"The old maister, he wouldn't a woted for ere a Jew in Christendom,—not agin the squoire. The old maister was allays for the Protestant religion."
"Very well, Worts; there can't be two ways of thinking here, that's all; especially not at such a time as this, when there's more reason than ever why those connected with the brewery should all stand shoulder to shoulder. You've had your bread out of this establishment, Worts, for a great many years."
"And I've 'arned it hard;—no man can't say otherwise. The sweat o' my body belongs to the brewery, but I didn't ever sell 'em my wote;—and I don't mean." Saying which words, with an emphasis that was by no means servile, Worts went out from the presence of his master.
"That man's turning against me," said Tappitt to his wife at breakfast time, in almost mute despair.
"What! Worts?" said Mrs. Tappitt.
"Yes;—the ungrateful hound. He's been about the place almost ever since he could speak, for more than forty years. He's had two pound a week for the last ten years;—and now he's turning against me."
"Is he going over to Rowan?"
"I don't know where the d—— he's going. He's going to vote for Butler Cornbury, and that's enough for me."
"Oh, T., I wouldn't mind that; especially not just now. Only think what a help he'll be to that man!"
"I tell you he shall walk out of the brewery the week after this, if he votes for Cornbury. There isn't room for two opinions here, and I won't have it."