“The key, the key.”
Then from a drawer in the dresser he drew the big, heavy key.
“No. 22, 23, 25. Do your duty.”
And John Walker, Thorpe and Bill Smith stalked across the mill yard with a lantern. The dog sprung at his chain again, poor animal. There was the creaking of the lock. Then after a pause a voice from the dark sounded:
“Stand clear, Bill,” and bang, came the hammer, crash went wood and iron, and the costly frames were wrecked beyond repair. Poor Mr. S— groaned as if his heart were breaking, and his wife at the stair head gave a shriek every time the hammer fell.
“And now,” said George, producing a horse–pistol, “but one thing remains. Here is a Bible. You must swear never to make complaint of what has been said or done this night, lest worse befall you.”
“Oh, yes, Mr. Ludd, I’ll swear. I’ll swear anything only go leave us. Oh! my poor frame’s! And if I don’t die of rheumatism after this night, it’ll be a miracle.”
“And to take back the men you have sacked?”
“Yes, yes.”
“And never more to put up machines to take the bread out of honest men’s mouths?”