"My dinner," he explained with an injured air.
"When you've done a day's work you'll get a day's dinner, and not before."
"But the strike's orf."
"So's the lock-out."
"But——"
"Don't stand there 'butting' me. Go and do some work, then you'll have something to eat," and Mrs. Bindle reversed the pillow-case she was ironing, and got in a straight right full in the centre of it, whilst Bindle turned gloomily to the door and made his way to The Yellow Ostrich, where, over a pint of beer and some bread and cheese, he gloomed his discontent.
"No more strikes for me," said a man seated opposite, who was similarly engaged.
"Same 'ere," said Bindle.
"Bob Cunham got a flea in 'is ear this mornin' wot 'e's been askin' for," said the man, and Bindle, nodding in agreement, buried his face in his pewter.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Hopton was explaining to a few personal friends how it all had happened.