An uncleanly, and loud-voiced fellow stood unsteadily at a table, flourishing a clay pipe and making a speech.
"Th' workin' mon," he said. "Theer's too much talk o' th' workin' mon. Is na it bad enow to be a workin' mon, wi'out havin' th' gentry remindin' yo' on it fro' year eend to year eend? Le's ha' less jaw-work an' more paw-work fro' th' gentry. Le's ha' fewer liberys an' athyne-ums, an' more wage—an' holidays—an'—an' beer. Le's pro-gress—tha's wha' I say—an' I'm a workin' mon."
"Ee-er! Ee-er!" cried the chorus. "Ee-er!"
In the midst of the pause following these acclamations, a voice broke in suddenly with startling loudness.
"Ee-er! Ee-er!" it said.
It was Mr. Briarley, who had unexpectedly awakened from a beery nap, and, though much surprised to find out where he was, felt called upon to express his approbation.
Janey hitched her shawl into a manageable length and approached him.
"Tha'rt here?" she said. "I knowed tha would be. Tha'lt worrit th' loife out on us afore tha'rt done. Coom on home wi' me afore tha'st spent ivvery ha'penny we've getten."
Mr. Briarley roused himself so far as to smile at her blandly.
"It's Zhaney," he said, "it's Zhaney. Don' intrup th' meetin', Zhaney. I'll be home dreckly. Mus' na intrup th' workin' mon. He's th' backbone 'n' sinoo o' th' country. Le's ha' a sup more beer."