At twelve he said, “How queer the place seems, and not a grindstone going. It seems as still as the grave. I'm a man; I'm not a mouse.”
Mr. Cheetham repeated this last fact in zoology three times, to leave no doubt of it in his own mind, I suppose.
At 1.00, he said he would shut up the works rather than be a slave.
At 1.15 he blustered.
At 1.20 he gave in: collapsed in a moment, like a punctured bladder. “Bayne,” said he, with a groan, “go to Jobson, and ask him to come and talk this foolish business over.”
“Excuse me, sir,” said Bayne. “Don't be offended; but you are vexed and worried, and whoever the Union sends to you will be as cool as marble. I have just heard it is Redcar carries the conditions.”
“What, the foreman of my own forgers! Is he to dictate to me?” cried Cheetham, grinding his teeth with indignation.
“Well, sir, what does it matter?” said Bayne, soothingly. “He is no more than a mouthpiece.”
“Go for him,” said Cheetham, sullenly.
“But, sir, I can't bear that your own workman should see you so agitated.”