‘Tell me about that mysterious affair of “Tom the Scholar,” and Jack Jefferson’s sudden death, and how you ran him to ground when suspicion had given up the chase. If all I have heard is true, you ought to have been at Bow Street, high up in the Criminal Investigation Department. Tell me,’ I said again, ‘how you came to play the part of amateur detective.’

‘There was nowt o’ the ammytoor aboot it,’ retorted ‘the Heckler’ with aggressive dignity, ‘it was a proper perfessional bit o’ wark, an’ the pollis was fine put oot that they hadn’t had a hand in it. Wey, there was Scott, wor pollis; he came to us an’ he says, “If ye had only tell’t me about it I could hev made a job on ’t,” says he, “’stead o’ lettin’ him gan an’ commit a fellor, d’ y’ see?”

‘“No,” says I, “I divvn’t see; it was him that done it, an’ it was us as copped him, an’ if I hadn’t taken it intiv hand, wey, thoo would have still been usin’ long words an’ followin’ up yor clue like an aad blind man followin’ efter his dog,” says I, “for I’ve no sort o’ notion o’ the pollis; they nivvor finds out nowt for themselves, ye hev elwis ti tell them what it is ye want done, an’ then at the finish gan an’ do it yorsel’.”

‘No, no; the pollis is just what the lawyer chaps call “accessories efter the fac’”—meanin’ they comes up ti ye when aal’s ower an’ done wi’, like the bairns at the school-sports, each one expectin’ a prize.

‘Well, as I was sayin’, I copped “Tom the Scholar” aal maa lane, an’ I doot whether anyone else could hev done it but me. I had suspected him a while back, for he was a mistetched[4] chap, ye ken, one o’ the sort that has a bit grudge against everythin’, an’ vicious same as horses is sometimes, unforgettin’, unforgivin’—just a nasty disagreeable beggor, ye ken.

‘He was a scholar, though—“Tom the Scholar” they called him—an’ was aye busy wi’ books, nivvor had his head oot o’ them, whether at the Institute or at aad Mistress Swan’s, where he lodged.

‘Efter a bit he takes up wi’ courtin’ Mary Straughan, her who got married on Jack Jefferson, an’ I b’lieve she had a mind for him once, but not for long, for he frightened her biv his strange ways, an’ a passionate way o’ talk he had, an’ she gave up walkin’ wiv him an’ took up wi’ Jack instead—a south-country chap that had come frae Yorkshire—a big, burly, thick-headed sort o’ chap, but tarr’ble good-natured.

‘Well, Tom, he takes it varry badly, an’ just before they gets “called” i’ church he tarrifies Mary wi’ vague threats as ti what’ll happen if she dares ti wed wi’ Jack. Noo, Tom was a “spirritualist,” ye ken, as weel as a scholar, an’ he swears that the spirits forbade the match, an’ would be properly savage if they was disobliged.

‘She was a narvious sort, was Mary, an’ she tell’t Jack ov’t, an’ Jack, he says, iv his queer clipp’t Yorkshire way o’ talk, “T’ spirrits be d——d!” says he; “an’ if that softy Tom comes interferin’ ’twixt thoo an’ me, I’ll make him softier than ever,” he says, shakin’ a great big hairy fist that looked like a bullock’s head.

