But this very "superiority" was a snare to the mill-hands. For if they once took a dislike to any one who had been "taken on," they left him no peace until they got rid of him. It was looked on as a sort of privilege in Longcross to belong to the Fairfax mills, and the men chose to be very particular as to whom they would admit among themselves.
They all disapproved of poor Stephen Bennett from the first day of his coming.
As they walked away that evening they discussed his appearance with eager disapprobation.
"Who is he?" "Where does he come from?" "Where's he living?" "What's made the master take such a ragamuffin on?"
These were some of the questions asked, but no one was able to answer them.
"I'll get it all out of him to-morrow," said Simon Bond, a big savage-looking lad, with his hat on one side, and his pipe in his mouth.
"P'raps he won't be quite so ready to tell as you are to ask," said some one else.
"He'd better be, then, if he's got any care for his skin," answered the boy, and the others laughed.
So the next day Simon followed the stranger out of the mill, and began his questions in a rude, hectoring voice.
To his utter astonishment, Stephen refused to answer them. He made no reply while Simon poured out his questions, until the latter said,—