Volume Three—Chapter Two.
Sim Slee’s Brotherhood.
Many of Richard Glaire’s workmen belonged to one of the regular trades’ unions, from which they received counsel and assistance, and these men held Sim Slee’s movements in the most utter contempt. For his part, the above-named worthy returned the contempt, looking down upon trades’ unions as not being of sufficiently advanced notions for him, and praising up his own brotherhood to all who were weak enough to listen.
The brotherhood, as he called it, was entirely his own invention, as far as Dumford was concerned; but it was really based upon an absurd institution that had place in London, and maintained a weak and sickly growth, being wanting in all the good qualities of the regular unions, and embracing every one of their faults.
But it pleased Sim Slee, who went upon the motto Aut Caesar aut nullus. In his own brotherhood he was chief, chairman, father, or patriarch. In the regular trades’ union he would have been only Sim Slee, an individual largely held in contempt.
It was a great night at the Bull and Cucumber, for the brotherhood was to hold a secret meeting on the subject of the lock-out. Robinson, the landlord, took a great interest in the proceedings, and wanted to see all; but Sim Slee and one or two more leaders of the secret society condescended only to allow the inquiring mind to see to the arrangement of the tables and forms; and then, as the brotherhood assembled in secret conclave, they were ushered in with great ceremony, and every man seemed to be impressed with the solemnity.
In fact, the room was lit up for the occasion, curtains were tacked over the two windows, and flags were arranged on the walls, each flag bearing a device in tinsel. On one were the words:—
“The Horny Hand is the Nation’s Need.”
On another:—
“Labour Conquers All.”
While over the president’s chair, or, as Sim had christened himself, “the Grand Brother,” was a roughly-drawn representation of the familiar skull and cross bones.
On the table were two stage swords, drawn from their sheaths, and laid crosswise; and at the door were a couple of sentries, over the said door being tacked the motto—“Free and Equal.”
It was a great night, and every man of Sim’s partisans looked solemn, but mugs of ale and long clay pipes were not excluded from the two tables, at which sat about a dozen men, as many more standing where they could find room.
There was a ridiculous aspect to the affair, but mingled with it was a grim look of determination, and many a stern face there wore an aspect that Richard Glaire would not have cared to see, even though he might have scoffed at the meeting, and called the men fools and idiots.
Sim Slee was the great gun of the evening, and he wore his plaid vest very much open, to display a clean shirt, at the edge of whose front fold it was observable that Mrs Slee’s “scithers” had been at work, to take off what she termed the “dwiny” ends; but the buttons refused to remain on terms of intimacy with their holes, with the consequence that the front gaped widely.
But Sim Slee was too important and excited to notice this, for he was busy over a book before him, and papers, and constantly in communication with the tall, heavy-looking man in black, Mr Silas Barker, the deputation from London, who was to help the brotherhood through their difficulties, and who had promised to coach and assist Sim in the great speech he was to make that evening.
At last all seemed about settled, and Sim rose to tap the table with a small wooden hammer, when he sat down again suddenly, for three loud knocks were heard at the door.
“Who knocks without?” said the first sentry.
“Brotherly love,” said a voice without.
“What does it bring?” said the second sentry.
“Ruin and death,” was the reply.
“Enter ruin and death,” said the first sentry; the door was opened, two men entered, Sim Slee looked solemn, and everybody seemed very much impressed.
The door being closed, and silence procured, Sim Slee rose, and there was a great deal of tapping on the table, to which Sim bowed, frowned, and thrust one hand into his vest. At least he meant so to do, but it went inside the gaping shirt.
“Brother paytriots and sitterzens,” he commenced, “I think as we are all assembled here.”
Just then a knocking was heard without.
“Ah, theer’s some un else,” said Sim, and he sat down, while the sentries repeated their formula; the voices outside replied in due order, with the requisite pass-words, and three more entered to swell the little crowd. Sim then rose again, more important than ever.
“Now, then, brother sitterzens,” he began, “as I believe all the paytriots are here, we will now proceed to business.”
“Howd hard a minnit,” said Big Harry, who occupied a central position, “I want another gill o’ ale.”
Sim hammered the table with his little mallet, and exclaimed angrily,
“Yow can’t hev it now: don’t you see the brotherhood is setting?”
“’Arf on ’em’s a stanning,” said Big Harry, with a grin; “and if you’re goin’ to hev all this dry wuck, I must wet it.”
“Hee-ar! hee-ar!” shouted two or three voices.
“But don’t yow see as the brotherhood is a setting?” cried Sim. “The door is closed now, and we’re in secret conclave.”
