had a good right to be silent, if silence helped
him to bear his trial better; and I made up my
mind never to breathe another syllable on the
subject, unless he began.

Wednesday came. I had overslept myself
that morning, and came to work a quarter after
the hour, expecting to be fined; for George
was very strict as foreman of the yard, and
treated friends and enemies just the same.
Instead of blaming me, however, he called me
up, and said:

"Ben, whose turn is it this week to sit up?"

"Mine, sir," I replied. (I always called him
"Sir" in working hours.)

"Well, then, you may go home to-day, and
the same on Thursday and Friday; for there's
a large batch of work for the ovens to-night,
and there'll be the same to-morrow night and
the night after."

"All right, sir," said I. " Then I'll be here
by seven this evening."

"No, half-past nine will be soon enough.
I've some accounts to make up, and I shall be
here myself till then. Mind you are true to
time, though."

"I'll be as true as the clock, sir," I replied,
and was turning away when he called me back
again.

"You're a good lad, Ben," said he. " Shake
hands."

I seized his hand, and pressed it warmly.

"If I'm good for anything, George," I
answered with all my heart, " it's you who have
made me so. God bless you for it!"

"Amen!" said he, in a troubled voice, putting
his hand to his hat.

And so we parted.

In general, I went to bed by day when I was
attending to the firing by night; but this morning
I had already slept longer than usual, and
wanted exercise more than rest. So I ran
home; put a bit of bread and meat in my
pocket; snatched up my big thorn stick; and
started off for a long day in the country. When
I came home, it was quite dark and beginning
to rain, just as it had begun to rain at about the
same time that wretched Sunday evening: so I
changed my wet boots, had an early supper and
a nap in the chimney-corner, and went down to
the works at a few minutes before half-past nine.
Arriving at the factory gate, I found it ajar, and
so walked in and closed it after me. I remember
thinking at the time that it was unlike George's
usual caution to leave it so; but it passed from
my mind next moment. Having slipped in the
bolt, I then went straight over to George's little
counting-house, where the gas was shining
cheerfully in the window. Here also, somewhat
to my surprise, I found the door open, and the
room empty. I went in. The threshold and part
of the floor was wetted by the driving rain. The
wages-book was open on the desk, George's
pen stood in the ink, and his hat hung on its
usual peg in the corner. I concluded, of course,
that he had gone round to the ovens; so,
following him, I took down his hat and carried it
with me, for it was now raining fast.

The baking-houses lay just opposite, on the
other side of the yard. There were three of
them, opening one out of the other; and in each,
the great furnace filled all the middle of the
room. These furnaces are, in fact, large kilns
built of brick, with an oven closed in by an iron
door in the centre of each, and a chimney going
up through the roof. The pottery, enclosed in
seggars, stands round inside on shelves, and has
to be turned from time to time while the firing
is going on. To turn these seggars, test the
heat, and keep the fires up, was my work at the
period of which I am now telling you, Major.

Well! I went through the baking-houses one
after the other, and found all empty alike. Then
a strange vague uneasy feeling came over me, and
I began to wonder what could have become of
George. It was possible that he might be in one
of the workshops; so I ran over to the counting-
house, lighted a lantern, and made a thorough
survey of the yards. I tried the doors; they
were all locked as usual. I peeped into the
open sheds; they were all vacant. I called
"George! George!" in every part of the outer
premises; but the wind and rain drove back my
voice, and no other voice replied to it. Forced
at last to believe that he was really gone, I took
his hat back to the counting-house, put away
the wages-book, extinguished the gas, and
prepared for my solitary watch.

The night was mild, and the heat in the
baking-rooms intense. I knew, by experience,
that the ovens had been overheated, and that
none of the porcelain must go in at least for
the next two hours; so I carried my stool
to the door, settled myself in a sheltered
corner where the air could reach me, but not
the rain, and fell to wondering where George
could have gone, and why he should not have
waited till the time appointed. That he had left
in haste was clear—not because his hat remained
behind, for he might have had a cap with him—
but because he had left the book open, and the
gas lighted. Perhaps one of the workmen had
met with some accident, and he had been
summoned away so urgently that he had no time to
think of anything; perhaps he would even now
come back presently to see that all was right
before he went home to his lodgings. Turning
these things over in my mind, I grew drowsy,
my thoughts wandered, and I fell asleep.

I cannot tell how long my nap lasted. I had
walked a great distance that day, and I slept
heavily; but I awoke all in a moment, with
a sort of terror upon me, and, looking up, saw
George Barnard sitting on a stool before the
oven door, with the firelight full upon his face.

Ashamed to be found sleeping, I started to
my feet. At the same instant, he rose, turned
away without even looking towards me, and
went out into the next room.

"Don't be angry, George!" I cried, following
him. "None of the seggars are in. I knew
the fires were too strong, and—"

The words died on my lips. I had followed him
from the first room to the second, from the second
to the third, and in the third—I lost him!