"An' that's the werry question, sir," responded Peter, moving his head to and fro, with an air of profound consideration.
"Did Pope address the men?"
"And he did, sir; an' told the men a lot of things in werry uncommon fine language. Pope speaks a deal finer than you do, sir."
"He does, does he?" laughed Mr. Hughes.
"Werry much finer, only it ain't by a long chalk so clear to the understandin'. For why, sir? Peter Pope, he strings together a lot of fine words, like children do with glass beads, and those that listens is none the wiser. But he does a deal of butterin', and that's what the men likes. They likes the butter laid on thick, and no mistake, sir."
"Human nature, I'm afraid. Most people have no objection to a certain amount of flattery."
"Just my own view of the matter, sir. As I was a-telling of Holdfast this very morning: 'They likes a good spread o' butter, Holdfast,' says I; 'and they don't know, not they, as it's rancid butter, calc'lated to do 'em no good.'"
"What did Pope say to them yesterday, Peter?"
"Telled 'em what a splendid set of manly fellows they all was, sir, to be sure, and what a cowardly lot of sneaking chaps they'd got over 'em. Telled 'em too they'd got everything in their own hands—sort of general management of the whole world, you know—and all they'd got to do was to strike, an' strike, an' strike again, and drive the wages up as high as ever they liked. That's what he says! Telled 'em the masters 'ud soon give in, and then they'd have another strike, and the masters 'ud give in again. All as easy as b—a—ba, sir!"
"And the men believed him!"