“I’ll take them to Newcastle, to-morrow. May be I’ll get something for them, mother, and bring back food for you and the rest; if not, I’ll look out for some other sort of work. I’m determined to be at play no longer, to please any set of men.”
The miners always speak of being at play, when they are not at work.
Just then a young man, well dressed in seafaring style, passed the window.
“Do any people of the name of Kempson live hereabouts?” Dick heard him say.
“Yes, sir,” said Dick. “That’s our name. What do you want?”
The young man made no answer, but walked in and sat down on a chair Mrs Kempson offered him. He looked round for a minute without speaking—first at Mrs Kempson, then at Limping Lawry, then at little Nelly, and then at the other children, and over and over again at Dick.
“I think that I have seen you all before; but it was years ago,” he said at last, and his voice trembled. “Some time back, as I was reading an account of a dreadful accident which happened in one of the coal-pits hereabouts, I saw the name of Samuel Kempson and his son Benjamin among the list of sufferers.”
“Yes, sir; those were my poor husband and son,” said Mrs Kempson, with a sigh, and the tears came to her eyes.
“Did you ever live in Suffolk?” asked the stranger. “Yes, sir; and I wish that we had never left it,” answered Susan.
“And had you a son you called Jack?” inquired the visitor.