‘Well, they gets theirsel’s married wivoot askin’ leave either o’ the “spirrits” or o’ Tom, an’ as nowt happened, an’ Jack forbye was tarr’ble lucky iv his cavils[5] just efter his marriage, even Mary began ti laugh at the idea o’ Tom an’ his “spirrits” an’ aal. ‘They was tarr’ble happy those two, an’ I mind well hoo proud and triumphant-like Jack looked as he slapped us on the back one early summer mornin’ as we went ti the pit on the fore-shift, for I was only a hewer then, same as himsel’, an’ not what I is now—checkweighman, an’ half ov a magistrate as well, bein’ vice-chairman o’ wor lokil District Council[6]—an’ he cries, “Geordie,” he says, “Geordie, man, I’s that happy I can scarcely haud myself in. There’s nowt I couldn’t do. I could hew as much in one shift as any five men together in two; I could lepp ower a hoos, I’s that cobby. I could challenge wee Bob Aitchison, t’ sprinter, to a quarter-mile, an’ lay t’ fortnight’s wages that I’d best him too. I could sing, I b’lieve,” he says, an’ wiv a solemn voice on him he adds: “Ay, an’ I could even put up a bit prayer—though I’s not much ov a Churchman—almost as weel as t’ priest himself. An’ I’ll tell thoo why. It’s because Mary tells me that there’s likely gawin’ to be an addition to the fam’ly party sometime shortly. She’s a rare well-bred un, too, is Mary, an’ I’ll lay it’s twins.” “I’ll gie ye the best o’ luck,” says I, “but twins is tarr’ble expensive, for I’ve tried ’em,” says I. “Man alive!” cries he, holdin’ up his arm—a proper colossyum ov a limb—“look at that. If that cannot win bread for a dozen o’ twins, then a lighted candle cannot fire gas,” says he.

‘He was a fine brave man,’ continued ‘the Heckler’ slowly, ‘an’ I can see him still standin’ on the heapstead, an’ I mind hoo pleased he was that he could hear a lark singin’ high i’ the air ower heid just as the sun peeped up before we went doon i’ the cage that mornin’ for the last time together—just as full o’ life an’ vigour he was as thoo is noo—but for all that it was the last time I saw him alive i’ this world.

‘It was the vary next mornin’ that he was killed, but I wasn’t doon the pit that day, for I had happened a bit accident the day before through a shot that went wrang on us, an’ I was laid up i’ bed for a week wiv a bandage ower my eyes. I bear the marks yet,’ and he pointed to some small blue punctures, not unlike shot marks, that the gunpowder had left round about his left eyelid and cheekbone.

‘Aal I could hear was that he had been knocked doon biv a runaway galloway pony that a lad called Harry Nicholson used to drive. Harry, ye must ken, was a bit weak iv his intellectuals, hevin’ been born iv an ower great hurry like before his bit intellect had had time ti ripen, through his mother’s gettin’ a gliff at an accident that had happened her man doon the pit.

‘Well, Harry was a driver, as I said, an’ he an’ the galloway was comin’ doon an incline wiv a full tub, an’ the galloway, hevin’ bolted, dragged the tub off the lines, an’ came blindly tearin’ along this side an’ that smash up inti Jack as he rounded an awkward corner. He was fearfu’ knocked aboot when he was picked up, they said, his head bashed in bi the tub’s wheels, an’ there he lay, dead as mutton.

‘The crowner comes doon an’ sits on the body, an’ the jury bring it in “Death by mis’dventure” slap off, bein’ iv a hurry likelies ti get oot for their dinners, an’ there the whole thing would have ended wiv a buryin’ an’ a gettin’ up mevvies ov a bit subscription fer his missus an’ the bairn; ay, that’s hoo it would have ended up had it not been for “the Heckler.”

‘I wasn’t allowed oot by the doctor, sae I was just forced to think it oot aal maa lane—mevvies havin’ my eyes blindfolded helped us a bit; anyways, I lay there quiet i’ bed an’ found I could think it aal oot like Gladstone; ay, an’ I tell thoo that Gladstone an’ Horbert Spencor together cudn’t have thought harder than I did at that period o’ time, nor have pieced the puzzle together bettor than us. It sounds like a bit brag, mevvies, but it isn’t, by Gox! it’s just the naked truth.

‘Well, there I lay between the sheets wi’ my “linin’s” on, detarmined that if there had been any foul play nowt but death should stop us frae findin’ it oot. First thing I does is ti get the wife ti ask Harry Nicholson in ti tea wiv us, so as ti hear aal aboot hoo it happened.

‘Well, efter he has been well filled oot wi’ tea, an’ spice loaf, an’ jam an’ aal, I gets him ti tell the whole story, an’ then I axes him a few supernumerary questions.

