The miners moved restlessly and muttered together, each waiting for a spokesman to assert himself, who would teach them the line of action they should take. Desmond continued, “You talk about the ‘Curse’! We knew nothing about it when we came here, and to us it seems ridiculous to imagine there is anything supernatural about the whole affair. The river is only a quarter of a mile from their garden gate; I know it has been dragged, but after all it is full of whirlpools and weeds, and if the little chap did fall into it, ten to one his little body will never be found.” Suddenly a leader was found among the men, and Matt Harding stood up. “Look ’ere mates,” said he. “We do’ant suppose these young gentlemen actually hurt Dan Murlock’s baby, or that they know where he went to, but after all, the ‘Curse’ tells us _not_ to have strangers in Marshfielden, or evil will befall. It may befall _them_, it may befall _us_, but some one will reap ill. Now it’s really Slater’s fault for giving them lodgings. Let Slater turn them out, and that may break the ‘Curse.’” “Aye, aye!” cried the men in unison. “Where is Slater?” asked one burly fellow. “With the shift above,” came the reply in another voice. Then came groans from the rest. “Turn them out! Turn them out!” “There is no need to turn us out,” said Alan with quiet dignity. “We will find rooms outside Marshfielden, and leave at the end of the week.” “Leave now! Leave now!” cried a hoarse voice, which they recognized as belonging to Toby Skinner. That was the one word needed to make the miners obstreperous. “Yes, go now, go now,” they cried. “By the end of the week all our babes may be gone.” In vain the signal was given for the men to resume work; but they were free of their pent up feelings, and refused to listen to the strident tones of the bell that called them back to their duties. Suddenly the manager’s voice was heard above the din and babel. “Get to your work at once,” he thundered, “or take my word for it, there will be a general lockout to-morrow.” Gradually the men quieted, relieved of the strain of the past few weeks, and slunk back to work. “What’s the trouble?” asked Mr. Dickson, coming to the boys. “They think we are the cause of the disappearance of Dan Murlock’s baby,” explained Alan to the manager with some bitterness. “Yes,” continued Desmond, “and now they demand that we leave Marshfielden. That damned ‘Curse’ is driving us mad. These people are like a set of uncivilized savages, who believe in witchcraft and omens of the twelfth century.” Mr. Dickson smiled as he answered them. “Our Marshfielden folk are unique. They are almost a race in themselves. As Cornishmen consider themselves ‘Cornish’ and not ‘English’ so Marshfielden men call themselves ‘Marshfieldens.’ It is true they are very superstitious for they believe implicitly in the folk lore that has been handed down to them from all time.” “What would you advise us to do?” asked Alan somewhat impatiently.