"Tha hast getten no confydence i' me, Sararann," he said in weak protest. "Tha has na no faith—nor yet," following the train of thought with manifest uncertainty,—"nor yet no works."
The situation was so painful, however, that he made no further effort of the imagination to elucidate the matter, and it remained temporarily obscured in mystery.
Only temporarily, however. A few weeks afterward Ffrench came down to the Works in great excitement. He went to Haworth's room, and finding him there, shut the door and almost dropped into a chair.
"What's up?" demanded Haworth, with some impatience. "What's up, man?"
"You haven't heard the report?" Ffrench answered, tremulously. "It hasn't reached you yet?"
"I've heard nowt to upset me. Out with it! What's up?"
He was plainly startled, and lost a shade of color, but he held himself boldly. Ffrench explained himself with trepidation.
"The hands in Marfort and Molton and Howton are on the strike, and those in Dillup and Burton are plainly about to follow suit. I've just got a Manchester paper, which says the lookout is bad all over the country. Meetings have been going on in secret for some time."
He stopped and sat staring at his partner. Haworth was deathly pale. He seemed, for a moment, to lack breath, and then suddenly the dark color rushed to his face again.