‘“Thoo’ll ken ‘Tom the scholar?’” I axes him—“him that’s a stoneman doon the pit, an’ gans in for spiritualism an’ sich like for his hobby an’ pastime?” “Ay,” he says, “I ken him nicely. Wey, I been at some ov his ‘seeantics,’ or whativvor it is he calls them, an’ I have the makin’ ov a fine ‘meejum,’” he says, “for I can parsonate folks ov aal kinds, males an’ females, wivoot any distinction o’ sexes.” ‘“Ay!” says I, interruptin’ him wiv a sort ov admirin’ surprise i’ my tone o’ voice, “can thoo, noo? Wey, thoo’s a clivvor one, that’s what thoo is.”

‘“Ay,” says he, quite enlarged at the thought, “an’ there’s some folk says that I isn’t quite right i’ the head, but they couldn’t parsonate Alexander the Great—him that the sword-dancers sing aboot—like as I can. Could they, noo?”

‘“No,” says I, “not they. They’re not scholars enough for that, an’ mevvies they would be gliffed at it as weel. Dis thoo nivvor get a gliff at the spirits?” I axes, careless like.

‘“Not while I’s parsonating, I divvn’t, but whiles when I’s doon the pit I gets a gliff,” says he; “it’s sae dark an’ lonesome i’ places.”

‘“Dis Tom ivvor try to make thoo parsonate doon i’ the pit?” I axes him, “for Tom, bein’ stoneman, ’ll come across thoo at times drivin’ yor galloway.” ‘“Ay, I’ve seen him doon below,” he says, “though he nivvor talked on aboot parsonating, but usuallies passes us by wivoot sayin’ nowt, for Tom’s a vary distant sort o’ chap, thoo knaas.”

‘“But sometimes mevvies he would speak wi’ thoo when he passed thoo, an’ other folks wasn’t aboot? Did he ivvor talk on aboot the spirits ti thoo at all? That day the galloway ran away, did he speak wi’ thoo that mornin’? Mevvies he did, laddie, an’ mevvies he told thoo not ti speak aboot it lest the spirits wouldn’t like it, or some such kind ov argument,” says I, insinuatin’ it tiv him like one o’ thae lawyer chaps iv a wig.

‘“Ay, he spoke tiv us that mornin’, sure enough, sayin’ as hoo he thought the spirits was vexed, for he had heard them callin’ i’ the pit itself through the darkness, an’ he wanted ti knaa whether I had heard the voices same as himself or not. Well, I hadn’t heard nowt, nor had nivvor thought aboot spirits bein’ doon the pit, but I gets a bit gliffed myself at that, an’ a bit later I ackshally heard them speakin’ aloud—sure an’ certain,” says he.

‘“Did they gliff thoo just before the galloway ran away an’ ran ower poor Jack Jefferson?” says I.

‘“Ay,” says he, “I got a gliff then, for I heard the spirits’ voices shootin’[7] oot against us.”

‘“Gox!” says I, “to think o’ that, noo! Wey, thoo gies us a gliff an’ aal; an’ what dis thoo hear them sayin’?” axes I.

‘“‘Here’s the parsonator,’ they shoots out aloud, ‘that calls us frae wor rest. Lepp oot upon him, an’ torment him! At him, Annexo!’ or some such ootlandish name,—‘at him, spirits aal!’”

‘“Sae thoo starts awa’ likelies wi’ the galloway at a gallop, an’ couldn’t get him stopped on the incline?” I axes him. ‘“No, no, I was ower flay’d mysel’ ti do owt; but the galloway must have gotten a gliff at something. I mind I thought I saw a flash o’ light just at the moment, an’ the galloway he couldn’t abide a sudden light across his eyes, he was that narvious; or mevvies it was the voice that gliffed him same as it did us; anyways, awa’ aff he goes wivvoot me, an’ dashes aff doon the incline wiv us chasin’ him an’ shootin’, ‘Woa, woo-h, Paddie; woo-ah, thoo daftie!’”

