A huge banner was hoisted, and the Squire and his son headed a procession to the neighbouring villages.  The jubilant colliery owner and his merry men took care to pass the Fairburn pit, with frantic cheerings and hallooings.

“What does it all mean?” George, who was in charge in the absence of his father, inquired of the old overlooker of the colliery.

“It means beer, George,” the ancient replied, “beer and froth, and nothing else.”

“Nothing else!  I hope that is a true word, Saunders, that’s all.  I mislike the looks of some of those fellows.”

“Why, to judge from all the whispers we hear,” the overlooker commented, “we are like enough to get our backs well hazelled before long.”

George gave a word of caution to the pitmen when they left work that afternoon.

“There are sure to be insults,” he said, “but take no notice, and keep out of harm’s way.”

But the fates were against George and his pit that day.  Hardly had the little gang of Fairburn colliers turned the corner of the lane when they were met by an excited mob carrying a huge sheet on which was rudely printed in big characters, “Down with all Whigs!”

“An insult to the gaffer, that’s as plain as the nose on a man’s face,” cried one of the Fairburn fellows, and without more ado, he dashed forward and made a grab at the offending canvas.  He was forestalled, however, a man of the opposing party deftly tripping him up and sending him sprawling into the mud.  Before the unlucky pitman could rise the whole mob had surged over him, amidst shrieks of laughter.

On this the Fairburn men threw all George’s cautions to the winds, and charged the mob.  Instantly a hot fight was going on around the big banner.  Even old Saunders, the overlooker, caught one of the opposition gang by the collar, crying, “Ye loons, what for are ye coming our way again?  Ye ha’ been once to-day, wi’ your jibes and jeers; isn’t that enough?”

“Jibes and jeers, old lad!  Eh, there’ll happen be mair than that afore bedtime.”

Meanwhile there was rough work around the banner.  In spite of the efforts of the bearers and their friends to protect the canvas, one of the Fairburn men had got a grip of it, and in a second the thing had been torn from its supporting poles, amid mingled cheers and execrations.  The canvas itself was pulled hither and thither by the opposing gangs, each striving to retain possession of it.  Bit by bit the banner was torn to pieces, the men fighting savagely for even the smallest shred of it, each man pocketing his piece as a trophy, till at length there was nothing of the thing left visible.

Cries of, “On to the pit wi’ ye, lads!” were by this time plentiful, and with a dash the now much augmented mob surged in that direction.  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.