“Ah, my dear lad,” the elder cried as he hugged George to his breast, “the mother has a store of good things ready for her bairn and for Christmas.  And here is old Dapper ready to jog back with us and to his own Christmas Eve supper.  How do you do, sir?”

These last words were addressed to a gentleman who had just driven up in a well-appointed family equipage.

“I hope I see young Mr. Blackett well,” Fairburn continued.

“Ah! ’tis you, Mr. Fairburn,” said the great man condescendingly.  “This is your boy?  Looks a trifle cold, don’t you think?  ’Tis bitter weather for travelling outside.”

And with the curtest possible nod to the father, and no recognition whatever of the son, Mr. Blackett linked his arm in Matthew’s and strode away to his carriage.

George flushed, his father looked annoyed; then his face cleared.

“Come, lad,” he said, “let us get along home.”

Thursday, Christmas Day, and the Friday following passed quietly but happily in the little Fairburn family.  The father was in excellent spirits, and he had much to tell his son of the prosperity that was at last coming.  Orders were being booked faster than the modest staff of the colliery could execute them.  Best of all, Fairburn had secured several important contracts with London merchants; this, too, against the competition of the great Blackett pit.

“The truth is,” the elder explained, “Mr. Blackett is too big a man, and too easy-going to attend to his business as he should.  But I suppose he’s rich enough and can afford to be a trifle slack.”

“Whereas my dad has energy and to spare,” George put in with a smile, “and by that energy is taking the business out of the hands of the bigger man.  The Blacketts won’t be exactly pleased with us, eh?”

“They are not.  And, more, I hear the Blackett pit is working only short time; it is more than likely that several of the men will have to be discharged soon, and then will come more soreness.”

“We can’t help that, dad,” the boy commented, “it’s a sort of war, this business competition, it seems to me, and all is fair in love and war, as the saying goes.”

“True, my lad; yet I’m a peaceable man, and would fain enter into no quarrels.”

On the Saturday afternoon a neighbour brought word up to the house that there was some sort of a squabble going on down at the river side.

“Better run along and see what is the matter, George,” said the mother.  “Father’s gone to the town and won’t be back till supper time.”

So the boy pulled on his cap, twisted a big scarf about his neck, and made off to the Tyne, nearly a mile away.

He found a tremendous hubbub on the wharf, men pulling and struggling and cursing and fighting in vigorous fashion.  What might be the right or the wrong of the quarrel, George did not know, and he had not time to inquire before he too was mixed up in the fray.  The first thing that met his eye, in truth, was one of the crew of the Fairburn collier brig lying helpless on his back and at the mercy of a fellow who was showing him no favour, but was pounding away at the upturned face with one of his fists, whilst with the other hand he held a firm grip of his prostrate foeman.