‘“An’ hoo far behind him dis thoo think thoo was when he come to the corner where he ran inti poor Jack? Did thoo see Jack theesel’, or hear him shoot out as the galloway butted him?”

‘“No,” says he, “I nivvor seen him, an’ I wasn’t far behind the galloway nowther, for as soon as the tub got awa’ frae the lines he couldn’t travel vary fast, for it was loaded. Aal I could hear was the bumpity-bump o’ the tub, then smash inti the wall—smash—smash—an’ a crash as the tub swung ower an’ dragged the galloway wiv it. I can mind nae mair nor that, mistor,” says he, at the end ov his tale, “for I fell slap ower Jack Jefferson’s body i’ the darkness, an’ pitchin’ full upon my head was knocked senseless, till they come along an’ picked us up. An’ that’s the whole story, Mister Carnaby,” says he, “an’ I’ve done wi’ the spirits, an’ parsonatin’, an’ aal noo, for they’re treacherous things, there’s nae doot aboot it,” says he.

‘Weel, that was aal I could get oot ov him, sae I gives him some sweeties an’ lets him gan, biddin’ him not let on that I’d axed him any questions, ye ken, an’ efter that I lay i’ bed thinkin’ it aal ower an’ makin’ up a plan o’ campaign for when “the Heckler” should be up an’ aboot again.

‘Efter aboot another three days I was allowed oot by the doctor wiv a sort o’ lampshade ower my eyelids, an’ the next day bein’ “pay Saturday,” an’ the pit idle, I detarmines within my ain mind ti gan doon maa lane an’ hev a look round by myself; for it’s no use trustin’ anyone else when ye’ve got a job o’ that calibry iv hand, ye ken.

‘I kenned where the trajiddy had taken place, o’ course, sae I detarmines ti gan ti the spot an’ make a sarious of obsarvations. “First place,” I says ti myself, “there winnot be much change i’ the surroundin’s, for it’s a new drift in by there that they are drivin’, wi’ ‘Tom the Scholar’ an’ his marrow, an’ not many workin’; an’, secondly, it’s damp there wi’ the salt water oozin’ in through the rock, sae that footmarks will have a good chance ti stand a bit.”

‘Noo, “Scholar Tom” had a tarr’ble large footprint, ye ken, an’ it was that I was i’ search o’, for I had my suspicions o’ what might have happened, an’ I was convinced that that d——d, mistetched beggor was at the bottom o’ poor Jack Jefferson’s sudden endin’—ay, an’ whenivvor I thought o’ that fine, brave chap an’ his bright face an’ his happiness, I says ti myself, “There’ll be no rest nor pleasure nor nowt for ‘the Heckler’ till the mystery’s discovered; an’ it’s yor job ti discover it,” I says ti myself.

‘He was bound ti have been there, for, o’ course, it was him as shooted out that nonsense at Harry that had gliffed him, an’ dootless it was him that had flashed his davy i’ the galloway’s eyes.

‘Jack, d’ye see, would have been lousin’ off frae his wark an’ walkin’ doon the drift at that time when the galloway started off; but what beat me was that Jack couldn’t hev got oot o’ the way i’ time, bein’ fine an’ active, grand at hearin’ and seein’, an’ ne fool forbye that.

‘Noo, just when I had detarmined upon this i’ maa mind a sort ov an inspiration takes us aal ov a sudden. “Wey divvn’t thoo take that driver lad alang wi’ thoo ti show thoo exactly where the trajiddy happened?” it says tiv us just as thoo it was a real, genu-ine voice i’ my inside. “Sink me!” thinks I, “it’s a tarr’ble clivvor idea, an’ sae I will.” ‘“Has thoo anything else ti add ti that, Inspiration?” I axes it, an’ shortlies efter it says, “Divvn’t thoo trust ower much ti what Nicholson says, nor tell him o’ yor plan beforehand, for he’s i’ Tom’s power, an’ tarrified ov him,” it says again.

