Nothing further was said of the matter until well on in the day, when it suddenly occurred to Andrew that Peter, who had a large family, might not care to incur the displeasure of Walker by taking the collection the next day.

“Of course, Peter,” he said, after he had thought the matter over, “if ye don’t care to take the collection wi’ me, I won’t press ye.  I’ll no’ think ony worse o’ ye if ye don’t.  Ye ha’e a big family, while I ha’e only the wife to look after.  Sometimes I think it’s lucky we ha’e nae weans; I can flit, and ye might no’ be able to rise an’ run.  But I mean to take the collection onyway, for I don’t like a man to order me what I ha’e to do.”

“Oh, I wasna mindin’ that, Andra,” replied Peter, trying to make Andrew believe that he had not guessed the truth.  “I’ll take the collectin wi’ ye, an’ Black Jock can gang to hell if he likes.”

“No, Peter, ye’ll do naethin’ o’ the kind.  I’ll take it mysel’.”  And Andrew would not move from that decision.

Next day everybody was curiously expectant; it had got noised abroad that Walker had defied Andrew Marshall to take a collection at the office, and had threatened him with arrest.  There were wild rumors of other penalties, and when pay-day came everybody was surprised to see Andrew draw his pay and walk home.  They concluded that Andrew had thought better of it, and had been cowed into submission.  When darkness began to fall, however, Andrew sauntered out and visited every home in the village, soliciting aid on behalf of Geordie Sinclair.  There were few houses from which he did not get a donation, though the will to give was often greater than the means.  In each house Andrew had to give in detail the interview between Black Jock and himself in the pit.

“The muckle big, black, dirty brute that he is!” the good-wife would cry in indignation.  “It’s a pity but he could ken what starvation is himsel’.  It might make him a bit mair like a human bein’.”

“That’s true,” Andrew would agree.

In one or two houses he met with a blank refusal, but in these he was not disappointed, for he knew that the men would not risk Walker’s disapproval by contributing.  Again, some were wholly hostile.  They were the “belly-crawlers,” as Geordie Sinclair had once dubbed them at a meeting, those who “kept in” with the management by carrying tales, and generally acting as traitors to the other men.

“No, I’ll no’ gi’e ye onythin’,” would be the reply; “he can just be like me an’ gang an’ work for his bairns.  Forby, look at yon stuck-up baggage o’ a wife o’ his.  She can hardly pass the time o’ day wi’ ye—­she thinks hersel’ somethin’.”

“Very well,” Andrew would reply, “maybe ye ha’e mair need o’t for other things.”  And he would pass on to the next house.

He had gathered between three and four pounds, contributed sometimes even in pennies, and going to Geordie’s house, he knocked at the door.  This was the most uncomfortable part of his work, and he stood shifting from one foot to the other, wondering what he would say when he entered.  Mrs. Sinclair was busy washing the floor and cleaning up, after having been at work all day washing for someone in the village.  She wiped her hands and opened the door.