“Who’s that? Ask anybody here if it aint Dicky Glaire, the oppressor, as is going to sneak outer the town to-night to catch the mail train over yonder at the station, and then going to laugh and sneer and mock at the poor, grey old father as he’s deceived, and—”
“It’s a lie,” roared Joe. “Who says Richard Glaire took away my poor murdered bairn?”
“Everybody,” said Sim, who was standing on a wall about five feet high, his plaistered face giving him rather a grotesque aspect. “Everybody says it.”
“No,” roared Joe, “it’s you as says it, you lying, chattering magpie. Howd thee tongue, or I’ll—”
He seized the speaker by the legs, and had him down in an instant, clutched by the throat, and began shaking him violently.
“Go on,” said Sim, who this time preserved his presence of mind. “I aint the first paytriot as has been a martyr to his cause; kill me if you like.”
“Kill thee, thou noisy starnel of a man! Say as it’s a lie again your maister, or I’ll shake thee till thou dost.”
“I wean’t say it’s a lie,” cried Sim. “Ask anybody if it aint true.”
Joe Banks looked round furiously, and a chorus broke out of, “It’s true, lad; it’s true.”
“There,” cried Sim, triumphantly. “What hev you to say to that? Ask Tom Podmore what he thinks.”