“Nay, nay, lad,” said Banks, “wait a bit, and I’ll find out who did this. It wasn’t Tom Podmore—I’ll answer for that.”
“Let him prove it, then—and he shall,” cried Richard, who hardly believed it himself; but it was so favourable an opportunity for having an enemy on the hip, that he was determined, come what might, not to let it pass.
Five minutes later the parties separated, the works were shut up, and Richard Glaire did not reject the companionship of the vicar and the foreman to his own door, for there were plenty of lowering faces in the street—women’s as well as men’s; but the party were allowed to pass in sullen silence, for the strikers felt that “the maister” had something now of which to complain, and the better class of workmen were completely taken aback by the wanton destruction of the machinery bands.
Volume One—Chapter Thirteen.
The Foreman at Home.
There had been a few words at Joe Banks’s plainly-furnished home when he returned the previous night.
Everything looked very snug—the plain, simple furniture shone in the lamplight, and a cosy meal was prepared, with Mrs Banks—a Daisy of a very ripened nature—sitting busily at work.
“Well, moother,” said Banks, as he entered and threw himself into a chair.