His remarks were cut short by the pony turning sharply in at the great gates, as if quite accustomed to the place, and as the men, who were pretty thick in the yard, made way, some of them roughly saluting the occupants of the chaise, the pony stopped of its own accord in front of the counting-house.
The vicar sprang out and helped Mrs Glaire to alight, following her into the building, where Richard was sitting, looking very sulky, at the head of a table, and about a dozen of the men were present, Simeon Slee being in the front rank.
“It’s going agen my advice, Mester Richard Glaire,” he was saying. “If the men did as I advise, they’d stand out, but I’m not the man to stand in the way of a peaceable settlement, and as you’ve come to your senses, why I agree.”
“I didn’t agree for you to come to the works, Slee,” said Richard, sharply.
“Yes, yes, yes,” chorused half-a-dozen voices; “all or none, Maister. All or none.”
“I can stand out,” said Sim, loftily. “I can afford to be made a martyr and a scapegoat, and bear the burthen. I don’t want to come back to work.”
“And I don’t want and don’t mean to have you,” said Richard, hotly. “I sent to you all this morning, forgiving the brutal treatment I met with yesterday—”
“Your own fault,” said a voice. “Howd thee tongue, theer,” said one of the men, who seemed to take a leading part. “Bygones is bygones. You sent for us, Maister Richard, and we’ve come. You says, says you, for the sake o’ peace and quiet you’d put wage where it were, and you’ve done it, but it must be all or none. Fair play’s fair play, ain’t it, parson?”
“Yes, yes, Richard, give way,” whispered Mrs Glaire; and with an impatient stamp of his foot Richard Glaire gave his lip a gnaw, and exclaimed—
“There, very well; Slee can come back; but mind this, if he begins any of his games and speech-making in the works again, he goes at once.”