“Yes, poor fellow! The scoundrels drowned him.”
“Oh!”
“Yes. We had to drain the dam and have the mud cleaned out three—four years ago, and we found his chain twisted round a great piece of iron and the collar still round some bones.”
“The cowardly ruffians!” I exclaimed.
“Yes,” said Uncle Jack; “but that breed of workman seems to be dying out now.”
“And all those troubles,” said Uncle Bob, “are over.”
That afternoon I went down to the works, which seemed to have grown smaller in my absence; but they were in full activity; and turning off to the new range of smithies I entered one where a great bald-headed man with a grisly beard was hammering away at a piece of steel.
He did not look up as I entered, but growled out:
“I shall want noo model for them blades, Mester John, and sooner the better.”
“Why, Pannell, old fellow!” I said.