‘“Gox!” thinks I, “but this is the champion; wey, I’s as good a spiritualist as Tom himself.”

‘“There’s one last question I must ax thoo,” says I, for I hadn’t properly thought beforehand o’ the difficulty o’ gannin’ doon the pit on “pay-Saturday,” an’ that is: “Hoo i’ the warld can us gan in-bye? for thoo kens that naebody but the furnace-man, engine-man, an’ horse-keeper gans doon that day, an’ if anyone else wanted ti, wey, he would have ti get leave frae the manager, an’ even then he would have ti have a deputy alang wiv him. Answer us this, Inspiration,” says I, “an’ it’s a clagger for thoo, I’s warned.”

‘But, mevvies efter two minutes, it whispers back two words, “drift,” an’ “beer.” ‘“Drift?” I repeats, an’ “beer?” An’ then aal at onst I sees the implication, for I kenned the lodge-keeper at the head o’ the drift nicelies, an’, what’s mair, I kenned what Sammy Cuthbertson, the local preacher, calls “the joint iv his harness” still better.

‘Sae I gans up tiv him quietly, an’ I says tiv him, “Geordy,” says I, “hoo much o’ the best beer will five bob procure iv an emergency?”

‘“Five bob,” says he, vary serious, “will buy aal but two gallons o’ the best bitter, an’ d—— the emergency,” says he.

‘“Dis thoo prefer it i’ bottles, or iv a greyhen, or iv a pail—an’ aal at onst?” says I.

‘“Bottles is no use,” says he, ‘wey, the corks alone will mevvies take a pint ti theirselves. Na, na, gie it ti me iv a pail for aal-roond drinkin’.”

‘“Well,” says I, “thoo shall have it iv a pail if thoo’ll just let us an’ the lad here gan in doon by the drift for an hour ti investigate a private matter o’ wor ain—just a visit ov inspection. No harm done, nobody need ken, an’ up again within the hour, I’ll promise thoo that,” says I.

‘Well, his face prolonged itself at that a bit. “But if it was kenned,” says he, “I’d get my notice.”

‘“Nobody will ken but us three,” says I; “an’, look thoo, thoo shall have the pail at yor dinner to-morrow forenoon,” says I.

‘That did the business for him, I’s warn’d, an’ he promises ti oot wiv his key an’ let us gan in by. Poor chap, though, he got his notice aal the same, though it wasn’t my blame: it was because he was ower-greedy an’ thought he could get another pailful oot o’ somebody else later.

‘Well, I says nowt ti Nicholson aboot gannin’ doon the pit till the vary mornin’, and then I gans along an’ catches ahaud on him, an’ says, “Ho-way,[8] thoo mun come along wiv us doon the pit, for I wants ti see the place o’ the accident myself, an’ I hev arranged aboot gannin’ doon,” I says. Well, he turns quite white at this, an’ whines an’ cries not ti gan; but I was res’lute wiv him, an’ tarr’fies him wiv a hint ov a gaol if he winnot come doon and show us aal I axes him.

‘Well, we went by the drift and straight doon ti the “Number 3, North,” or “Joan” district, as we call it worsels, an’ there we gropes aboot the trolley-way, just at the corner where the accident must have taken place, an’ searched for footmarks.

‘The lad, ye ken, must just have started frae the putter’s flat wiv a full tub, an’ aboot thirty yards doon he must have been gliffed. Hereaboots, iv a fenced place, Tom must have waited on Jack’s “loosin’ off” frae his wark, an’ another ten yards further on is where the galloway must have run awa’ off frae the rails. I had it aal mapped oot ready i’ my mind, an’ it was just the details I had ti fit in wiv it.

‘There was mair tramplin’ aboot than I had expected, what wi’ the galloway’s stumblin’, the tub ploughin’ alang through the dirt, an’ the footprints o’ the search-party that had come up ti the scene o’ the casualty; but for aal that, I could see here an’ there the marks o’ Tom’s big shoes, wi’ the extry broad plates at heel an’ toes he used ti wear.

