highly popular with the men of the colliery; they
liked his entire freedom from vain show and swagger, and his
pleasant-spoken manner.
"What have we in the way of weapons, lads?" he asked, taking a hasty
glance round the dimly-lit shed.
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