“Banks, Joe Banks, are you mad?” cried Richard, who was half stifled by the pressure upon his breast.
“Yes,” said the foreman, grimly; “mad.”
“What are you going to do?” panted Richard, struggling to remove the foot.
“To do, liar, coward, villain! was it not enew that you had all you could want, but you must come and rob me o’ my poor bairn?”
“Joe—Joe Banks!” panted Richard, in protestation; but his words were stifled, for the maddened man pressed his foot down more firmly on his chest.
“Silence, you villain!” cried Banks, in a low fierce whisper, “or I’ll crash in your chest or break your skull with a piece of iron. Are you going to marry that Eve Pelly?”
“Yes, Joe, yes; but—”
“Silence!” hissed the foreman, “unless you want to say your prayers. Speak a word aloud, and I’ll kill you dead. Now, you want to know why I’m here? I’ll tell you. The poor lads thrown out o’ work by your cruel ways said they’d blow up the works, for you had injured them so that they would have revenge; and then I said I had greater wrong to bear, and I would do it. Do you want to know more?” he continued, with a savage chuckle. “There lies the powther all of a heap, two barrels full, and here’s the train down by your feet. It’s aw ready, and there would have been no works by this time if you had not come with she.”
“Joe, listen,” panted Richard, struggling ineffectually against the pressure.
“Silence!” hissed Banks; and his foot was pressed so savagely down that Richard Glaire thought his end had come, and lay half swooning, with dazzling lights dancing before his eyes, the sound of bells ringing in his ears, and a horrible dread upon him that if he spoke again the words would be his last. And all this time, like a low hissing sentence of death, went on the words of the foreman, as he bent over him.