“Not hundreds, young fellow,” said Marston smiling, “only one, if they are all here. What do they want? Have they caught anyone?”
“No, sir. They want to see you. I told them you were too bad; but they say they will see you.”
“I’ll go and speak to them and see what they want,” said the squire. “Is it anything about paying their wages?”
“Oh dear, no!” said Marston. “They have been paid as usual. Shall I go down to them, doctor?”
“If you do I’ll throw up your case,” cried the doctor fiercely. “Bless my soul, no! Do you think I want you in a state of high fever. Stop where you are, sir. Stop where you are.”
“I’ll go,” said the squire, “before they pull the house down.”
For the men were getting clamorous, and shouting loudly for Mr Marston.
The squire descended, and Dick with him, to find the front garden of the old farm-house full of great swarthy black-bearded fellows, everyone armed with a cudgel or a pick-axe handle, some having only the parts of broken shovels.
“Well, my lads, what is it?” said the squire, facing them.
A tremendous yell broke out, every man seeming to speak at once, and nothing could be understood.