“He’ll be pretty sick o’ his lock-out by this time,” said Sim, as he laced his boots. “That was a fine plan wi’ them bands. It’s kep the strike on, and it’s easier than wucking your fingers to the bone. Wonder how long they’ll keep it oop. Well, here goes.”
He went out, and had not gone far before he met the vicar, who stopped to speak to him; but Sim, to use his own words, “coot him dead,” making his way right off through the town, where he stopped for a bit of bombastic “blather,” as his associates called it, on the success of their attack on Richard.
“He had the finest leathering he ever had in his life,” said Sim.
“And what good’s it going to do?” said one of the men, in a grumbling tone.
“What good? Open thee eyes, mun, and see for your sen. Good? It’ll bring him to his senses, and he’ll come round and ask on his knees for us to go to work, and then we’ll mak’ our own terms.”
“And if he wean’t come round,” said another, “what then?”
Sim stooped to the man’s ear, and whispered something.
“Eh, mun, but we wouldn’t do that, would we?”
“Howd thee tongue,” said Sim. “Wait and see. I’ve got a friend coming down to-day as can settle all these things. I’m going to meet him at the station, and he’s going to stay here till things is settled.”
“And who’s going to keep un?” said another man. “I can’t keep mysen.”