"But the voucher?" began Morris.
Mervyn interrupted him impatiently, his naturally high colour heightening itself considerably.
"Oh! yes! of course. He--he antedated it. Luckily there had been no other deposits for three weeks, so the numbers on the counterfoils worked all right. And it doesn't really matter to any one, does it?"
He spoke a trifle defiantly.
"No," replied his brother, with an odd sound between a sob and a laugh. "I don't suppose it matters to--to any one. I--I think I'll go to bed, Merve--I must have got a chill on the mountains--I--I don't feel well."
"But there is the meeting," expostulated Mervyn; "it won't go without you."
Morris shook his head. "I should be no use, Mervyn--I--I can't even think." And then, strong man as he was, he broke down into sobbing.
[CHAPTER XI]
A whirling spin and din of machinery filled the air. All around was endless revolution, above was the ceaseless, curiously slow progression of the driving bands, those heavy-footed transmitters of elusive incomprehensible force, and below, under the great iron framings which held half a million machines in position, were men and women, grime-covered, fluff-covered, dust-covered, according to their trade, all moving about like automata with dead-alive hearts and hands, attending on some marvellous adaptation of mechanical power devised by those sane human hearts and hands out of their own powers. Pulley and lever, and inclined plane, with all their endless derivatives, were hard at work, for Blackborough was the biggest manufacturing centre in the kingdom, and Blackborough was in the middle of its day's work.
And then, suddenly, a clock struck. Another given moment of eternity had passed, the wheels stopped, the throbbing air grew still. Then from a thousand wide gateways humanity began to stream forth to flood the streets. The stream was thinner, less continuous than usual, for it was Saturday; therefore pay-day, and tallies had to be made up at the cashier's desk.