‘Mevvies it wasn’t ower much ti see, but it heartened us up, for it conformed us i’ wor opinions, especially the fact that wherever they was visible they was close in by the wall-side, as if he had been wishful ti hide himself as far as might be—a sort o’ presumptuous evidence against him, as the lawyers call it.

‘“I will have ti gan back ti bed again,” I says ti myself, “ti think it aal oot properly, for though I haven’t a doot about it myself, I’ll have ti convince aal thae thick-heads o’ judges at my lord’s ’Size[9] before I gets him properly convicted, sae I must have it aal pieced oot an’ put together like a bairn’s puzzle-map.” ‘Well, we was slowly makin’ wor way oot o’ the passage when I hears something comin’ up-by, creak, creakin’ as it came. Weel, I’s no coward, I’s warn’d, an’ I’ll face any man livin’ that ye like ti mention, but I got a fair gliff at that, for I couldn’t make oot what it might mean—Nicholson an’ us bein’ the only folk aboot doon there. “Gox, it’s Jack’s ghost!” think I ti mysel iv a sudden sweat o’ fear. Sae oot at once I turns my davy (lamp), an’ the lad’s, fearin’ lest he might notice us, an’ shrinks back inti the corner o’ the wall as small as could be, with the lad tremblin’ aal ower next us. Efter a bit I sees a wee glimmer o’ light shakin’ i’ the darkness, then a shadow ov a man behind it, an’ slowly, vary slowly, as if seekin’ something, it mounts up the passage towards us.

‘“Hist!” says I ti the lad iv a thick whisper, “just smear your face an’ hands ower wi’ clarts, or the ghaist will cop us,” I says, an’ grabbin’ a handful I clarts his face an’ hands iv an instant o’ time; then I scrapes up a handful for mysel’ an’ aal, but i’ reachin’ oot for a good fill o’ clarts my hands struck up against a sort ov a heavy bar o’ some specie or other.

‘I gied a bit haul at it, an’ awa it comes up inti my hands—a small, heavy, but handy bit ov iron it was, mevvies about sixteen inches long, wiv a sort o’ knob at the end o’t.

‘“I’ll have a look at thoo later,” says I, an’ claps it inti my pocket wi’ the one hand, whiles I clarts my face wi’ the other. Meantime the creakin’ thing was drawin’ nigher an’ nigher tiv us, but the light wiv it was tarr’ble dim, an’ I couldn’t have given it a name.

‘On came the light an’ the shadow, but the creakin’ noise had stopped; ’stead o’ that there was a squelch, squelch, as ov a man steppin’ in an’ oot’ o’ mud.

‘It passed us biv a finger’s breadth, an’ I almost shouted aloud by way o’ relief, for it was a real live flesh-an’-blood man, wiv a fouled davy, an’ no ghost—for ghosts canna spit, I’s warn’d.

‘“D—— thoo!” I was just aboot ti shoot at him, comin’ flayin’ folk i’ that fashion. “Who is thoo, thoo ——” when he stops short on a sudden, just round the corner above us, an’ talks tiv himself oot loud. “Ay, it’ll be just aboot here,” he muttered, “that it fell,” and I could have let flee a yell o’ delight that would have brought a fall o’ stone doon, for it was no other voice than “Tom the Scholar’s” himsel’.

‘“Thoo b——!” I says ti mysel’, an’ clenches my fist tight; “thoo b——! but I’s copped thoo noo.”

‘“Tell ti me noo, Annexo,” continues Tom, usin’ the same furrin’ sort o’ talk as he had ti the lad; “tell ti me noo where it lies—the weapon that freed my destined bride frae unlawful arms. I mun hev it back, for there’s a d——d chap i’ wor village that they call ‘the Heckler,’” he gans on, the impittent scoondrel that he was, “a daft feller that’s mad aboot dogs an’ sic’ like nonsense, but he has his suspicions, an’ mevvies might be dangerous, for he has been questionin’ my meejum, Nicholson, the driver lad. Speak then, Annexo, speak, my beauty. Where lies my trusty weapon? Speak louder,” says he again, impatient like, “for I canna hear i’ the darkness.”

