week or
two there is much bravado, and anticipation of early victory; and as
money is still plentiful, the public-houses do a great trade. But as the
stern reality of the struggle becomes felt, a gloom falls over the
place. The men hang about listlessly, and from time to time straggle
down to the committee-room, to hear the last news from the other places
to which the strike extends, and to try to gather a little confidence
therefrom. At first things always look well. Meetings are held in other
centres, and promises of support flow in. For a time money arrives
freely, and the union committee make an allowance to each member, which,
far below his regular pay as it is, is still amply sufficient for his
absolute wants. But by the end of two months the enthusiasm which the
strike excited elsewhere dies out, the levies fall off, and the weekly
money scarce enables life to be kept together.

It is distinctive of almost all strikes, that the women, beforehand
averse to the movement, when it has once begun, throw themselves
heartily into the struggle. From the time it is fairly entered upon
until its termination it is rare indeed to hear a collier's wife speak a
word against it. When the hardest pinch comes, and the children's faces
grow thin and white, and the rooms are stripped of furniture, much as
the women may long for an end of it, they never grumble, never pray
their husbands to give in. This patient submission to their husbands'
wills--this silent bearing of the greatest of suffering, namely, to see
children suffer and to be unable to relieve them--is one of the most
marked features of all great strikes in the coal districts.

"Well, mother, and how goes it?" Jack asked cheerfully after the first
greetings.

"We be all right, Jack; if we ain't we ought to be, when we've got no
children to keep, and get nigh as much as them as has."

"Eight shillings a week now, ain't it?"

Mrs. Haden nodded. Jack looked round.

"Holloa!" he said, "the clock's gone, and the new carpet!"

"Well, you see, my boy," Mrs. Haden said, hesitatingly, "Bill is
down-hearted sometimes, and he wants a drop of comfort."

"I understand," Jack said significantly.

"Jack,"--and she again spoke hesitatingly--"I wish ee'd carry off all
they books out o' thy little room. There's scores of 'em, and the
smallest would fetch a glass o' beer. I've kept the door locked, but it
might tempt him, my boy--not when he's in his right senses, you know,
he'