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.  Darkness was coming on apace even outside; within the shed the men had to grope their way about.

There was very little that would serve, except a number of pickaxes, a few shovels, and two or three hayforks belonging to the stables.  These were served out, and then one man found the master’s gun, with a powder-flask and a handful of sparrow shot.

“Better let me have that,” said George, quietly relieving the man of the weapon, the old overlooker approving with a “Aye, that’s right; you’ll keep a cooler head than Tom there.”

The mob outside surged down on the door in force, and with loud yells.  The door stood the shock, and the major part of the attackers in a trice turned their attention to the smaller buildings dotted here and there about the pit’s mouth.  One by one these sheds were pulled to pieces, to the ever-increasing delight of the mob.  George and his men were powerless to stop the destruction.

“We must not venture out,” the boy said, “unless the scoundrels turn their attention to the windlasses and the gear.”

So his men had to grind their teeth in rage and look on helplessly.

As was expected, the rioters presently came back to the big shed, one of them, evidently the leader, advancing with a felling-axe.

“Keep back, rascal!” shouted George.  “Keep from the door, or I’ll put a few peppercorns into your hide.”

From a chink in the door George recognized him as the very man he had so unceremoniously knocked from his perch and so merrily battered in the bout of singlestick that day on the landing-stage.

The fellow answered with a curse and lifted his axe to stave in the door.  Before the weapon could descend a report rang out in the twilight, and with a scream the attacker sprang from the ground, and then fell to rubbing his legs vigorously.

“One on ’em peppered,” remarked old Saunders grimly.