place with bare, sunbrowned arms and legs, a pick and shovel, and a gold dish, about two-thirds of his height in diameter, with which he used to go 'a-speckin and 'fossickin amongst the old mullock heaps. Long Tom was Isley's special crony, and he would often go out of his way to 'lay the boy onter bits o' wash and likely spots,' lamely excusing his long yarns with the child by the explanation that it was 'amusin' to draw Isley out.'
Isley had been sitting writing for some time when a deep voice called out from below:―
'Isley!'
'Yes, father.'
'Send down the bucket.'
'Right.'
Isley put down his slate, and going to the shaft dropped the bucket down as far as the slack rope reached; then, placing one hand on the bole of the windlass and holding the other against it underneath, he let it slip round between his palms until the bucket reached bottom. A sound of shovelling was heard for a few moments and presently the voice cried, 'Wind away, sonny.'
'Thet ain't half enough.' said the boy, peering down. 'Don't be frightened to put it in, father. I kin wind up a lot mor'n thet.'
A little more scraping, and the boy braced his feet well upon the little mound of clay which he had raised under the handle of the windlass to make up for his deficiency in stature.
'Now then, Isley!'
Isley wound slowly but sturdily, and soon the bucket