“I don’t keer nowt about no secret concave,” growled Big Harry. “A mun hev another gill o’ ale.”
“Let’s hev some more drink, then,” cried several voices.
“Yow can’t, I tell you,” cried Sim. “We’re a setting wi’ closed doors.”
“Open ’em, then,” said Harry, “or I will. Here, summun, a gill o’ ale.”
“And I wants some ’bacco,” said another voice.
Sim hammered away at the board for a bit, when Harry exclaimed, leaning his great arms on the table, and grinning,
“Say, lads, I niver see owd Simmy handle a harmmer like that up at th’ wucks.”
“Silence!” roared Sim, in the midst of a hearty laugh from the men. “Fellow paytriots and sitterzens, as Grand Brother of this order, I say—eh, what?”
Sim leaned down to the deputation, who had pulled his sleeve.
“Better let them have in the drink,” whispered Mr Barker, “it makes ’em more trackable.”
“All raight,” said Sim, in an ill-used tone. “Here, send out for what’s wanted, you two at the door, for no one isn’t to enter.”
There was a bustle at the door after this, and various orders were shouted downstairs, and eagerly responded to by the landlord, who wanted to bring all in, but was stayed by the sentries.
“Here, I say,” said Sim to Mr Barker, “I shall lose all that speech ’fore I begin, if I have to wait much longer.”
“I’ll prompt you,” said Barker.
“Eh?” said Sim.
“I’ll prompt you—help you.”
“Oh, all right; thankey. Kiver up them motters till the door’s shoot close,” he continued aloud; but as the door was on the point of being closed, Sim’s order was not obeyed; and the ale and tobacco being handed to those who demanded them, Sim once more rose to begin, but only for a fresh clamour to arise from another party, whose “moogs” were empty, and while these were being filled, the swords were covered with a coat, and the mottoes turned to the wall.
At length all were satisfied, and Sim Slee rose for the speech of the evening.
“Brother workmen, mates, paytriots, and fellow sitterzens o’ Doomford—”
“He—ar, he—ar!”
“We are met here to-night, honoured by the presence o’ Brother Silas Barker.”
“He—ar, he—ar,” and a “hooray.”
“And Brother Silas Barker is delicate, from the payrent lodge o’ Brothers in London.”
“Drink along o’ me, mate,” growled Big Harry, holding out his mug to the deputation, “that’ll keep you from being delicate.”
“You, Harry,” cried Sim, “don’t interrupt. You ain’t one of our most trustworthy brothers. You’ve fote on the wrong side afore now.”
“I’ll faight yow for a gill o’ ale any day, Simmy Slee,” said Harry, winking solemnly across the table at a mate.
“Don’t you int’rupt the meeting wi’ ignorant remarks,” said Sim, taking no notice of the challenge. “I said delicate fro’ the—fro’ the—”
“Payrent society,” said Mr Barker, prompting.
“All raight, I know,” said Sim, pettishly; “fro’ payrent society. Came down to Doomford to tell us suff’ring wuckmen as the eyes o’ the Bri’sh wucking man i’ London and all the world is upon us.”
There was vociferous cheering at this, during which Big Harry confidentially informed his mate across the table, that he’d “Tak’ Sim Slee wi’ one hand tied behind him, and t’other chap, too, one down and t’other come on.”
“We’re met together here, mates—met together,” continued Sim, whose flow of oratory had not yet begun, but who was gradually warming—“met together, mates, to bring things to a big crisis, and let the thunder of the power of the sons of labour—”
“Here, let’s hev in some more ale,” shouted some one at the other end.
“Why can’t yow be quiet? interrupting that how,” cried Sim, remonstrating. “Yow can’t hev no more ale till the debate’s ended. Do you want to hev the mummy—mummy—”
“Course we don’t,” said Big Harry, aloud. “But who’s him?”
“I say,” cried Sim, angrily, “do you want to have the mummy—mummy”—then angrily to Barker, “Why don’t you tell a fellow?”
“Myrmidons—myrmidons of”—whispered Barker.
“All raight, all raight,” said Sim, impatiently, “I know—mummy—mummidons of a brutal holygarchy down upon us?”
“And hale us off,” whispered Barker, for Sim had evidently forgotten his speech.
“Yes, yes, I know,” whispered Sim. Then aloud, “And hale us off—”
“Hear, hear!” roared Harry, hammering his empty mug on the table; “raight, lad, raight. Here, sum un, tell the mummy to bring the ale.”
“Sit down, Harry,” shouted Sim. “I say hale us off to fresh chains and slavery. I say, mates,” cried Sim, now growing excited, and waving his hands about, “as the holygartchy of a brutal mummidom.”
