Any one committee-meeting afforded a pretty fair specimen of all. Sometimes there were more letters than at others, sometimes larger, sometimes smaller remittances than had been expected, and occasionally none at all. Sometimes there was a dearth of gossip about the sayings and doings of the masters, and then again an abundance of news of spiteful devices and wilful misrepresentations and scornful sayings for which there should be a sure retribution. But the same features distinguished all; and one sketch will therefore describe the whole.
A little before ten, the committee-men might be seen tending towards St. George’s road. They could win their way but slowly, for they were continually waylaid by one or another who had some very important suggestion to make, or question to answer; or a piece of news to tell which would sound well in committee. Allen was the most sore beset.
“Lord! Allen, what work yours must be with such a many letters to write! Why, it must cost a mint of money to pay postage.”
“All for the cause, you know. Let me go, will you? I am rather late.”
“Not a clock has struck yet, man, and I want to know whether it’s true about the large order that’s gone to Glasgow because Elliott can’t execute it?”
“All true, perfectly true. Good bye.”
“Well, but have you seen Elliott since? Lord! I should love to see him look chap-fallen when he finds the power is with us.”
“’Tis for us to look chap-fallen, I think,” said Allen, trying to disengage his button; “where’s the power if more such orders go the same way?”
“Stop, Allen, one thing more. Do you know, several of us are of a mind that it is a disgrace to the Union that Wooller, with his large family, has no more on a pay-day than Briggs.”
“Briggs has a sick wife, and his children are too young to work.”