The next morning on their way to work, they missed Dan Murlock. Some of the miners eyed them suspiciously as they asked where he was, and Slater, their landlord, was the only one to satisfy their curiosity. “With his wife,” said he curtly. “The wee laddie has not been found.”
“Wherever can he be?” said Desmond in bewilderment. Slater shook his head.
“Search parties were out all night, but could find no trace or tidings of him.”
“Have you any idea what has happened?” asked Alan. Slater gave a quick look at each in turn, and then muttered something unintelligible under his breath, and the boys had to be content with that.
It was a terrible day at the mine for the two boys; they had to partake of their midday meal in silence, for not one of the colliers addressed a word to them if he could possibly avoid it. They were regarded with suspicion mingled with fear, and the “Curse” seemed to be on every one’s lips.
Two days passed—a week, a fortnight; still Dan Murlock’s baby was not found, and at last the broken-hearted parents appeared at church in mourning, thus acknowledging to the world that they had given up all hope of ever seeing their little one again.
Murlock was silent about it all, but every one who knew him realized that he was a changed man. He had idolized his wife and child, and at one blow had lost both, for his baby was without doubt dead; and his wife had turned from him in the throes of her grief.
The weeks passed on, Christmas was nigh upon them, and the child was spoken of in hushed tones as one speaks of the dead. The two boys were treated as aliens by the men, and they were beginning to chafe under their treatment. Although nothing had been said openly, they knew instinctively that they were blamed by the superstitious inhabitants for the disappearance of the baby.
“Alan,” said Desmond one day, as they were sitting apart from the rest eating their dinner, “I can’t stand this. I am going to speak to the men.”
“Stand what?” asked Alan wearily.