He lodged at Martin's house, so "Martin's gal," as Polly was generally called in the village, had brought his "fourses" too. He quaffed off his half-pint of good home-brew, made by Mrs. Martin herself, and with a sigh of enjoyment flung the drops at the bottom of the glass on to the thirsty ground.
"That 'ud be a rum job," he said, as he seated himself on the form, "if that dowser chap ha' happened ar a mistake, and we don't find no water arter all."
"We'll find it all right," said Martin decidedly. "He knowed what he was about. He said that was a long way down, and I believe him."
That Martin should believe him was quite sufficient for himself and Chapman, for Martin was one of those people that carry about them a quiet power of making every one else trust them. He possessed that nameless intangible quality that we know as "character." Martin was not particularly clever, he was not entertaining or amusing in conversation; but he undoubtedly possessed a great deal of character, and in his quiet, deliberate, commonplace way he carried as much weight as any man in the parish. If it had not been for Martin, it is pretty certain the wells would never have been begun, much less finished. It was Martin whose example made Chapman, Lake, and the other two Willowton men at the railway well come forward in the first instance and volunteer their services. It was Martin who gave the other men courage to come forward with with their offer of work. It was Martin who kept Lake and Chapman up to the mark when, seeing the difficulty and hardness of the work, they wavered, and, urged on by "the bridge," were inclined to strike for more wages.
"What, give in," he said, "when we've go so far—sixty feet or more below th' surface? More money yer want? Well, I'm all fur gettin' all we can. I haven't no sort er objection te money myself; but fair play's a jewel, I say, and we've took this risk, and we've jest got te keep it. A few more shillin's won't make our lives na safer, and we've got a good wage—three shillin's a day ter start on, and a shillin' more for every ten feet; and I say that's good pay, and we don't want na better—leastways we didn't ought to. Do you think folks is made o' money?" he asked, warming to his subject. "I don't say as Mr Rutland and the doctor are goin' to pay us out o' their own porckets—in coorse they're not; but they're responsible—that's how I take it. And they are payin' us fair and punctual; and I'm not goin' to say that I don't believe but what if they get more money than they want by their subscription boxes, and they offer me a bonus, that I'll refuse it," with a twinkle in his honest gray eye. "No, if they like to remember the well-diggers when the water is come, I won't hev northin' to say agin it, I'm sure; and nor wud yue now. Jest yue put that in your pipes and smoke it!"
He lounged off as he spoke with a "good-night" over his shoulder, and next morning, when, having "smoked it" with much thought overnight, the two men arrived on the scene, they found Martin there before them. He made no remark, and work began as usual. The idea of going back never entered either of their heads again, though the railway-well men had carried out their threat and struck.
When Lake, who lived in Gravel-pit Lane, went down with the fever, it was Martin who suggested to Mr. Rutland to get back the stranger, who had only gone away that morning reluctantly; for he was an experienced digger, and saw little risk in the railway well, and would willingly have gone on with the work if he had not been thrown out by the pusillanimity of his mates. He came at once, and both the Willowton men took to him. He was pleasant to work with, for he was both able and hard-working, and never, "shirked a spadeful," as Martin told the vicar, with just a touch of pride at his own sagacity in suggesting him. Mr. Rutland had been doubtful when it was proposed to him. He did not think it wise to bring him in again, but Martin's good sense overruled him.
"There's nobody in the place durst come and help us," he said, "time them tue others is out a' work; they wouldn't leave 'em alone, not a minute. That's only a stranger we can hev now, as matters are, and he hadn't northin' ter due with the strike."
"Who do you think had then?" asked the vicar, little expecting so prompt a reply.
"Why, that scum Corkam!" asserted Martin stoutly. "He's at th' bottom a' most a' these here messes, he is! He goes a-talkin' ar a lot o' rubbidge about 'Meriky (as I don't believe he ever landed on), and he tell 'em a sight o' stories about the big wages over there, and he don't say northin' about the house rent they have to pay, nor the price o' wittles, nor clothin', which I know ('cos my brother lived out in them parts for years) don't leave them not sa very much over for theirselves to due what they like with arter all. And they've got ter goo and leave the old place and their friends and relations, and work a sight harder fur their money than we due here."