From the time that Tom was old enough to handle pick and shovel, he had worked in the tin mines. And very lucky he was, always finding rich lodes of tin, or stumbling on heaps of Cornish diamonds that some unknown hands had piled up to carry off.
One night Tom was working hard in an old mine—a very ancient mine indeed—when he heard sounds like those of tiny shovels and picks.
“’Tis the Knockers!” said Tom to himself, and he listened quietly. Then he heard, as if only two or three yards away, little miners doing all sorts of underground work. Some were wheeling barrows, others were shovelling; and he could distinguish even the sounds of boring, swabbing the holes, and blasting.
The noises came nearer and nearer, and Tom heard distinctly many squeaky voices all talking at once, and strange cackling laughter. He grew quite savage listening to all this clatter, and to the squeaking and tee-hee-ing; and being a rash fellow, he struck the wall before him violently with his pick, and threw a handful of stones in the direction where the Knockers seemed to be working.
“Scat!” he shouted, “or I’ll beat your brains out, I will, if you don’t leave here!”
The words were scarcely out of his mouth, when a shower of stones fell all around him, and on him, and frightened him nearly out of his senses. Still he was resolved to work there until morning and so he kept on using his pick for about an hour. Then, as his candle was burned out, he stopped, lit another, and sat down to eat his breakfast.
He had almost finished his bread and cheese, when he heard many little squeaking voices, some far away, and others close to him, crying out:—
“Tom! Tom! Leave us a bite of your breakfast, or bad luck to you, to-morrow, Tom!”
At first he could not make out the words, only his own name, then the cries sounded very plain, and he was angry. “Leave the little rogues a bite of my good breakfast!” thought he, “not a crumb of it do they get!” And with that he ate the last morsel.
Then he heard the little voices squeaking louder than before:—