"What business? Why, the business of getting what you want. You want shorter hours and an increase of fifteen per cent. on your wages, eh? Just so. You've made the demand in fair and reasonable terms, eh? Just so. You're freeborn Englishmen, all of you, eh? Just so—or had ought to be. What man living has a right to say you're not to have a rise which is your fair and just due? Why, if it wasn't for the tyranny of capital, you'd have had it months ago."
"Will ye submit to that tyranny? Will ye let your children grow up under that tyranny? Tell you, lads, it's time to make a change. Things have gone on long enough. It's time you should be the masters now! Show yourselves men, lads. Better to die than to yield. Give a cheer with me, now! Hurrah for the strike! Hurrah! Hurrah for the strike! Hurrah for the strike, boys!"
They went a little mad, of course, and shouted and yelled in chorus, not musically, but to Peter Pope's satisfaction. Peter Pope's enthusiasm was catching, and so was the toss of his cap. What "boys" would not have followed his example, under like circumstances?—"Boys" of any age. There is no great difference, after all, between the credulity, or to use a certain working-man's forcible word, the "gullibility," of young and old and middle-aged.
Somewhere near the outskirts of the crowd stood a man, in age verging perhaps on fifty, or even fifty-five. He was little and crooked in figure, with a wizened face, and glittering eyes under bent overhanging brows. Everybody knew Peter Stuckey; the man-servant of the Rector of the neighbouring church—gardener, groom and coachman, all in one. Years before, Mr. Hughes had taken Peter Stuckey into his service, after the severe accident which cut the man off from his old work. Peter did his utmost to repay with personal devotion this disinterested act.
Through his namesake's oration, he stood with his head on one side, and a note-book in his hand, scribbling a word occasionally. After the uproar of cheering, Stuckey turned to a sensible-looking man near, who had been as silent as himself, and dryly remarked—
"I say, we've learnt a deal this evening."
"H'm," the other answered.
"Such a lot o' facts, I've had to note 'em down for fear of forgetting. Let's see—"
"'Working-men are like sheep.' Some truth in that. I've heard say as how if one sheep jumps over a broomstick, all the rest 'll follow to save walking round it."
"The aristocracy is 'bloated.' Don't see much meanin' in the term; but, howsoever, it looks grand, so we'll let it pass."