“And Brother Silas Barker is delicate, from the payrent lodge o’ Brothers in London.”
“Drink along o’ me, mate,” growled Big Harry, holding out his mug to the deputation, “that’ll keep you from being delicate.”
“You, Harry,” cried Sim, “don’t interrupt. You ain’t one of our most trustworthy brothers. You’ve fote on the wrong side afore now.”
“I’ll faight yow for a gill o’ ale any day, Simmy Slee,” said Harry, winking solemnly across the table at a mate.
“Don’t you int’rupt the meeting wi’ ignorant remarks,” said Sim, taking no notice of the challenge. “I said delicate fro’ the—fro’ the—”
“Payrent society,” said Mr Barker, prompting.
“All raight, I know,” said Sim, pettishly; “fro’ payrent society. Came down to Doomford to tell us suff’ring wuckmen as the eyes o’ the Bri’sh wucking man i’ London and all the world is upon us.”
There was vociferous cheering at this, during which Big Harry confidentially informed his mate across the table, that he’d “Tak’ Sim Slee wi’ one hand tied behind him, and t’other chap, too, one down and t’other come on.”
“We’re met together here, mates—met together,” continued Sim, whose flow of oratory had not yet begun, but who was gradually warming—“met together, mates, to bring things to a big crisis, and let the thunder of the power of the sons of labour—”
“Here, let’s hev in some more ale,” shouted some one at the other end.