“Is that no’ awfu’?  Damn my soul, I’ll hae to gang hame the nicht in my sark tail,” and she laughed loudly at her sally.

“I’ll put a pin in it, it’ll do till I gang hame,” she added, and she started to pin the torn edges together.  But all day the bare leg shone through the torn petticoat, and rough jokes were made by the men who worked near by—­jokes which she seemed to enjoy, for she would hold up the torn garment and laugh with the others.

The women and boys never seemed to heed the things that filled Robert and Mysie with so much amazement.  The two children bent over the swinging tables as the coal passed before them.  They eagerly grabbed at the stones, flinging them to the side with a zeal that greatly amused the older hands.

“Ye’ll no’ keep up that pace lang,” said one woman.  “Ye’ll soon tire, so ye’d better take it easy.”

“Let them alone,” broke in the old man, who had a penny a day more for acting as a sort of gaffer.  “Get on wi’ yer own work, an’ never mind them.”

“Gang you to hell, auld wheezie bellows,” replied one woman coarsely, adding a rough jest at his breathlessness, whilst the others laughed loudly, adding, each one, another sally to torment the old man.

But after a time Robert felt his back begin to ache, and a strange dizzy feeling came into his head, as a result of his bent position and the swinging and crashing of the tables.  He straightened himself and felt as if he were going to break in two.  He glanced at Mysie, wondering how she felt, and he thought she looked white and ill.

“Take a wee rest, Mysie,” he said.  “Are ye no’ awfu’ dizzy?”

Mysie heard, but “six and sixpence a week” was still ringing in her head.  Indeed, the monotonous swing of the tables ground out the refrain in their harsh clamor, as they swung backwards and forwards.  “Six and sixpence a week,” with every leap forwards; “six and sixpence a week” as they receded.  “Six and sixpence” with every shake and roar, and with each pulsing throb of the engine; and “six and sixpence a week” her little hands, already cut and bleeding, kept time with regular beat, as she lifted the stones and flung them aside.  She was part of the refrain—­a note in the fortissimo of industry.  The engines roared and crashed and hissed to it.  They beat the air regularly as the pistons rose and fell back and forth, thump, thud, hiss, groan, up and down, out and in:  “Six and sixpence a week!”

Mysie tried to straighten herself, as Robert had advised, and immediately a pain shot through her back which seemed to snap it in two.  The whole place seemed to be rushing round in a mad whirl, the roof of the shed coming down, and the floor rushing up, when with a stagger Mysie fell full length upon a “bing” of stones, bruising her cheek, and cutting her little hands worse than ever.  This was what usually happened to all beginners at “pickin’ sklits.”

One of the women raised Mysie up, gave her a drink from a flask containing cold tea, and sat her aside to rest a short time.