“Now, lads, we’re ready for you,” said Joe, grimly. “Hit hard at the first as tries to lay a finger on the maister.”
There was a groan at this, taken up from without, those in the garden clamouring at those within to drag out Dicky Glaire.
“Down wi’ him, lads; down wi’ him,” cried a high-pitched voice; and Sim Slee, panting with his exertions, partly edged his way and partly was lifted in.
“I’ll down wi’ thee, thou prating fool!” cried Joe fiercely. “Are ye men, to listen to that maulkin?”
“Yes, they are,” cried Sim; “and you’re an owd fool to faight.”
“Shall we try to drive them out, Banks?” whispered the vicar.
“No good,” said Joe, sturdily. “Let’s hear what they’ve gotten to say; it’ll give you and the others breath, and mebbe by that time the maister can faight a bit, too. I’m an owd fool, am I?” he said, “eh, Sim Slee?”
“Yes; to faight for the man as has gotten away thee bairn.”
“Thou lies, thou chattering jay,” cried the old man furiously; “say it again, and I’ll brain thee.”
“I do say it again,” cried Sim, who was quite out of the foreman’s reach. “It’s true, aint it, lads?”