“Grant that it would, but what then, my lads? For Heaven’s sake look a little further than the satisfaction of a paltry, unmanly desire for revenge.”
“It would hev ruined Dicky Glaire,” cried Stockton.
“Yes, my men; but it would have ruined you as well. Those works could not have been restored for years: perhaps never; the trade would have gone elsewhere, and, as I take it, over two hundred men and their wives and children must have gone elsewhere for bread.”
“That’s raight enew, parson,” cried Stockton; “but all the same if some cursed, cowardly spy hadn’t betrayed us the wucks would hev been down.”
“That betrayal of your evil plans came about more strangely than you can imagine,” said the vicar. “I have suspected something, and been constantly on the watch.”
“Strange and kind of you, too, parson,” said Stockton, with a laugh.
“You will think so some day, my man.”
“Bud I know who it weer,” said Stockton. “Theer he stands; it were Tom Podmore. He weer not sweered in.”
“Then he did not betray you,” said the vicar, as a menacing growl arose; but Tom stood perfectly firm.
“No, it weern’t Tom Podmore,” cried Big Harry, stalking forward, one big shoulder at a time. “If you want to know who did it, here he is—I did; and I’m glad on it. Dal me! I’m glad as th’owd wucks aint down, and I’ll faight any two o’ you as don’t like it; so now then.”