About the eighth week of the strike the news went round the village that Sanny Robertson and Peter Fleming were “oot at the pit.”

“I wad smash every bone in their dirty bodies if I had my way o’ it.  I would,” said Matthew Maitland, with emphasis.  Matthew was always emphatic in all he said, though seldom so in what he did.

“But we’ll ha’e to watch hoo we act,” said Andrew Marshall more cautiously.  “It’s agin the law, ye ken, to use force.”

“I wadna’ gi’e a damn,” said Peter Pegg, his big eye making frantic efforts to wink.  “I wad see that they blacklegged nae mair.”

“Sae wad I,” promptly exclaimed half a dozen of the younger men.

“We maun see that they don’t do it ony mair.”

“Ay, an’ I hope we’ll mak’ sure work that they sleep in for twa-three mornin’s.”

“I’ll tell ye what,” said old Lauder, “let us get a few weemin’ and weans thegither, an’ we’ll gang doon to the pit an’ wait on them comin’ up frae their shift.  The bairns can get tin cans an’ a stane for a drumstick, an’ we’ll ha’e a loonie band.  We can sing twa or three o’ thae blackleg sangs o’ Tam Donaldson’s, an’ play them hame.”

“That’s the plan, Jamie,” replied Tam, who had suddenly seen himself immortalized through his parodies of certain popular songs.  “Let us get as mony women an’ callans as possible, and we can mak’ a damn’d guid turnout.  We’ll sing like linties, an’ drum like thunder, an’ the blacklegs’ll feel as if they were goin’ through Purgatory to the tune o’:” 

  Tattie Wullie, Tattie Wullie,
    Tattie Wullie Shaw,
  Where’s the sense o’ workin’, Wullie?—­
    Faith, ye’re lookin’ braw.

or

  Peter Fleming, Peter Fleming,
    Peter, man, I say,
  Ye’ve been workin’, ye’ve been workin’,
    Ye’ve been workin’ the day.

  Peter Fleming, Peter Fleming,
    If ye work ony mair,
  Peter Fleming, Peter Fleming,
    Your heart will be sair.

With little difficulty a band of men, women and children was organized and proceeded to the pit to await the coming up of the culprits.  Hour after hour they waited patiently, determined not to miss them, and the time was spent in light jesting and singing ribald songs.

“I wadna’ like if my faither was a blackleg,” observed Mysie Maitland to the girl next her.

“No, nor me, either!” quickly agreed the other.  “It wad be awfu’ to hear folk cryin’ ‘Blackleg’ after yir faither, wadna’ it, Mysie?”

“Ay,” was the reply.  “I wadna’ like it.”

“They should a’ be hunted oot o’ the place,” put in Robert, who was standing near.  “They are just sellin’ the rest o’ the men, an’ helpin’ to break up the strike.  So ye mind, Mysie, hoo Tam Graham’s lass aye clashed on the rest o’ us on the pit-head?  She’s just like her faither, ay ready to do onything agin the rest, if it would gi’e her a wee bit favor.”

“Ay, fine I mind o’ it, Rob,” Mysie replied eagerly.  “Do ye mind the day she was goin’ to tell aboot you takin’ hame the bit auld stick for firewood?  When I telt her if she did, I’d tell on her stealin’ the tallow frae the engine-house an’ the paraffin ile ay when she got the chance.  She didna say she’d tell then.”