‘Just on that instant I gets another inspiration i’ my insides, an’ wivvoot mair ado I whispers oot loud iv a fine, feminine, and superfluous voice: “Search ti the right hand a bit lower doon, canny man,” says I, “an’ thoo’ll find what thoo is wantin’,” an’ I held oot my hand ready ti grasp his wi’ when he stretched it oot.

‘“Aha!” says he, quite gratified like, “sae thoo has found a voice, has thoo?”

‘It was nigh pitch darkness about us, for his davy had almost gane clean oot wi’ the clogged wick, but I could feel his hands gropin’ towards us, an’ I says ti mysel’, “Another foot, an’ a murderer’s copped!” ‘His hands came hoverin’ ower mine, for I could feel the wind o’ them; in another second he touches us, an’, grabbin’ ahaud ov him by way o’ reply, I shouts oot, “Ay, here’s Annex-us, thoo b——!”

‘The yell he let oot was fearfu’, an’, startin’ back, he dragged his arm oot o’ my grasp, an’ then leaped forward iv a flash, ducked past us, an’ awa off round the corner he fled, us efter him like the aad bitch[10] efter a started hare.

‘He had dropped his lamp, an’ it was darker nor Hell itself, but I could hear him dashin’ along i’ front ov us at wondrous speed. Mad keen I was, as I tore efter him ower bits o’ balk an’ stone lyin’ aboot doon the rolley-way, bended double sae as ti avoid the roof-beams. Bang up against a door I comes, shakin’ mysel’ intiv a jelly by the shock, but when I had it opened an’ was through I could still catch the sound ov his footfalls not far in front ov us. “He’ll have come a big bat hissel’ against the door,” I thinks ti mysel’ as I started off again, “ay, an’ bein’ before us he’ll have aal the obstacles ti contend wi’ first ov aal. Huzza, ho-way!” an’ I tore efter him, a fair deevil for recklessness—makin’ no doot he was for the main rolleyway, an’ sae oot by the main drift by which we had entered the pit.

‘There came the thud ov another door, an’ I gans a bit mair cautious like, fendin’ wi’ my hands i’ front ov us. Shortlies efter I notices that the footfalls sounded fainter-like; they seemed ti be comin’ frae the left-hand side noo an’ not i’ front ov us.

‘Aal ov a sudden I minds mysel’ ov a return air-way that would lead oot by the main drift. “Gox!” I thinks, “thoo’s hit the mark, but where the openin’ is I cannot mind, for it isn’t travelled biv any one barrin’ the deputies. He passed the door i’ front ov us, but bi the sound he’s ti the left hand ov us noo;” sae I felt along the wall till I comes tiv an open way. “Ho-way,” says I, mad ti think he might escape us efter aal, “ho-way, thoo’ll get him yet!”

‘On, on I went at a reckless speed, ti make up for my bad turn, an’ iv another minute I gied tongue like a foxhound, for I heard him pat, pattin’ on i’ front ov us. “I’s copped thoo!” I yelled through the darkness tiv him, ti tarr’fy him, for I heard him stumblin’ amangst some loose props or gear o’ some sort quite plainly, “I’s copped the murderer!”

‘Foot upon foot I gains on him; I hears him pantin’ just a yard or two i’ front ov us. I grasps oot wi’ my hands an’ touches his shoulder, an’ he yells wi’ terror, givin’ a leap like a hare, an’ slips frae under my hands.

‘Doon, full length, doon I fell wiv a smash like a fall o’ stone, half stunned, my head like a night o’ stars.

‘Suddenly there comes a yell o’ horror—then a thud, a clump, clump, an’ a c-clush, an’ then stark silence, an’ doon, right doon at the bottom ov a staple fifteen fathoms deep ten yards i’ front ov us lay aal that was left o’ the murderer copped, clean copped, by “the Heckler.”’