As Robert Burnham had been universally beloved, so his death was universally mourned.  The miners at Burnham Shaft felt that they had especial cause for grief.  He had a way of coming to the mines and looking after them and their labor, personally, that they liked.  He knew the names of all the men who worked there, and he had a word of kindly greeting for each one whom he met.  When he came among them out of the darkness of heading or chamber, there seemed, somehow, to be more light in the mines, more light and better air, and a sense of cheeriness and comfort.  And, after he had gone, you could hear these men whistling and singing at their tasks for hours; the mere fact of his presence had so lightened their labors.  The bosses caught this spirit of friendliness, and there was always harmony at Burnham Breaker and in the Burnham mines, among all who labored there in any way whatever.  But the screen-room boys had, somehow, come to look upon this man as their especial friend.  He sympathized with them.  He seemed to understand how hard it was for boys like they were to bend all day above those moving streams of coal.  He always had kind words for them, and devised means to lessen, at times, the rigid monotony of their tasks.  They regarded him with something of that affection which a child has for a firm, kind parent.  Moreover, they looked upon him as a type of that perfect manhood toward which each, to the extent of his poor ability, should strive to climb.  Even in his death he had set for them a shining mark of manly bravery.  He had died to rescue others.  If he had been a father to them before, he was a hero to them now.  But he was dead.  They had heard his gentle voice and seen his kindly smile and felt the searching tenderness of his brown eyes for the last time.  They would see his face once more; it would not be like him as he was, but—­they would see it.

They had gathered on the grass-plot, on the hill east of the breaker, under the shadow of a great oak-tree.  There were forty of them.  They were dressed in their best clothes; not very rich apparel to be sure, patched and worn and faded most of it was, but it was their very best.  There was no loud talking among them.  There were no tricks being played; there was no shouting, no laughter.  They were all sober-faced, earnest, and sorrowful.

One of the boys spoke up and said:  “Tell you what I think, fellows; I think we ought to pass res’lutions like what the miners they done.”

“Res’lutions,” said another, “w’at’s them?”

“W’y,” said a third, “it’s a little piece o’ black cloth, like a veil, w’at you wear on your arm w’en you go to a fun’al.”

Then some one proposed that the meeting should first be duly organized.  Many of the boys had attended the miners’ meetings and knew something about parliamentary organization.

“I move’t Ralph Buckley, he be chairman,” said one.

“I second the move,” said another.  The motion was put, and Ralph was unanimously elected as chairman.