The miners’ houses, built of brick, soon grew up in a picturesque fashion; some on the banks of Loch Malcolm, others under the arches which seemed made to resist the weight that pressed upon them, like the piers of a bridge. So was founded Coal Town, situated under the eastern point of Loch Katrine, to the north of the county of Stirling. It was a regular settlement on the banks of Loch Malcolm. A chapel, dedicated to St. Giles, overlooked it from the top of a huge rock, whose foot was laved by the waters of the subterranean sea.
When this underground town was lighted up by the bright rays thrown from the discs, hung from the pillars and arches, its aspect was so strange, so fantastic, that it justified the praise of the guide-books, and visitors flocked to see it.
It is needless to say that the inhabitants of Coal Town were proud of their place. They rarely left their laboring village– in that imitating Simon Ford, who never wished to go out again. The old overman maintained that it always rained “up there,” and, considering the climate of the United Kingdom, it must be acknowledged that he was not far wrong. All the families in New Aberfoyle prospered well, having in three years obtained a certain com-petency which they could never have hoped to attain on the surface of the county. Dozens of babies, who were born at the time when the works were resumed, had never yet breathed the outer air.
This made Jack Ryan remark, “It’s eighteen months since they were weaned, and they have not yet seen daylight!”
It may be mentioned here, that one of the first to run at the engineer’s call was Jack Ryan. The merry fellow had thought it his duty to return to his old trade. But though Melrose farm had lost singer and piper it must not be thought that Jack Ryan sung no more. On the contrary, the sonorous echoes of New Aberfoyle exerted their strong lungs to answer him.
Jack Ryan took up his abode in Simon Ford’s new cottage. They offered him a room, which he accepted without ceremony, in his frank and hearty way. Old Madge loved him for his fine character and good nature. She in some degree shared his ideas on the subject of the fantastic beings who were supposed to haunt the mine, and the two, when alone, told each other stories wild enough to make one shudder–stories well worthy of enriching the hyperborean mythology.
Jack thus became the life of the cottage. He was, besides being a jovial companion, a good workman. Six months after the works had begun, he was made head of a gang of hewers.
“That was a good work done, Mr. Ford,” said he, a few days after his appointment. “You discovered a new field, and though you narrowly escaped paying for the discovery with your life– well, it was not too dearly bought.”
“No, Jack, it was a good bargain we made that time!” answered the old overman. “But neither Mr. Starr nor I have forgotten that to you we owe our lives.”
“Not at all,” returned Jack. “You owe them to your son Harry, when he had the good sense to accept my invitation to Irvine.”
“And not to go, isn’t that it?” interrupted Harry, grasping his comrade’s hand. “No, Jack, it is to you, scarcely healed of your wounds– to you, who did not delay a day, no, nor an hour, that we owe our being found still alive in the mine!”
“Rubbish, no!” broke in the obstinate fellow. “I won’t have that said, when it’s no such thing. I hurried to find out what had become of you, Harry, that’s all. But to give everyone his due, I will add that without that unapproachable goblin–”
“Ah, there we are!” cried Ford. “A goblin!”
“A goblin, a brownie, a fairy’s child,” repeated Jack Ryan, “a cousin of the Fire-Maidens, an Urisk, whatever you like! It’s not the less certain that without it we should never have found our way into the gallery, from which you could not get out.”
“No doubt, Jack,” answered Harry. “It remains to be seen whether this being was as supernatural as you choose to believe.”