<SPAN name="chap12"></SPAN>
<h3> CHAPTER 12 </h3>
<h3> A Short Chapter About Curdie </h3>
<p>Curdie spent many nights in the mine. His father and he had taken Mrs.
Peterson into the secret, for they knew mother could hold her tongue,
which was more than could be said of all the miners' wives.</p>
<p>But Curdie did not tell her that every night he spent in the mine, part
of it went in earning a new red petticoat for her.</p>
<p>Mrs. Peterson was such a nice good mother! All mothers are nice and
good more or less, but Mrs. Peterson was nice and good all more and no
less. She made and kept a little heaven in that poor cottage on the
high hillside for her husband and son to go home to out of the low and
rather dreary earth in which they worked. I doubt if the princess was
very much happier even in the arms of her huge great-grandmother than
Peter and Curdie were in the arms of Mrs. Peterson. True, her hands
were hard and chapped and large, but it was with work for them; and
therefore, in the sight of the angels, her hands were so much the more
beautiful. And if Curdie worked hard to get her a petticoat, she
worked hard every day to get him comforts which he would have missed
much more than she would a new petticoat even in winter. Not that she
and Curdie ever thought of how much they worked for each other: that
would have spoiled everything.</p>
<p>When left alone in the mine Curdie always worked on for an hour or two
at first, following the lode which, according to Glump, would lead at
last into the deserted habitation. After that, he would set out on a
reconnoitring expedition. In order to manage this, or rather the
return from it, better than the first time, he had bought a huge ball
of fine string, having learned the trick from Hop-o'-my-Thumb, whose
history his mother had often told him. Not that Hop-o'-my-Thumb had
ever used a ball of string—I should be sorry to be supposed so far out
in my classics—but the principle was the same as that of the pebbles.
The end of this string he fastened to his pickaxe, which figured no bad
anchor, and then, with the ball in his hand, unrolling it as he went,
set out in the dark through the natural gangs of the goblins'
territory. The first night or two he came upon nothing worth
remembering; saw only a little of the home-life of the cobs in the
various caves they called houses; failed in coming upon anything to
cast light upon the foregoing design which kept the inundation for the
present in the background. But at length, I think on the third or
fourth night, he found, partly guided by the noise of their implements,
a company of evidently the best sappers and miners amongst them, hard
at work. What were they about? It could not well be the inundation,
seeing that had in the meantime been postponed to something else. Then
what was it? He lurked and watched, every now and then in the greatest
risk of being detected, but without success. He had again and again to
retreat in haste, a proceeding rendered the more difficult that he had
to gather up his string as he returned upon its course. It was not
that he was afraid of the goblins, but that he was afraid of their
finding out that they were watched, which might have prevented the
discovery at which he aimed. Sometimes his haste had to be such that,
when he reached home towards morning, his string, for lack of time to
wind it up as he 'dodged the cobs', would be in what seemed most
hopeless entanglement; but after a good sleep, though a short one, he
always found his mother had got it right again. There it was, wound in
a most respectable ball, ready for use the moment he should want it!</p>
<p>'I can't think how you do it, mother,' he would say.</p>
<p>'I follow the thread,' she would answer—'just as you do in the mine.'
She never had more to say about it; but the less clever she was with
her words, the more clever she was with her hands; and the less his
mother said, the more Curdie believed she had to say. But still he had
made no discovery as to what the goblin miners were about.</p>
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