Pit Pony by Joyce Barkhouse Page B

who brought home a pay envelope.
    Willie looked up at his father. His big, long-lashed brown eyes were troubled. “Maybe I won’t be a miner,” he muttered.
    His father put down his knife and fork.
    Everybody stopped eating.
    â€œNot be a miner! What will you be, then?”
    Willie was trembling. “I like horses. Maybe I could be a blacksmith ... or ... something.”
    â€œA blacksmith! How could a puny mite like you work at a forge and swing a great hammer?”
    Willie hung his dark head, but he muttered, “’T’would be no harder than swingin’ a pickaxe diggin’ out coal in a mine.”
    His father’s face grew red with anger. “And where would the money come from to buy a shop and set you up with all your fancy ideas? We’re a family of colliers, me and my father before me. I never thought to breed a lazy, good-for-nothin’ brat who won’t even do his share of chores. From now on, you get yourself straight home from school. If you’re late for supper just once more, that’s the end of school for you. You’ll be down in the pits before you know what’s happened to you.”
    The children were silent, afraid of their father’s hot temper. Little Maggie, the quiet, gentle one, began to cry. The birthday supper was ruined.
    As soon as the dishes were cleared from the table Willie did his lessons, lighted his stub of candle, and crept away upstairs to bed.
    Upstairs were two bedrooms and a wide, square hall. Willie and John slept together in a white-painted, iron bedstead in the hall. Now Willie crawled under the patchwork quilts. He blew out his candle, but for a long time he couldn’t get to sleep. He was full of fear and anger.
    He muttered to himself under his breath, “I’ll never go down the mines. Never, never, never. I’m not goin’ to live all my life in the black pits and get killed by an explosion, like my grandpa. I’ll run away. Maybe I’ll get aboard a ship. Maybe I’ll live on Sable Island with the wild horses. Nobody could find me there.”
    He knew a lot about Sable Island, one of the loneliest places in the world. It was fully described in the second chapter of his history book. He thought about it now and imagined he was there, riding free on the back of a wild horse over the sand dunes and through the long grasses, where the waves thundered in crashing white foam on the beaches.
    But when he fell asleep, he dreamed of being lost, all alone, in the pitch dark tunnel of a coal mine.

Chapter 2
    For the next few days Willie got home from school before his father. All the same he couldn’t keep away from the Sable Island horses. As soon as school was dismissed, he was first out of the yard. He raced down the dirt road until he came to a path which led through a wood, across an open field, and down a hill to an old, abandoned farm.
    Here, just outside the town limits, the horses were being kept in a pasture while they recovered from the rough voyage across the North Atlantic. The healthy, more docile ones were immediately broken to harness.
    On his way to visit the horses, Willie passed a wild apple tree. Some fruit still clung to the branches. He filled his pockets with the best he could find. At the pasture gate, he hung over the bars and held out his hand with an apple on his palm. He whistled coaxingly. The horses only lifted their heads and stared at him.
    One of the trainers called out, “Hey, you kid! Keep out of the paddock!”
    â€œO.K.!” Willie shouted back. “But I can watch, can’t I?”
    â€œSure. Just stay outside the fence.”
    Willie couldn’t linger long, but the next day, and the next, he was back again. The men, busy tending sores and bruises, or fitting horses to bit and bridle, paid little attention to him.
    On the fourth visit, one of the small, shaggy mares responded to his call. She was a chestnut with a long, pale mane and a white