It was not a bad day in the pit.  All the colliers, men and boys, were more gentle than usual with the fatherless lad; and even Black Thompson, his master since his father’s illness, who was in general a fierce bully to everybody about him, spoke as mildly as he could to Stephen.  Yet all the day Stephen longed for his release in the evening, thinking how much work there wanted doing in the garden, and how he and Martha must be busy in it till nightfall.  The clanking of the chain which drew him up to the light of day sounded like music to him; but little did he guess that an enemy was lying in wait for him at the mouth of the pit.  ‘Hillo!’ cried a voice down the shaft as they were nearing the top; ’one of you chaps have got to carry a sack o’ coals one mile.’

The voice belonged to Tim Cole, who was the terror of the pit-bank, from his love of mischief and his insatiable desire for fighting.  He was looking down the shaft now, with a grin and a laugh upon his red face, round which his shaggy red hair hung like a rough mane.  There were only two other boys besides Stephen in the skip, and as their fathers were with them it might be dangerous to meddle with them; so Tim fixed upon Stephen as his prey.

‘Thee has got to carry these coals, Steve,’ he said, his eyes dancing with delight.

‘I won’t,’ replied Stephen.

‘Thee shalt,’ cried Tim, with an oath.

‘I won’t,’ Stephen repeated stedfastly.

‘Then we’ll fight for it,’ said Tim, clenching his fists and squaring his arms, while the men and boys formed a ring round the two lads, and one and another spoke encouragingly to Stephen, who was somewhat slighter and younger than Tim.  He had beaten Tim once before, but that was months ago; yet the blood rushed into Stephen’s face, and he set his lips together firmly.  Up yonder, just within the range of his sight, was Fern’s Hollow, with its neglected garden, and his supper waiting for him; and here was the heavy sack of coals to be carried for a mile, or the choice of fighting with Tim.

‘I wish I knew what I ought to do,’ he said, speaking aloud, though speaking to himself.

‘Ay, ay, lad,’ cried Black Thompson; ’it’s a shame to make thee fight, and thy father not cold in the graveyard yet.  I say, Tim, what is it thee wants?’

‘These coals,’ answered Tim doggedly, ’are to be carried to the New Farm; and if Stevie Fern won’t take them one mile, he must fight me afore he goes off this bank.’

‘Now, lads, I’ll judge between ye this time,’ said Black Thompson.  ’Stevie shall carry them to the end of Red Lane, and cut across the hill home:  that’s not much out of the way; and if Tim makes him go one step farther, I’ll lick thee myself to-morrow, lad, I promise thee.’