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Updated: June 22, 2025
It works like butter now," and the boy sent the handles spinning round with a jerk to illustrate his meaning. "Why did they call yer Isley for?" queried Bob, as they resumed their seats. "It ain't yer real name, is it?" "No, my name's Harry. A digger useter say I was a isle in the ocean to father 'n mother, 'n then I was nicknamed Isle, 'n then Isley." "You hed a why brother once, didn't yer?"
He carried a pick over his shoulder, the handle of which was run through the heft of a short shovel that hung down behind, and he had a big dish under his arm. He paused opposite the shaft with the windlass, and hailed the boy in his usual form of salutation. "Look, see here Isley!" "What is it, Bob?" "I seed a young why magpie up in the scrub, and yer oughter be able to catch it."
Isley put down his slate, and going to the shaft dropped the bucket down as far as the slack rope reached; then, placing one hand on the bole of the windlass and holding the other against it underneath, he let it slip round between his palms until the bucket reached bottom. A sound of shovelling was heard for a few moments, and presently the voice cried, "Wind away, sonny."
"Thet ain't half enough," said the boy, peering down. "Don't be frightened to pile it in, father. I kin wind up a lot more'n thet." A little more scraping, and the boy braced his feet well upon the little mound of clay which he had raised under the handle of the windlass to make up for his deficiency in stature. "Now then, Isley!"
Long Bob was Isley's special crony, and he would often go out of his way to lay the boy outer bits o' wash and likely spots, lamely excusing his long yarns with the child by the explanation that it was "amusin' to draw Isley out." Isley had been sitting writing for some time when a deep voice called out from below: "Isley!" "Yes, father." "Send down the bucket." "Right."
I can't bear disgrace!" she had moaned all these six weary years for the poor are often proud. But he lives on, for it takes a lot to break a man's heart. He holds up his head and toils on for the sake of a child that is left, and that child is Isley. And now the fossicker seems to see a vision of the future.
Little Isley Mason, or, as he was called, "His Father's Mate," had always been a favourite with the diggers and fossickers from the days when he used to slip out first thing in the morning and take a run across the frosty flat in his shirt.
"No, thet's not it," said the boy, taking the paper, "it's something about " "Isley!" "'Old on, Bob, father wants me." The boy ran to the shaft, rested his hands and forehead against the bole of the windlass, and leant over to hear what his father was saying.
His first work was a translation from Ovid, followed by commendatory verses prefixed to certain plays of Jonson. Soon afterwards his friendship with F. began. They lived in the same house and had practically a community of goods until B.'s marriage in 1613 to Ursula, dau. and co-heiress of Henry Isley of Sundridge in Kent, by whom he had two dau. He d. in 1616, and is buried in Westminster Abbey.
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