“No, no,” whispered Barker, behind his hand, “Myrmidons of a brutal oligarchy.”
“Yes, yes, I know,” cried Sim; “but they don’t. It’s all the same to them. Yes, mates, a brutal mummidom, and a holygartchy, and as I was a saying, our fellow sittyzens in London have been a wackin o’ ’em oop. They’ve gone arm in arm, in their horny-handed strength, like brave sons of tyle, with gentlemen playing their bands o’ music.”
“Hear, hear!”
“And colours flying—”
“Hear, hear!” and a great deal of mug rattling on the table.
“And made Pall Mall—Pall Mall—Pall Mall—”
“Hear, hear!”
“Go on,” whispered Barker, “that’s it—echo to their warlike tread.”
“Echo to the warlike tread o’ their heavy boots,” cried Sim, banging his hand down upon the table.
“Hear, hear!”
“Till the bloated holygarchs a sitting in theer bloated palluses abloating theer sens.”
“Brayvo, lad,” shouted Big Harry; “that’s faine.”
“Set down and shouthered wi’ fear,” continued Sim; “as they—as they—do be a bit sharper,” he whispered to Barker.
“Saw the nation rising in its might,” whispered the prompter.
“Saw the nation rising up wi’ all its might and main,” cried Sim. Then to Barker, “Shall I put it into ’em now?”
“Yes, yes; they’re ripe enough,” was the answer.
“And now, mates,” continued Sim, “it’s time as we rose up in our might, and showed him as is starving our wives and bairns what we can do when we’re trampled down, and that like the wums as is tread on, we can turn and sting the heel o’ the oppressors.”
“Good, good! Go on,” said the deputation, rubbing its hands.
“Are we to see a maulkin like Dickey Glaire, because he is an employer, always getting fat on the sweat of a pore man’s brow?”
“Go on! go on! Capital!” whispered Barker. “Fine himage.”
“What’s a himage?” said Sim, stopped in his flow.
“All right, go on, man,” whispered Barker; “I only said fine himage.”
“As my friend and brother the deppitation says,” continued Sim, “Dicky Glaire’s a fine image to sit on all us like an old man o’ the mountains.”
“No, no, I didn’t,” whispered Barker.
“You did,” whispered Sim. “I heerd you.”
“Go on,” whispered back Barker; “the time has come—go on; beautiful.”
“And the time has come to go on beautiful,” said Sim, waving his arms.
“No, no,” whispered Barker.
“I wish yow’d howd thee tongue altogether,” whispered Sim. “You do nowt but put me out.”
“Go on, brayvo!” cried the men.
“Now, don’t you interrupt me no more,” whispered Sim, in an aggrieved tone; “that aint a bit like as you writ it down, and I shall say it my own way-er. And, mates,” he continued aloud, “the time has come when we’ve got to tak’ our heads from under the despot’s heels, when we’ve got to show ’em ’ow they depends upon the sons of tyle; and teach ’em as all men’s ekal, made o’ the same flesh and blood, eddication or no eddication; and if Dickey Glaire won’t gi’e uz a fair day’s wuck for a fair day’s pay.”
“No, no, other way on,” whispered the deputation.
“You let me alone; I’m getting on better wi’out you,” whispered Sim. Then aloud, “They’ll hev’ to change places wi’ us, and see how they like it then. Now, who’s that?” cried Sim, as a loud knocking was heard. “A man can’t get a word in edgeways.”
“Who knocks wi’out?” cried the first sentry.
“Open the door,” said a loud voice.
“Who knocks wi’out?” said the sentry again.
“Open the door, fool!” said the rough voice again.
“Give the pass-word,” said the sentry.
“Open the door before I kick it down,” cried the voice.
“Look out, lads,” cried Sim, excitedly, as he left the chair. “It’s the police. Tak down them flags, and shove the swords out o’ sight. It’s the police.”
There was a rush, and the flags were hurriedly pulled down and folded up, while the swords were placed under the table.
“Open this door,” cried the same loud voice, and a heavy fist was applied to the panel.
“You can’t come in, I tell you,” cried one of the sentries angrily. “This room’s private.”
“You’d better tell them to open the door,” said the deputation. “They can’t touch you; we’re within the law. It’s a society meeting. Take your seat.”
“Open the door, then,” said Sim, reluctantly resuming his place, when, as the door was thrown back, in came Joe Banks, closely followed by Tom Podmore.
“Hooray, lads!” cried Sim, enthusiastically. “I always said as he would. It’s Joe Banks come to join us at last, along wi’ Tom Podmore.”