The next thing that struck me was that I was a murderer, and that I should be tried and condemned to death, but respited and sentenced to transportation for life on account of my youth.
With such thoughts as these rushing through my brain it was not likely that I should enjoy the breakfast with the brown and pink ham so nicely fried, and the eggs that were so creamy white, and with such yolks of gold.
I did not enjoy that breakfast, and I was feverishly anxious to get back to the works, and though first one and then another advised me to go and lie down, I insisted upon going.
I was all in a tremble as I reached the gate, and saw old Dunning’s serious face. I read in it reproach, and he seemed to be saying to me, “Oh, how could you do it?” Seemed, for what he did say was, “Nice pleasant morning, Mester Jacob!”
I told a story, for I said, “Yes, it is,” when it was to me the most painful and miserable morning I had ever experienced; but I dared not say a word, and for some time I could not find an opportunity for going down the yard.
Nobody ever did go down there, unless it was to wheel a worn-out grindstone to a resting-place or to carry some broken wood-work of the machinery to throw in a heap. There was the heap of coal and the heap of slack or coal-dust, both in the yard; but those who fetched the coal and slack fetched them from this side, and they never went on the other.
The last time I could recall the men going down there to the dam, was when we threw in Piter to give him a bath.
Piter! Had he been let loose? The thought that had come of him was startling, but easily set right, for there was the bull-dog fast asleep in his kennel.
Then there was Stevens!
The thought was horrible. He ought to be in the grinding-shop, and if he were not—I knew!